Page 54 of His Enemy's Daughter
Maybe fifteen years wasn’t time wasted after all.
Maybe it was the price I paid to become someone capable of protecting what actually matters. Someone who is worthy of her.
16
Regina
“You’re not coming with me.”
Mauricio’s declaration lands like a slap across the breakfast table, coffee cup freezing halfway to my mouth. I set it down with deliberate precision, meeting his storm-gray eyes with a calm I absolutely don’t feel.
“I’m sorry—did I suddenly become someone who takes orders from you?” My voice carries that perfect blend of polite confusion and barely concealed rage I’ve perfected over twenty-eight years. “Because I distinctly remember escaping one controlling man. I’m not interested in replacing him with another.”
“This isn’t about control.” He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, looking every inch the man who survived fifteen years in prison. “It’s about tactical reality. The meeting with the Rotterdam contacts is high-risk. If something goes wrong—”
“Then having backup would be smart.” I interrupt, standing to clear my plate with movements sharp enough to communicate exactly how I feel about his sudden protective instincts. “Two people covering each other is better than one person walking into potential ambush.”
“Two targets are easier to hit than one.”
“Two shooters have better odds than one.” I spin to face him, plate clattering into the sink harder than necessary. “Stop trying to sideline me with strategic justifications when we both know this is about you deciding I’m too fragile to handle field operations.”
Something dangerous flashes across his features—the look he gets when I’ve hit too close to truth. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it?” I move back to the table, planting my hands on the surface and leaning forward until we’re inches apart. “Since we got to this cabin, you’ve been treating me like decorative intelligence. Useful for information, but not for actual operations. I gather evidence, you execute plans. I strategize, you take action. When exactly do I become an active participant instead of just protected cargo?”
“When you’ve had proper training.” His jaw tightens. “Combat experience. Field work that doesn’t involve climbing down trellises in the middle of the night.”
The dismissal in his tone ignites something volatile in my chest. “You think I don’t have training?”
“I think you have theoretical knowledge.” He stands, matching my aggressive posture. “I think Sabino gave you business education, maybe some self-defense basics. But actual combat? Real tactical situations? That requires experience you don’t have.”
“Assumptions.” I straighten, smile sharp enough to cut. “You’re making assumptions about what I can and can’t do based on what—my appearance? My background as the decorative daughter?”
“I’m making assessments based on what I’ve observed.” But there’s uncertainty creeping into his voice now, like he’s realizing this conversation isn’t going the direction he planned. “Regina, I’ve seen you in crisis situations. You’re smart, resourceful, brave—but that doesn’t translate to combat readiness.”
“Show me.”
“What?”
“Show me.” I gesture to the open space near the fireplace, adrenaline already flooding my system. “If you’re so certain I’munprepared for field operations, prove it. Right now. You and me, hand-to-hand. Let’s see exactly how helpless this decorative daughter really is.”
He stares at me like I’ve suggested we set ourselves on fire. “You want to fight me?”
“I want to demonstrate that you’re underestimating me.” I’m already moving furniture, creating space. “Because if we’re going to be partners—real partners, not just you protecting me while I hide—you need to understand what I’m actually capable of.”
“Regina, I outweigh you by at least sixty pounds—”
“And I’ve spent my entire life being trained by a paranoid monster who believed his daughter should be fashioned into a weapon that can handle any threat.” I turn to face him, hands loose at my sides, centered in a way that comes from years of practice. “Sabino might be a murderer and a manipulator, but he was thorough. So stop making excuses and show me why you think I’m not ready.”
For a long moment, we just stare at each other like the two predators. We’re assessing, calculating. Then something shifts in his expression.
“If I hurt you—” he starts.
“You won’t.” The certainty in my voice comes from muscle memory and countless hours in Sabino’s private training facility. “But you might be surprised by what happens instead.”
He moves into the cleared space with that predatory grace I’ve come to recognize, and suddenly the air between us feels charged with something dangerous. Not just the potential for violence, but awareness crackling like electricity.
“Rules?” His voice drops lower, intimate despite the context.
