Page 38 of Desperate People

The tension in his voice makes me pause.

There’s a part of me—stubborn and spiteful—that wants to push.

To claw back some control.

But one glance at his profile, at the hard line of his jaw, the set of his mouth, and I press my lips together instead.

I turn to the window. Watch the city blur past.

We hit a red light.

“Balor,” I say, quieter now. “Do you think it was—I mean, could it be?”

He doesn’t even blink.

Just keeps his eyes locked on the road, jaw tight enough to crack.

“Who?” he grits out. “That fucking song-writing prick making eyes at you all over the goddamn internet? El Tigre?”

The disdain in his voice is so thick you can cut it with a knife.

I nod once.

He doesn’t answer right away. But his silence screams.

And it says everything.

He’s already thought about it.

Obsessively. Thoroughly. Maybe even violently.

That shouldn’t excite me, but let’s face it, I still have the hots for this man. This strangely beautiful man with all his inked up skin and his bi-color eyes.

One stormy. One emerald. Like magic.

“I don’t know,” he finally says. “Not yet.”

“But you’re watching him.”

It’s not a question. I already know the answer.

There’s a reason I called Balor.

Not my father.

Not my uncles or cousins.

Not even the security team on my payroll.

No, I called him. Because I knew what I’d get.

Not someone who’d panic or posture or call in favors.

Not someone who’d make me feel guilty even if they didn’t mean to.

But someone who would destroy the threat.

Burn it to ash if he had to.

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