She doesn't come out of her room for dinner. I make food anyway. Chicken, rice, vegetables. Simple. I learned to cook from my grandmother, back when I was young enough to think I'd have a normal life with a wife, some kids, and maybe even Sunday dinners. Before Rosa's boyfriend put her in the hospital. Before I put him in the ground. Prison taught me a lot of things. How to wait. How to watch. How to survive on nothing and want nothing and need nothing.
But it didn't teach me how to stop wanting.
And right now, on the other side of that door, there's a blonde brat in silk pajamas who looked at me like she was trying to figure out if I bite.
I do.
I clean the kitchen and try not to think about it. Try not to think about her smart mouth and the way it would look wrapped around—
No.
She's a job. A principal. A package to protect and deliver safely. She's not a woman I get to want.
At ten o'clock, I do a perimeter check, walking the grounds in the dark, letting the cold air clear my head. The ocean crashes against the cliffs below, loud enough to drown out thought. Not loud enough, apparently. Because I keep seeing her face when I saidno. The way her eyes widened. The way her breath caught.
I know what I wanted to do. I wanted to back her against that wall and show her exactly what happens to little girls who throw tantrums. Wanted to put my hand over her mouth and feel her muffled protests against my palm. Wanted to bend her over my knee and spank that attitude right out of her until she was crying and apologizing and begging me to stop.
And then not stopping. Not until she was squirming, wet, desperate for something she didn't know how to ask for.
I stop at the cliff's edge and stare out at the black water, ignoring my painfully hard cock. This is not who I'm supposed to be anymore. I spent eight years in a cage, and when I got out, I promised Rosa I'd be different. Better. I'd build something legitimate, something that would make up for what I took from her—not her abuser, she never mourned him, but her brother. The one who wasn't a killer. The one who could have been something other than what I became.
I'm supposed to be a professional now. Professionals don't fantasize about spanking their clients' daughters until they cry.
After midnight, I'm in my room, reviewing the threat file again, when I hear it.
Soft. Muffled. Coming through the wall.
Crying.
I go still. Listen. She's trying to hide it by pressing her face into the pillow, probably, swallowing the sobs so no one will hear. But these walls aren't as thick as she thinks, and I've spent too many years learning to hear things people want to keep hidden.
Diamond Sterling is crying alone in the dark.
I should go to her. Check on her, make sure she's okay, do the professional thing. I don't. Because if I walk through that door right now, I'm not going to ask if she's okay. I'm going to pull her into my arms and hold her while she cries, and then I'm going to tilt her chin up and wipe her tears away and tell her she's safe. And then I'm going to kiss her. And I won't stop there.
So I stay on my side of the door. I listen to her cry herself to sleep—it takes almost an hour, those muffled sobs fading into silence, her breathing finally evening out.
I don't sleep. I lie in the dark and stare at the ceiling and think about the way she looked at me when I told her I'd been to prison. Not scared. Not disgusted. Fascinated. Like she wanted to know what I'd done. What I was capable of.
She has no idea.
3
Diamond
Ihave a new strategy.
If Cesar Vega won't react to my tantrums, maybe he'll react to something else.
I come downstairs, wearing the silk robe I usually save for Instagram stories. A pale pink one that barely hits mid-thigh and has a habit of slipping off one shoulder. I haven't bothered to tie it properly. Underneath, I'm wearing a lace bralette and matching shorts that could generously be called underwear.
Cesar is in the kitchen, drinking coffee and reading something on his phone. He looks up when I walk in.
His expression doesn't change.
Not even a flicker.
"Good morning," I say, reaching past him for a mug. Close enough that he should be able to smell the lotion I put on this morning, the effort I've put into this little performance.
