Hearts On Fire (The Santiago Trilogy Book 3)

by Catherine Wiltcher

  “Put your lips on mine, Eve Santiago,” he says, his hands sliding downward, moving in for the kill, “and I’ll give you anything you desire.”

  Our disagreement was for nothing. Anna refused to see me. I stood outside her room for over an hour before a nurse gently broke the news.

  Blinking back tears of frustration, I limp my way outside to the waiting SUV. My ankle is starting to swell again but I don't mind the discomfort. It’s helping to drown out all the unkind voices in my head.

  Dante is standing close to the vehicle holding an intense, three-way tête-à-tête with Joseph and the other guy from the safe house. He looks up as I approach.

  “Well?”

  I shake my head and move quickly toward the back seat. “Look after her,” I say to Joseph as I pass. “Tell me if she asks for–”

  “I will,” he says, cutting me off brusquely. “You have my word.”

  We journey to the airport in silence. Dante is lost to a text conversation but I know that his focus will shift back to me once we’re alone. After nearly a year together, I’ve come to realize a couple of things about him. One, he trusts no one except Joseph, and two, his attention is rapt as soon as his dark headlights switch to me.

  “Joseph had a wife and child,” I blurt out as we’re waved through security without a single check. Dante’s money and power speak volumes wherever we go in this world.

  “How did you know that?” He seems surprised.

  “He told me a couple of days ago, right before the wedding. How did they die?”

  “Car crash. A year after we left Afghanistan.” He shifts forward to slide his cell into the back pocket of his jeans. “His son was barely a year old.”

  My hand automatically drops to my belly. “God, that’s terrible.”

  “Some men get all the shit.”

  “Funny. That’s what he said about you. Did he start working for you soon after?”

  “I turned up at the funeral and offered him a job. My bullet had recently exited the back of my father’s head, Emilio was throwing his weight around like the fucking psychopath that he was, and I needed an ally.”

  “So you turned his grief to your advantage?” I say it without thinking but he doesn't seem bothered.

  “Are you taking a pickaxe to my conscience again, my angel,” he says mildly as the car glides to a stop next to another, smaller aircraft. “I should warn you, you might be there for a while.”

  “That came out wrong,” I say, backtracking quickly. “I meant to say that he didn’t have much time to grieve before you dragged him into your world.”

  “I didn’t drag him anywhere. And it’s our world now.” He squeezes my hand a little tighter than is comfortable. “He and I grieve in very different ways to you and the rest of the fucking population, mi alma.”

  “A scalp for every unshed tear,” I reflect quietly. “You guys need better therapy.”

  “Hmm…something like that.”

  “Did you ever meet her?”

  “His wife?” He frowns slightly. “Once. Briefly.”

  “What was she like?” I ask, curious suddenly.

  “Can't remember. You’re the only woman I see. The rest faded into insignificance the moment I held a gun to your head.” He flashes me an evil smile.

  “So you never dated?”

  “I’m not sure you’d call it that. I viewed them as a weakness, and one I vowed never to succumb to. I punished them for it accordingly.”

  “I thought you said you’d never forced a woman?” I say quietly, trying to ignore the lightning bolts of jealousy inside. I hate the thought of him with another woman, not matter how fucked-up he was with them.

  “Not physically… I violated their emotions instead. I made them want me, and got off when I rejected them. When they came crawling back all tearful and compliant…those were the best kind of fucks.” He pauses to gage my reaction. “I’m not a good man, Eve,” he tuts, catching sight of my face. “How many times do we have to go through this?”

  His last words echo throughout my head. I remember Petrov calling himself that on the landing dock of his mansion in Miami.

  “And how many times do I have to tell you that a bad past doesn't define us? Stop projecting the worst version of yourself on me. We both know that people can change – from good to bad and from bad to good.” I’m thinking of my father when I say the former.

  He scoffs and shakes his head in disagreement. “One huge act of unselfishness cannot undo years of sin, my angel.”

  “Is this your version of sweet talking, Dante?” I say, punching him lightly on his arm. “Because I have to say, you really suck at it.”

  “My mouth is better used for sucking other things, mi alma,” he says huskily, shifting sideways to face me, running a palm up the inside of my thigh and cupping my sex. I have his undivided attention now and he’s determined to prove it.

  “Are you going to fuck me in this car or on the plane?”

  He throws his head back and laughs. “Your mouth is getting dirtier with every passing day, Mrs Santiago. I think marriage agrees with you.” His expression changes and I find myself in his arms. “I’m thinking the plane. I wouldn't want to traumatize my men with visions of how I’m going to fuck your face for the next hour or so.”

  “We’ll save the car for another day,” I say with a quick grin. “You never did fuck me in your Ferrari. The one I’m getting in the divorce…”

  “There’s a lot of use of that word ‘fuck’ around her, and not enough of the action.” He deposits me back on the seat with a hard smack to my ass. “I want you on that plane and naked in the next five minutes.”

  “And if I don't comply?”

  “Then I’ll be fucking your face for two hours instead of one.”

  But as soon as we step out of the vehicle, my lust evaporates.

  “I’m going to be sick,” I moan, smacking my hand across my mouth. The strong fumes from the aircraft fuelling system are turning my stomach to mush.

  “Get on board,” he orders, sizing up the situation and pushing me up the steps. “Bathroom’s at the back.”

  He taps on the door a couple of minutes later. The waves have finally subsided, leaving my head stranded on the side of the toilet seat, my arms wrapped around the bowl.

  “This is the reason men knock their wives up during the honeymoon and not before,” he says, entering and wrapping a damp towel around my neck. “What do you need?”

  “A reprieve from the next six months? This child is as bad tempered as you are.” I force one eye open and glare at him.

  “But you wouldn’t be without us,” he says, crouching down to stroke my hair. Despite feeling weak and exhausted, I want to purr from the tenderness in his touch. “Can I prise you away from the bathroom for take-off? It’s time to take our seats. The authorities are circling and I don’t intend to spend my honeymoon in a Kenyan jail cell.”

  “I’m blaming you for this,” I sigh as he helps me to my feet.

  “People blame me for most things.” He accepts my accusation with a grim smile. “Truth is, I usually deserve it.”

  28

  Eve

  By the time we land in the capital, Dar Es Salaam, my sickness is back under control with the help of three rounds of dry toast and some conservative sips of water. A private seaplane is waiting to take us a short distance to one of the remote islands that border the north-eastern tip of Zanzibar. We’re accompanied by two of his soldiers but they keep their distance and blend seamlessly into the background.

  Night-time is masquerading behind the warmth and humidity of the evening. A wall of heat hits us as soon as we exit the seaplane onto a makeshift runway of powder-white sand. I can’t see the ocean in the dark but its salty fragrance paints a vivid picture in my mind.

  “Where is this place?” I ask Dante as he leads me down a path to a rustic bungalow tucked away from the shoreline, half-hidden by thick tropical palm trees and pines.

  “Indian Ocean,�
� he says, unlocking the door.

  “How many bungalows are here?” In the pale moonlight I can spy the palm matting roofs of at least two neighbouring dwellings.

  “Ten but we’re the only occupants, mi alma. No one is going to hear you scream.” I can see his teeth glinting at me in the darkness. He’s my husband and I’m pregnant with his child but he still has the capacity to unnerve the hell out of me.

  “Have you been here before?”

  “Once.” He doesn't elaborate and I don't push it. There’s an undercurrent of tension between us that has taken on a different nuance in the last few minutes.

  The bungalow’s interior is stunning. White, elegant, simple… A huge four-poster bed takes up most of the room, looking out over a private veranda and the rhythmic sounds of the ocean.

  “Wow.” I walk over to take a closer look. “This place is amazing.” There’s just a large open space separating us from nature.

  “No more locked doors, mi alma,” he says, coming up behind me to cage me with his arms instead. “Not now. Not ever.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I close my eyes and rest my head against his solid chest. Those days belonged to a very different woman, one who was fighting a destiny that was written in the stars from the start. All of a sudden there’s something coarse and unpleasant rubbing against my wrists. My eyes fly open again as he pulls the knot tighter. What the hell?

  “Why have you tied my wrists together?” I demand angrily, whirling around to confront him but my next words die on my lips. His eyes are burning pits of coal, his face ablaze with darkness. Dante’s monster is coming out to play tonight, not him.

  Swallowing quickly, I take a step back and collide with the bathroom door.

  “Oh dear,” he tuts, smirking at the look on my face, “you didn’t expect an easy ride on your honeymoon, did you?”

  “Dante,” I say in a shaky voice. “Untie me now. I’m not playing these–”

  He moves like the trained killer that he is, fisting my hair and yanking my head back to deliver his first retribution of the evening. “Don't start issuing orders at me again, my angel. I’ve had a shitty couple of days and I’m seeking an outlet for them tonight.”

  My scalp smarts at his tight grip. Tears spring to my eyes. “Just don't hurt me,” I whisper. “Don’t hurt the–”

  “Oh, I intend to you hurt you, mi alma.” His voice softens to a caress, lulling me into a false sense of security while he decides which part of my body to dine on first. “But I’ll make it all better for you afterward.”

  Taking my arms, he yanks me toward the bed and wrenches them upward. “Keep them there,” he orders, securing the ends of the rope around the upper tier of the four-poster.

  Strung up and nervous, my breath is coming out in great, heaving gasps. “I’m not one of your torture victims, Dante. I killed for you. I’d die for you.” I need to bring him back to my light.

  “True,” he agrees. Not that it’s making a damn bit of difference for what he has in mind. “And you’re so much sweeter when you cry.”

  “I don't want to cry. I want to hold you. Let me love you.”

  “Maybe later.”

  He takes a casual step back to consider me, trailing his gaze over every trembling inch of my body. Undressing me, debasing me, and then he’s unhooking something from the inside seam near the hem of his jeans.

  “Don't you dare,” I whisper, feeling the color drain from my face when I see the knife in his hand. “I’ll scream the goddamn island down if I have to.”

  He throws his head back and laughs. “Someone wasn’t listening earlier, were they? Make as much noise as you want, my angel. Nobody’s going to save you.”

  He starts prowling toward me like the beautiful, terrible nightmare that he is.

  “You son of a bitch!” I scream at him, testing out his theory, but as he moves closer, I cringe away, tugging at my restraints. I’m a hot mess of contradiction around him like always.

  Teeth bared, his expression is almost feral as he raises the blunt edge of the blade to my lips and presses firmly, the cold steel sending out stipples of fear across my skin.

  “Kiss it,” he orders.

  I have to play him at his own game. Defy him. Push back at him…

  I purse my lips and he smiles.

  “Good girl. You’ve just made my dick throb.”

  “And you just made my panties wet,” I rasp out. “I can feel the heat and dampness between my legs. “Why don’t you pull my jeans down and find out for yourself?”

  He pulls back and stares at me, projecting indifference, but I caught the snag in his breath. Now I have his attention.

  “Do you remember that day on the beach?” he murmurs, recovering quickly, gliding the blade through the valley of my breasts, trying to intimidate me, but his tricks aren’t working anymore. “Back on my compound?”

  “You came to punish me.”

  “I came to fuck you.”

  “And then I fucked you back, twice as hard.” We hold each other’s gazes, a searing impasse of dark and light. At the same time I can feel his strength and authority seeping into my skin, making me drunk and heady off the fumes.

  And I think I like it.

  “Aren't you going to contradict me?” My dare hangs between us but he stays silent, watching on as the balance of power tips in my favor for only the second time in our relationship. “I am your queen, Dante Santiago,” I whisper, straightening my back and tipping my chin up to fire sapphire blue bullets at him. “And you will treat me as such.”

  The corners of his mouth twitch. “Will I n–?”

  “Get on your goddamn knees, you murdering bastard, and worship me!”

  My words carry all the way out to the ocean and back, my spittle mottling the front of his black T-shirt. His eyes widen just a fraction but it’s enough to tell me that I’ve shocked the shit out of him.

  Slowly, wordlessly, I watch him sink to his knees, and a wild euphoria more blinding than any spotlight explodes inside me. There’s a clatter as his knife hits the ground, and with his hands on my hips, he plunges his face between my legs and inhales deeply.

  “I thought I told you to take down my jeans,” I chide him.

  He pops the buttons and tugs gently.

  “Harder.”

  My jeans are yanked down my legs.

  “Now my panties.”

  He plunges his thumbs into the waistband and drags them over my ass to join my jeans. Holding his gaze again, I step out of them carefully, so as not to jolt my swollen ankle, and kick them across the room.

  “What now my queen?” he asks, and I nearly come from the admiration reflected in his dark eyes. Instead, I curl my leg around his neck to bring him closer to my dripping pussy.

  “Now, my king,” I croon softly, “you're going to make me come so hard on your face, they’ll hear me screaming your name on the other side of Africa.”

  Emitting a growl, he hooks my other leg around his neck. With two strong hands holding me up by my hips, he starts to feast hungrily, drawing hard on my clit before thrusting his tongue inside me, his stubble rubbing all over my sensitive flesh.

  “You taste too fucking good, mi alma,” I hear him rumble.

  “More,” I whimper, tipping my head back as his pleasure consumes me. I’m longing to touch his hair, to grind my pussy against him, but my hands are still held and bound to the four-poster bed. I’m completely at his mercy and I can sense the balance of power tipping again.

  His finger plunges into my ass and my orgasm turns me into a shuddering, sobbing wreck. Before I can catch my breath, he’s back on his feet, my legs now linked around his waist. Using one hand to hold me up, he tears at his jeans like a wild animal, tugging them down below his hips and hovering my pussy just above his cock to lubricate himself with my juices.

  “Fuck me, Dante! Damn you!” I rage at him, needing another fix. His anticipation is killing me all over again.

  “Your orders sound more
like begging, my angel.” His smirk has returned. He’s back in control now. He teases me with his cock, lowering me gently so that his hot velvety tip slips an inch or so between my folds, but no more. Denying me and keeping me hooked, like a junkie deprived of the ultimate high.

  “More. More. Give me more!” My head crashes into his shoulder and I hear him chuckle.

  “As you wish, my queen,” he says hungrily, gifting me another inch, making my eyes roll back in ecstasy. “Now, let me show you how a true king conquers all.”

  29

  Eve

  The world tilts and a new dawn rises but I’m too busy crying out from exhaustion and begging for a reprieve to notice any of its bold beauty. I never took back control again. I never stood a chance. He’s fucked me and punished me all night long, yet never hard enough or prolonged enough to make me fear for our baby. I drove his monster from this bedroom the moment I screamed at him to worship me, yet some of his more inventive admonitions since then have made me question if I really have married the devil.

  My body is drenched in sweat, my thighs and ass sticky with his semen. The scraps of my white T-shirt lie scattered about the floor like cotton confetti. He split it from my body with his knife sometime after he untied my hands and bent me over the bed. I’m on my knees again now, his cock in my mouth, while he’s ruthlessly pumping his fourth and final orgasm into me.

  My hand clenches around his hip as he pours himself down my throat, his strangled groans adding bass to the music of the ocean. My spit and tears are coating my chin and my jaw is burning from effort but I love giving him head too much to stop before I’ve claimed every drop of my victory.

  Finally, he lets go of my head and collapses onto the bed. I slump down beside him, licking the traces of his cum from my lips.

  “We’re equal in every way now, my angel.” His voice is rough with fatigue but I can still detect a note of respect. Last night I did something that no other living person has done before. I stood up to Dante Santiago, forced him onto his knees and lived to tell the tale. If I wasn’t pregnant, I’d raise a bottle of champagne to the dawn and toast my triumph.