Page 69 of Hostile Secret
When I finally claim her, there won’t be anything in my way, including condoms. Then there won’t be any doubt. My dick will brand her insides and our body fluids will merge.
My palms bear half-moons where my nails dug into the skin and my boner felt savage. Her essence tasted so fucking delicious.
But that glaze of terror in her watery eyes when the doctor mentioned a shot, ironically, injected my cold heart with warmth.
One of the things I like most about India is her tenacity, the very quality that makes every surrender so damn rewarding. But in that moment, her courage floundered and a desire to feel her pulse thrum with courage outweighed everything else.
She has this frustrating way about her that disturbs the dormant emotions within me and makes me feel things in ways I’ve never known.
I would never admit to anyone how she drives me wild. Not even to myself. She might unintentionally burrow herself under my skin, but she won’t find a welcoming place to settle. There aren’t any.
After I’d driven her home, we parted ways. India assumed she was alone, however, I kept checking the surveillance footage.
I watched her wander around the corridors of Blackwater with her dog, make herself a snack, and eventually she fell asleep in the library while reading.
So far, she’s devoured a series of thriller novels that I’d added to my collection ten years ago. I haven’t missed the similarities in both of us. It’s like she’s the female version of me, minus the years of mental abuse. Though that doesn’t mean she belongs next to me for the long term.
Golden sunlight softens the sharp-edged shadows in the main kitchen as the sun rises on a new day. I don't usually spend much time in this section of Blackwater, given my actual living space has everything I could ever need. However, I’m starving after my jog and curious to know why India prefers Letterman’s waffle recipe.
Part of me thinks she’s just conditioned to eat them, because that was her routine in Miami. The other part of me is livid that Letterman had found something she enjoys.
It’s completely irrational, but here I am, plopping a toasted waffle onto a plate and covering it in squirty cream. Waffles aren’t my first choice for breakfast, and I doubt that would ever change.
In the distance, a tinkle of metal announces the arrival of her over enthusiastic puppy.
Christ, I just wanted a few minutes alone before returning to the chaos next door.
“Out,” I say in a sharp, unfriendly tone.
Of course, it doesn’t listen to me. It's her dog, after all. I drag out a tall stool, sit at the marble top island, and fork the waffle, intentionally ignoring its wagging tail and curious sniffing.
Daenis trots closer, sits at my feet, and stares up at me, sending subliminal messages.
If I pretend it’s not there, it’ll fuck off, eventually.
Chewing a mouthful of sugary waffle, I feel canine eyes burn into my every move. Instinctively, I know she needs fresh water and when I glance at her designated bowl on the floor, it’s empty.
Christ.
Growling out my frustration, I drop off the stool and drag a hand down my face, sighing and muttering. Lola’s preoccupied, otherwise I'd tell her to help with this bullshit.
Whereas India is responsible for the well-being of her pet. I make a mental note to remind her who the dog belongs to. If she doesn’t take care of Daenis, I’ll banish it from Blackwater.
Collecting the bowl, I hold it under the running faucet. Once it’s filled, I lower to my haunches and set it in front of the puppy. She laps it up, droplets pinging all over the place when her head lifts, eyeing me over the water. Her dark gaze reflects my face.
“You’re welcome,” I say, a little less harshly. “I’d be thirsty sleeping next to her all night too.”
When I smirk, Daenis rounds the bowl and nuzzles my hand. I can’t help thinking she’s confused, that maybe when she looks at me, she sees André. That would work out for the best, since neither of us would get attached to the other. I stroke her head and she licks my wrist.
“Breakfast?” I rise to my full height and stroll over to the fridge, picking out a packet of cooked meat.
The smile on my face dies when I remember Cesar’s morning routine. He’d always wake me up early, even before Papá had surfaced. I didn’t mind. It meant I could read in peace and be myself for a few hours. I liked being on my own, except with Cesar, I was never really alone.
He loved cooked chicken, sliced beef, and cheese. Fuck, he loved cheese. The memory knots my stomach.
What the hell am I doing?
Emptying the packet of meat onto a plate, I leave it by the water bowl and return to my waffle. On the second bite, the hairs on my scalp prickle and I look up to the doorway that leads to India’s half of the house.
