With a huff, I shuffle out to the main room so I can wedge a chair under the front doorknob. Once I finish, I scroll through the photos on my phone until I find the right one. A picture I took of my apartment in San Miguelito more than ten years ago. The bedroom walls were a stunning shade of apricot, and they made me so happy every time I came home.
Domina: Do not mock my orange walls, Mr. Sleepless Nights. I loved them.
Leo: They’re beautiful, and I’m sorry. How are you feeling?
He asked me that earlier, and I snapped at him. Told him I was fine when I knew I was not. What if the man who attacked me was searching for more than just an empty apartment to rob? What if he has friends?
Leo: Domina? Talk to me.
After another minute—maybe two—the phone rings.
Incoming video call.
My brain short-circuits. Growly, overly protective men do not call me in the middle of the night to find out if I’m okay.
The words flash across the screen three more times before I get the courage to answer.
“What are you—?” My words fall away when I get my first good look at him. Leo slumps against his headboard with a dark blue sheet pulled up to his chest. His right shoulder is mostly hidden, but the left? He holds the phone in such a way I can see the corded muscles all the way down to his elbow.
“Domina? I need an answer.”
Shit. I did not even think about whatIwas wearing. A brief glance confirms my tank top covers everything it should, and I clear my throat. “You do not need to worry about me.”
“The hell I don’t. Your eye is swollen shut. Is it bleeding at all? Does it hurt? Any trouble breathing through your nose?”
The rapid-fire questions should annoy me—beinghandledis not something I allow. But at the moment, I am still too shocked I answered the call and let a man I have only just met see me in my bed at 1:00 a.m.
“I am not bleeding, and I can breathe. My cheek hurts, but I would be surprised if it did not.” Settling back against the pillows, I focus on Leo’s concerned expression. “I thought you were…retired. Not a doctor.”
He blows out a breath and shifts his hold on the phone. Now, I can only see his face, and up close, his eyes are two subtly different colors. “We get basic medical training. How to check for a concussion, broken bones, signs of serious internal injuries. I should have insisted you call the paramedics.”
I roll my eyes, though I probably look foolish since only one is open. “I am a grown woman, Leo. I do not need a maninsistingI do anything.”
“I noticed,” he says, his voice even deeper than usual. Goosebumps race down my arms, and some of my irritation dissolves into longing. No one has thought to be protective of me for many years. I may notneedhis concern, but a small part of me cherishes it.
“I should go. Good night, Leo.” I lower the phone to end the call but stop when he swears softly.
“Domina, I’m sorry if I overstepped. I’m not good with…people.” He runs a hand through his hair and sinks lower in his bed. One corner of his mouth curves into a smile. “This isn’t usually how I end up in a woman’s bedroom.”
I laugh, despite the storm of emotions churning in my belly. “No? What do you ‘usually’ do? Find a date on LovePanama? Tinder?” I prop the phone against my bedside lamp and turn onto my side.
“Guys like me don’t…” He shakes his head as his cheeks flush. “No one’s going to swipe right on my profile.”
“Why not?” Exhaustion barrels toward me, threatening to pull me under, but I have to know why this man who is so obviously handsome—and funny—thinks no one would want to date him. A single moment stretches between us, then snaps as all emotion drains from his eyes.
“Get some sleep, Domina. You put the chair under the doorknob?”
Drawing the blankets tighter around me, I nod. “I did. Good night, Leo—” He ends the call, and as I stare at the darkened screen, I suddenly feel utterly and completely alone.
CHAPTER THREE
Leo
The backhanded slap sends sharp,stabbing pain through my ruined eye socket. “Wake up, cabrón.”
“Like you shitheads would let me fall asleep,” I manage. How long has it been? Four days? Five? Hell, for all I know, I’ve been here less than thirty-six hours, but it feels like a month. Bright lights, music—if you can call it that—blaring at ear-splitting volume, and the various stress positions haven’t given me a moment’s rest since they found me at Bar Rosario and shot me up with God-knows-what.
The metal chair I’m bound to jumps on the concrete floor as Asshole #1 kicks me in the chest.
