His nostrils flare. “I know.”
“You locked me in a room,” I push, voice rising despite myself. “You told me to get out of your life once, and you…”
My voice cracks on the memory of Carmen’s hair on his pillow, her body in his bed, the way it felt like someone poured acid in my chest.
Diablo’s expression tightens, but he doesn’t look away. He takes it like he deserves it.
“I was wrong,” he says again.
It should not matter.
It does.
“What happens when you decide I’m wrong again?” I ask, and it comes out quieter than I meant it to, like a bruise you did not know you had until someone touched it.
His eyes go black. “I won’t.”
Too confident. Too male. Too biker. It makes my stomach twist and my heart do something stupid.
I open my mouth to fight him again, and then the air shifts.
The hallway outside goes quieter, then louder, then quiet again in a different way. Shoes stop. Voices lower. A nurse says something polite and strained like she is trying to keep control of a situation she does not want.
My stomach drops before I even see her.
Because I already know.
Carmen Solano steps into the doorway like she owns the hospital. White blouse. Sleek black pants. Heels sharp enough to stab. Hair perfect. Makeup flawless.
No fear on her face.
Her gaze sweeps the room and lands on me.
She doesn’t look shocked.
She looks satisfied, like she is confirming something she suspected, like she has been waiting for proof and Miami finally handed it to her.
Then her eyes slide to Diablo and something colder flashes under her calm.
Possession. Territory. Politics.
“I heard there was an incident,” she says, voice smooth as a knife. “I came as soon as I could.”
Diablo stands slowly, controlled, and his body blocks me without him even thinking about it. A wall of leather and ink and violence on a leash.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he says.
Carmen’s smile is faint, practiced. “I’m your fiancée. Of course I should be here.”
Fiancée hits my ribs and lodges there. The word sits in the room like a third heartbeat, loud and constant.
My face goes hot, not from the swelling, but from humiliation and anger and the fact that I let myself forget for one second that he has a ring waiting on him like a leash.
Diablo does not flinch. “This isn’t the place.”
Carmen steps into the room anyway, heels clicking like she is making a point with every step. “Actually, this is exactly the place,” she says. “Public places are where reputations live and die.”
She glances at the TV in the corner, and my eyes follow her without my permission. A grainy clip is playing on repeat, shaky phone video of motorcycles and flashing lights outside my building. The anchor’s mouth moves with fake concern, caption crawling along the bottom.
