by Amarie Avant
Take a second to stalk me:
DIABLO Inside
Every single page of Diablo Inside is scorching hot! The sex, the anticipation, the murder. I don’t know if I should fear Dominic Alvarez or fall for him. This is your next stalker-romance addiction! I can promise you.
XOXO,
Amarie
Blurb
ARIA JONES
A monster has Miami in a state of uproar. The media calls him El Santo, I prefer El Diablo—the beguiling angel who fell from grace. Yes, his beauty and charm is unparalleled.
But his truth has been uncovered.
By me.
My obsession with Dominic Alvarez will be his demise. I crave everything about ensnaring him.
Looking into his captivating dark eyes, crushing his even darker soul.
I refuse to become like the others- the women whose hearts stop at the sight of him.
The women lost themselves in the allure and temptation of El Santo before they could feel the danger at the tips of his brutal fingers.
I’ll save them because when my twin needed me most—I failed her. The time for redemption is now.
EL SANTO
Seduce them all.
Frame their vivacious curves in the palm of my hands.
Make their souls mine.
It’s what I was born to do.
But here comes a cunning mouse, playing in a snake den. A good girl with bad aspirations.
Aria Jone lives inside the walls of her pretty head. That’s where I will be—in her head.
I’ll sit at her table, sleep in her bed, take her heart.
Once I glean the secrets behind Aria’s jaded gaze and discover her greatest fears, I’ll collect the little lamb like the others.
Collect, crush, and make her mine forever.
ARIA JONES
Raw fear licks the nape of my neck. With each breath, I drown in the past. Sounds of an Ice Cream truck, laughter, The Oldies—family reunion music—funneled my ears. In hesitation, I watched my younger sister take the hand of a stranger whose smile surpassed the Texas sun. They were getting chocolate sundaes for us and coming right back . . .
I warn myself to touch something, pursue reality. My clammy palms press against the cool, veiny marble countertop. ReAnna and her abductor disappear, rich opulence returns.
“Aria, don’t let the past fuck with your head,” I tell myself, surrounded by massive slate-gray walls. Custom everything and stainless-steel appliances align the kitchen. The sliding glass door, which frames a breathtaking view of Miami Beach by day, is veiled in nightfall. Hearing heightened, I call out, “Hello?”
The top floor of a sky-rise luxury apartments is where I call home. The only dwelling on the level. My poor, rich roommate—emphasis on either term has never worked a day in her life. When Miranda’s funds decreased, she sought a roomy. Though our home is a sanctuary, it’s Saturday night. Countless Cosmopolitans, couture dresses, and posh lounges are her religion.
So, if someone responds to the greeting, you’re screwed, Aria.
Fisting a chef knife, I add a tentative threat: “I have a . . . gun!”
My fingers drag across my tresses, tangling in thick roots, desperate for of a touch-up. I’m bare foot. My camisole and pajama pants boast the black girl magic tag. My demeanor? Not so much.
Faint steps echo out. Adrenaline rockets through my veins. “Miranda, if that’s you . . .” You will see the side of me I hide from everyone else.
Barefoot over cold, opulent limestone, I navigate through the vast expanse of the home. I stop in the hallway, which leads to my side. Miranda kept the balcony wrapping around the east, north, south. While I possess a lone terrace, for early mornings from my art room. Light bleeds from that very door.
Jutting the knife downward, I snatch open the door, to catch Messy Miranda. She’s so worried about my pockets, I’ve caught her snooping around my area since signing the lease a half year ago.
“Miran—” Alarm seizes my throat. My gaze collides with olive green gems, whisking me to my first obsession. No amount of therapy ever remedied the guilt. Older siblings have an unwritten obligation. I failed ReAnna.
During some flashbacks, I lose sight of them in the commotion, of a hot summer’s day. Or I freeze. Either way the ending is spun, ReAnna is never to be seen or heard from again. Breathing spiraling, my hand extents to the doorframe.
Touch reality or faint. My seesawing vision slows as my fingers clash against the ornate, glossy frame. Exuding false confidence, I demand, “How did you get in here?”
Despite my past, I’m not crazy. Miranda draws imaginary lines and counts beans. Her fixation on division made me anal, too.
This is my haven.
Miranda has hers.
The attractive Cuban dominating my art room doesn’t belong here.
He’s thick. A dangerous kind of thick that can bulldoze straight through me. Taller than my musings from afar. A leather jacket forms along his imposing shoulders and biceps, tapered down to a narrow waist. Dark-wash denim encase muscular legs and a scrumptious ass—I know, I’ve seen that ass from afar. He’s the entire package, every physical attribute on any woman’s list. The sight of him heats up the adrenaline already coursing through me.
His face is flawless deception: angelic, devilish, and sends goosebumps rising on my arms. Summer-kissed skin, sharp jaw. Dangerously delicious stubble accentuates a beautiful, hostile mouth. The Cuban ruined the lives of women, with that mouth. Probably stole kisses while pilfering the last ounce of air from a woman’s soul. The rich depths of his green eyes took ages for me to stare into once I captured him in photos. All of which . . . I’ve seen from afar.
“I said how did you get in here?” Never mind the delirious question of ‘how,’ as oppose to ‘why,’ I’m astonished I can utter a single word.
The breeze from the balcony jostles his loose, chocolate brown curls. He nudges a perfectly contoured chin toward the balcony.
“We’re on the highest level in the building!” I argue.
At the standing desk, the Cuban picks up a photo. The image captures an attractive vessel. Him. Mouth twisted, he flicks the photo of himself toward me. It dashes at my feet. Then another and another.
My first obsession fucked my mind over—ReAnna’s disappearance.
My second fixation is piling at my feet.
Photos glide across the floor. All of him. The camera lens worshiped his angles. His face. His chiseled chest. The Cuban god. My fascination will take him forever, if he plans on flinging all the photos to me.
“Those are my personal property,” I grit out.
The man pulls from a rolled cigarette. A sweet, musk scent fizzles from captivating lips as he plucks another photo. He flicks it into my general direction.
“They are mine!”
“Are they, Aria? Or shall I call you, LeAnna? You changed your name, chula.” His warm, alluring tone puts smooth malt whiskey to shame. In quick strides, his boots walk over renderings of his face. He stops in front of a canvas painting, which had taken an entire week to create from another photo. The Cuban snatches it from the easel, staring at the creation of himself. My panties percolate at the sound of a low, angered growl building in his throat.
I sigh, calming my desire as he continues to stare at the painting. Bold brush strokes matched his swagger. I’d spent more money on pallets of gold and mocha to paint him in these past months than I did in my entire undergrad at NYU. There are a thousand transitions of his photos into my favorite medium—paint—in this room. So if he plans to pick them all over, it’ll take forever too.
I don’t mind forever, as long as he doesn’t murder me . . .
My hips widen as he drags from his handmade cigarette, then quietly rips stitches down the center. “This your property, Aria, si?”
A gasp ribbons up my throat. “You need to leave—”
“Or, what? You call the cops?” His thick eyebrow juts.
Focusing on the painting,
he lights one side. Cinders curl into an insignificant flame. Letting the scrape fall, the Cuban crushes the furious little spark with his boot.
“Let’s call the cops. Tell them how you stalked me.” He pounds his chest. “Took photos, painted me without consent, si!”
I gulp as he enters 9-1-1 onto the cellphone screen. The quiver of need racing through my body dies again. He has that effect on me. I run hot, then cold, before trepidation triumphs. He poises his finger over the call button, and my jaw clamps.
“Eh, is the authorities our next course of action, Aria?” His Latin accent twines my name sensual, slow, making me painfully aware of how enthralling the devil is. Though his stance is threatening, I’m continually reminding myself not to . . . fear him. Never mind the natural reaction: desire.
“We call the cops, mami. You say I’m breaking and entering.” His chuckle is a low rumble in his colossal chest. “But this room depicts something else altogether.”
Heat flushed, I level my gaze on the notorious killer. Not afraid to lose myself in the pits of his eyes, not now. “You’re the stalker. Murd . . .” My voice breaks, he’s a murderer, who collects beautiful women.
The cigarette dangles at the tip of his lips. He huffs a breath, smoke clouds the magnificent structure of his face. “Aria, you’re gorgeous, deranged. Not a compelling combination. This will end bad for you.”
“You’re a sick fuck, Dominic Angel Alvarez. You know my name, I know you!” I grit out, finding the voice I neglected when ReAnna vanished. “You’re—”
My body is planted against the wall. Haunting, shadowy green eyes glare down at me. Red heat radiates from Dominic’s taut skin.
“What were you saying?” His accent, I’ve heard a million women gush about, twists. “Repeat yourself, Aria!”
“Kill me,” I threaten. “More paintings of you are here. More photos than you can conceive of finding after disposing of my body.”
The backs of Dominic’s knuckles are a soothing leather across my cheek. At his subtle touch, I shake like a spindle. An enigmatic pull tethers us. Exhaling, I realize this is the first time he touched me. Before, Dominic’s intensity sent me reeling back.
My gaze zips away from his hypnotic orbs, which have hints of honey in their filthy, green depths. Those eyes are how the women submitted to the ultimate predator.
“Kill you?” Dominic calls me crazy beautiful, serenading me with an imaginary Spanish guitar.
When I tremble, he stops murmuring sweet words in my ear. He rubs his index and thumb finger together. “You’re crying, Aria. Look at those big brown eyes. You weren’t aware?”
A mouth worthy of reverent love tips into a grin.
“You weren’t aware you’re crying.” He knots his fingers into my hair, baring my throat and vulnerable pulse to his lips. More Spanish words float from his devious mouth. He presses his mouth along my cheek. I become attune with the flush of my tears. This is how the other women die, so caught up in the rapture of him, they lose themselves.
As I’ve said, I know these things.
I’ve watched, waiting for Dominic to break another pretty soul—because I’d pounce before he consumed her.
His gaze dances over mine, leveling me, spearing me against the wall further. “You begging me to tear you apart, Aria?”
“No,” I whimper.
“You’re crying. I have yet to rip you to shreds. Should I break you, chula?”
My heart shutters to a stop. There was one thing in this world I obsessed over before the sight of Dominic Angel Alvarez.
The disappearance of ReAnna.
For the rest of my life, I’ll obsess over her. Had I not breathed life thirty minutes prior to her, would shame claw so deep? Too late for questions, too late to save my twin. Now, I’ve vowed to rescue Dominic’s women.
“Mami, should I show you what happens to bad girls, si?”
“Try me!” I cling to convictions I never knew. This second obsession of mine won’t extend as long as the first one. Justice will be served, with my death. Aside from the photos and sketches, I have notes, a virtual journal set on a timer. The media calls him El Santos. El Diablo’s more appropriate. Dominic’s balls are in a vice grip and he doesn’t know it. Fuck spending another breath on this earth. My life can conclude now.
Grab DIABLO Inside on Preorder now!
Or check out Fearless Series featuring Vassili Resnov!
If you’re up to date with all the Resnovs, then might I suggest, Devil In Her Bed. Although ‘DIABLO Inside’ is a complete standalone, some awesome characters from ‘Devil in her Bed’ will make an appearance.
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