“You’re not fine,” he says. “You’re here.”
My throat tightens. “Miami’s watching.”
“Let Miami watch,” he says, voice low. “They don’t get you.”
I swallow, staring at his knuckle with the dried blood. “You shot Rico.”
His jaw jumps. “He put a gun in my girl’s face.”
My girl.
It hits hotter than it should.
I shift, and the movement makes pain flare at my wrists. I flinch before I can stop it.
Diablo sees it. Of course he does.
His gaze slides to mine, dark and furious and wrecked. “Look at me.”
I do.
He leans closer, just enough that his breath warms my mouth, and he does not touch me yet. That restraint makes my pulse jump harder than a grab ever could.
“You want me to stop the car?” he asks quietly. “You say it. One word.”
I blink. “That’s your idea of romance?”
“I’m not sure I can wait,” he says.
“For what?”
“To taste coconut and salt on your skin.”
My throat burns.
The SUV turns off into a darker side lane where the city noise drops low, where the ocean wind slips between buildings. The engine idles. Vice doesn’t look back as he steps out. He knows better.
The world outside keeps moving, but inside this vehicle it is just our breathing.
Diablo shifts toward me, slow, giving me time to pull away.
I don’t.
His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth where the cut stings. The touch is careful.
His eyes are not.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“Because you scare the hell out of me,” I admit, and the truth tastes like blood.
His mouth hovers near mine. He doesn’t kiss me yet.
“Good,” he says, voice rough. “You should be scared of me.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s honest,” he replies. “I’m not safe. I’m not soft. I’m not the man you deserve.”
