Page 50 of His Enemy's Daughter
Understanding flashes across his features. “You’re not angry about being controlled. You’re angry about feeling useless.”
The accuracy of his read steals my breath. “I’ve spent seven years gathering intelligence. Building cases against Father that could destroy him. Now that it’s actually happening, I’m relegated to passenger while you and Simeone do the actual work.”
“You want to be in the cabin helping coordinate the press release?” No mockery in his voice, just genuine question. “Want to be the one reaching out to journalists and rival families?”
“I want to feel like I’m part of this instead of just being protected from it.” My voice cracks slightly. “I want—”
“What?” He closes the distance between us, and suddenly we’re inches apart, tension crackling. “Tell me exactly what you want, Regina. Not what you think you should want. Not what sounds appropriately independent. What do you actually need?”
The question lands like a challenge. I meet his storm-gray eyes, searching for judgment and finding only intensity that makes my pulse quicken.
“I want to watch Father’s empire crumble.” The honesty comes raw, unfiltered. “I want to see his face when he realizes everything he built is ashes. I want Lorenzo Di Noto to understand that threatening me was the worst mistake of his miserable life. And I want—” I stop, because saying it makes me vulnerable.
“Want what?” Mauricio’s hands find my waist, steadying me or claiming me.
“I want you to stop treating me like fragile cargo and start treating me like a real partner who happens to need protection occasionally.” My palms press against his chest. “I’m terrified and angry and probably making terrible decisions, but I’m still capable of being more than just the woman you’re keeping safe.”
His expression transforms—respect bleeding through the concern. “You’re right.”
“I’m—what?”
“You’re right.” He repeats it firmly. “I’ve been so focused on keeping you alive that I forgot you need more than just survival. You need agency. Purpose. A role in your own liberation.”
The admission does something warm to my chest. “So what do we do about it?”
“We get to the cabin.” His thumb brushes across my cheekbone. “And then you help coordinate the information dump. You know your father’s operations better than anyone—you tell us which revelations will hurt most, which allies to contact first, how to maximize damage.”
“Really?” Hope flares despite my best efforts to contain it.
“Really.” His smile is genuine now. “Though I reserve the right to veto anything suicidally reckless.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” But I’m smiling too, tension finally easing.
“The fun is in both of us surviving long enough to enjoy your father’s destruction.” He leans down, breath warm against my lips. “Besides, I have plans for our future that require you being alive and free.”
“What kind of plans?” The question comes out breathier than intended.
“The kind where we have time to figure out what this is between us without bounty hunters breathing down our necks.” His mouth brushes mine—barely contact, just promise. “The kind where you get to choose what you want instead of just surviving what you’re given.”
I close the remaining distance, kissing him with desperate intensity that has nothing to do with strategy. His responseis immediate—hands tightening on my waist, pulling me flush against him, swallowing my gasp with his mouth.
When we finally break apart, I’m breathing hard, pupils dilated, aware that we’re standing on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere having a moment that feels far too intimate for our circumstances.
“We should go.” But neither of us moves. “Before someone finds us standing here like teenagers.”
“Teenagers with twenty-five million in combined bounties on their heads.” His forehead rests against mine. “Very expensive teenagers.”
I laugh despite everything. “Is that your way of saying I’m valuable?”
“That’s my way of saying you’re worth fighting for.” The conviction in his voice makes my chest tight. “Now get back in the car before I do something stupid like forget we’re being hunted.”
The cabin, when we finally reach it, exceeds my expectations. It’s not some rustic shack—it’s a genuine fortress disguised as a mountain retreat. Stone walls, reinforced windows, multiple exit points, and expensive technology.
“Simeone doesn’t do anything halfway,” Mauricio observes, helping me out of the car. “Come on. Let’s get you settled before we start coordinating Armageddon.”
Inside is warm, stocked, ready for siege or extended stay. One of the laptops is already set up on a massive table, alongside equipment I don’t recognize but assume is for encrypted communications.
“This is...” I trail off, overwhelmed by the preparation.
