El Pecador : El Santo Book 2

by M. Robinson

  I couldn’t breathe.

  I couldn’t move.

  I was frozen in place.

  Powerless.

  Restrained.

  Guarded…

  Mostly because I was scared of what could happen, and terrified...

  Of what couldn’t.

  My stomach knotted, churning with each second that passed between us.

  Where were all these feelings coming from?

  He narrowed those intense eyes at me and fucking smiled, sensing all my conflicting emotions playing like a broken record in my head. Igniting another buried sentiment from deep within my core when it came to him.

  “Let me go,” I murmured so low, not wanting to say it too loud. Trying to find the good in him when all I could see was the bad.

  “Never. Stop thinking, Amira. Just feel.” He placed his hand over my heart. “Feel me, in here.”

  I struggled to maintain my composure. My resolve slowly shattering around us like shards of glass slicing out of my skin. Hurting and killing me all at once, because in that moment between us, I no longer owned my body…

  My heart.

  My mind.

  It owned me.

  He. Owned. Me.

  “I fucking hate you,” I breathed out, needing him to hear it.

  “I know, but you also fucking love me,” he simply stated in a much deeper voice, desperately trying not to lose his temper with me.

  Except, this time, I wanted him to. I’d take his anger over our truths, any day.

  I slowly backed away, once again needing to protect myself from him. Falling out of the grasp of his hand.

  “Muñeca—”

  “Stay away from me. I won’t warn you a third time.” Before he could reply, I turned to leave but was stopped short when he grabbed ahold of my arm and yanked me against his torso. Throwing our bodies into a dark room by the bar, where all I could see were his eyes.

  “Damien, no,” I weakly protested to no avail, slamming my fists into his solid chest as his mouth crashed into mine.

  Knocking my willpower right out of me.

  He didn’t falter, parting his lips, beckoning me to follow, and I did. His hands cupped the sides of my face as he pushed me until my heels collided with something solid behind me. Impelling my body backward, I slightly gasped, expecting to fall hard on my ass, but Damien wrapped his strong arm around my waist to break our fall. He eased me back onto what felt like carpeted stairs, his muscular frame collapsing on top of mine.

  Caging me in with his arms, pinning me beneath him, he whispered against my lips, “You alright?” Touching the end of my nose with his thumb. The simple but heartwarming way he’d showed me affection since day one.

  I nodded, unable to form any words. My mind was too scrambled with thoughts and emotions I couldn’t even begin to understand, control, or label. It was one giant clusterfuck of him being on top of me in such an intimate position, having me at his mercy for the first time in over a decade. My chest rose and fell faster and faster with each deep breath that escaped my lips. Digging in deeper and deeper, inch by inch, I crumbled underneath him and he wasn’t even kissing me.

  Words always seemed to fail us, but our bodies never did.

  My heart reacted before my mind could catch up. I put my arms around his neck and kissed him. He achingly groaned from the depths of his chest like it was all he’d been waiting for. Pushing me further into the steps as I kissed him harder and with more determination, demanding something I couldn’t quite place. Slipping my tongue into his awaiting mouth, I bit his bottom lip, causing him to growl, immediately tasting the faint copper of his blood, mixing in with the smell of him, the feel of him.

  Making me go crazy with need, lust…

  Love?

  With his possessive hold around my neck, he rasped, “I love you. I fucking love you, Muñeca. Te amo, te adoro, Amira.”

  His touch alone made me shudder.

  He kissed me slower, more delicate, less frantic and desperate this time, but with the same intensity and passion as before. Continuously murmuring, “I love you, you’re mine,” in between each kiss.

  Every time he said he loved me.

  Every time I felt his hard cock thrust against my wet heat.

  Every time I felt his heartbeat against mine.

  I felt him all over again.

  He was relentless in saying he loved me, trying to get me to express it back. I couldn’t say it, I wouldn’t say it…

  I wanted to?

  I did the only thing that seemed natural when it came to us. To him. I reached for his belt buckle, showing him that I did love him by letting him have his way with me. It was the only way I knew how. Giving him my body just as I did all those months ago. He growled louder, kissing me one last time before he halted my hands in his sturdy grasp and rested his forehead on mine.

  I whimpered, instantly feeling the loss of his everything.

  His eyes were dark, daunting, and sexy as all fucking hell when he peered deep into mine, huskily rasping, “I told you, I wouldn’t fuck you again until you admitted you’re mine. Just say the words, baby, and I’ll bend you over right here and claim you as mine.”

  My eyes widened in shock, and it was like a bucket of freezing cold water was dumped onto my overly frenzied skin.

  What the hell are you doing? What are you thinking? Do not put yourself through this again! Do not do it! He’s a liar. He left you! He’s nothing but a liar!

  Using all my strength, I shoved him off and tried to knee him in the balls, but he got off me before I could. Knowing my intentions. I rushed the fuck out of there with him calling out my name all the way to the elevator. There was no way I could face him after what just happened between us, I was too weak.

  Too his.

  “Amira,” Roman coaxed, following hot on my heels, aware of what was raging a war inside of me as soon as the elevator doors shut.

  “Please, Roman… please… I beg you. Don’t.”

  The second we were in the limo, behind closed doors and dark tinted windows, where no one could see me, feel me, watch me shatter into a million pieces. I fell into Roman’s arms, needing his comfort. His refuge.

  His love.

  Because for first time in over a decade, I broke down in the arms of a man who’d never hurt me.

  Crying for another man who only ever did just that.

  TWENTY-ONE

  DAMIEN

  Another fucking day, another fucking black-tie event. Except, this one I wanted to attend for purely selfish reasons.

  Her.

  It had been three weeks since I’d had Amira right where she belonged, beneath my body and in my arms again. Consuming my thoughts, my actions, my words, and my decisions, the same way she always had since the first time I ever laid eyes on her. Although, no matter how hard she tried, she never had the power to save me from myself. I, on the other hand, had the power to destroy us both.

  Time after time.

  Further proving my point at the restaurant, triggering her to run away from me, from us…

  Mainly, from herself.

  I shook off my demons, knowing now was not the time, nor the place, to be reminiscing about the hold I’d always have on her. So, I simply straightened the lapels of my tuxedo jacket and exited the limo shortly after ten o’clock at night, welcoming the cool evening breeze on the inferno burning inside of me. I walked through a well-maintained courtyard full of greenery that went on for miles, enclosing the vast property where the event was being held. Swiftly making my way over to the two sets of stair pathways ascending up to the main entrance where several men stood checking guests in at the door.

  I didn’t waver, promptly handing my driver’s license and invitation to the security detail standing out front, feeling an instant sense of déjà vu hitting me fucking hard and all at once. It wasn’t the same mansion I invited myself into months ago, but it was still one of Vlad’s estates, and the guard eyeing me up and down with a menacing regard happened t
o be one of the men I chose not to kill that night.

  “How’s the leg?” I snidely remarked, reminding him of the last game we fucking played, ending with me shooting him in the leg. “I could’ve aimed higher,” I mocked, nodding to his dick. Not appreciating his goddamn glare focused solely on my eyes.

  He shoved my driver’s license into my chest, gritting out, “Enjoy your evening,” in a forced tone.

  I scoffed out a chuckle, reluctantly letting him have that jab. It was too early in the night to start any trouble. I knew Amira was in attendance, and that was the only reason I was attending this shit show to begin with. However, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t intrigued why Vlad had invited me in the first place. We weren’t exactly friends, but not quite enemies either.

  At least not yet.

  If he so much as put his hand on Amira again, I’d make sure we were fucking rivals until death. That’s if I didn’t put a bullet between his eyes first for touching what’s mine.

  The guard signaled toward the large doors of what appeared to be a nineteenth century gothic-style mansion with high pointed peaks that formed a steepled roof, ascending toward the dark sky. Windows upon windows took over the front exterior, reaching three or four stories high. You couldn’t see where the estate started or where it ended. It was rare to find an entire manor constructed of old rustic concrete and stone located on the outskirts of Miami. Old century architecture at its finest, giving off an eerie vibe in itself before you even stepped foot inside. Which was the only fucking point of owning this type of estate. A property like this was bought for one reason alone, complete and utter fucking privacy, used for what, I was soon to find out.

  I walked over the threshold into an immense foyer laced with floor-to-ceiling intricate dark mahogany woodwork. Housing the most dramatic grand staircase I’d ever seen that split at the top. A huge gothic-style chandelier with real burning candles hung above my head, illuminating the menacing lure of the space. Casting shadows off the two sculpted eagles perched on their own pillars, guarding the stairs with intense regard. Only fueling my rampant thoughts of what fucked-up shit could feasibly transpire behind these closed doors.

  Though the scent of expensive cigars, sophisticated cologne, and designer perfume was what caught my attention the most. Screaming nothing but fucking cold hard cash.

  No doubt, blood money.

  The whole décor and allure to this place was ominous and demoralizing. Every room had the same theme throughout—a haunting, leering feeling of being watched. Death peering around every goddamn corner you turned. To the point you could practically breathe in the souls being dragged to Hell, clawing at your feet to join them. I could sense these jaded walls had witnessed more tortuous brutality than I cared to think about.

  I grabbed a drink at the bar, looking for the reason I was even here, not finding her anywhere among the lavishly dressed groups of people.

  “Would you like me to escort you to the main event, sir?” a busty brunette asked, bringing my attention to her.

  “Main event?” I repeated, taken back.

  “Yes, sir. You’re already late.”

  I nodded, setting down my drink on the bar. “Lead the way.”

  She smiled, gesturing toward the adjacent hall under a large archway to another connecting room. I followed close behind her, caught off guard when she steered us outside, exiting the back of the manor. It wasn’t until she started walking toward a set of uneven cement stairs with dark stone walls lined with moss leading underground, my mind began racing with thoughts of this being a set-up. Not knowing what the fuck I was about to walk into.

  She opened a steel door at the end of the stairs and gestured to another set indicating this was my moment of truth, freely make my way right into the gates of fucking purgatory, versus staying in limbo with her.

  I arched an eyebrow, mirroring her devious stare. “No more tour guide?”

  She shook her head no. “Only you, sir.”

  Instead of giving it a second thought, I moved past the woman and winked, taking the steps down two at a time. My thoughts suddenly shifted to Amira, wondering if she was already underground as my hand hovered over my gun inside my tuxedo jacket. Mentally preparing myself to take some motherfuckers out if crossed.

  Now, I’d seen some fucked up shit in my time, been involved in even worse shit, but as I walked through the dark, dingy narrow stairway surrounded by black walls into what appeared to be a rundown, piece of shit basement, I never fucking imagined seeing anything like this.

  It smelled like mold with a pungent trace of sweat, and a strong scent of copper from the dried-up blood on the concrete walls and floor. Mixed in with the fresh blood gushing out of the men in front of me. Dim lighting surrounded the cold dungeon, which definitely resembled what Hell might look like. You could practically feel the seediness of it all as the Devil played his games.

  There were crowds of people standing around in a large, open circle dressed to the motherfucking nines, not a hair out of place on anyone. The men wore tuxedos, smoking and drinking, while the women wore thousands of dollars in jewelry and gowns. Wreaking havoc in a cellar they wouldn’t dare step foot into in broad daylight.

  All of them destructively chanting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” repeatedly with no end in sight.

  Their bodies moving with the same momentum as the adrenaline coursing through their veins, flowing in the sordid air. Some had wads of cash in their hands, strenuously pumping their arms out in front of them. Aggressively witnessing two men shredded in muscle, wearing only gym shorts, beating the living shit out of each other. Fighting bare-knuckled with no shoes or protection at all. Their bodies and faces covered in dirt, sweat, and fresh blood.

  I stood and watched from the bottom of the stairwell, needing a few minutes to analyze the situation. My instincts and sensory perception kicked into overdrive, on high alert, feeling as though I was the one who was fighting for his life in front of everyone. I tried to scan the basement looking for Amira, but it was too jam-packed to find her petite frame sticking out among the crowd of blood-thirsty voyeurs. I spotted Vlad who was standing in the back with his arms crossed over his chest, his concentrated stare on the fighter covered in tattoos.

  Waiting for God knows what.

  Another man, who I assumed worked for Vlad, was standing beside him keeping tally for bets placed with chalk on the bloody wall behind him. My attention snapped back to the fighter he was fixated on, just as his fist collided with the other man who looked to be Hispanic. His head whooshed back, taking half of his body with him.

  “I got ten thousand on Noah!” one of the women eagerly shouted, lifting up a wad of bills.

  Noah?

  Narrowing my eyes, I focused on the guy they called Noah, trying to get a better look at him. Realizing it was indeed who I thought.

  Creed Jameson’s brother? What the fuck was he doing getting involved with Vlad?

  I hadn’t seen him since I first met Giselle in Oak Island at that restaurant.

  It had been, what? Five, six years?

  The other fighter spit blood on the floor, charging Noah, and ramming his shoulder into his sternum. Taking him to the ground and causing his back to skid across the blood-smeared cement floor. Noah instantly fought back, managing to flip him over to straddle his waist and clock him in the head several times. Not letting up on destroying his fucking face.

  “I got fifteen thousand on Noah!” a man standing in the front yelled out while the crowd went fucking wild.

  “Fight! Fight! Fight!” they seethed, louder and louder. Fueling his murderous rage.

  “I got forty thousand more on Noah!” someone else screamed beside him, vigorously rousing the deviant energy erupting from the crowd like a fucking volcano.

  The other fighter managed to buck Noah off, wrestling around with him for a few minutes, each of them trying to gain the upper hand on the other. Elbows, fists, and legs flew everywhere, intermingling together as they threw the fuck down.r />
  No mercy.

  No morality.

  No. Fucking. Souls.

  Noah punched him square in the gut, causing him to fall to the side and then used the momentum of his blow to flip him over again. Locking him in with his legs and weight. The man immediately guarded his face but it didn’t matter, Noah rammed his fists into his ribs, his stomach, getting another few good hits to the sides of his head as well. Hitting him over and over again.

  Noah’s desolate and brazen eyes never wavered from the man he was fucking up. His chest heaved, his nostrils flared. He looked like a rabid fucking animal with a mixture of both their blood and sweat slithering down his face and body.

  “I got sixty grand on Noah!” another person called out from the crowd.

  The guy threw Noah off and side kicked him in the stomach as he stood up, sending him reeling to the ground. Staggering to regain his footing. Using his moment of weakness, he came for Noah, punching, kicking, hitting him all over.

  “I got thirty grand on Rubino!” a woman shouted the other fighter’s name for the first time.

  “I got another twenty thousand on Rubino!” someone else chimed in. Spurring his determination to take Noah out.

  For some reason, my rigorous stare went back to Vlad who still stood there calm and collected.

  Once again, just fucking waiting for I don’t know what.

  Noah’s battered body rolled on the ground, recoiling from his brutal and vicious assault. It didn’t look like he was going to get back up either, apparently down for the fucking count.

  “Forty thousand on Rubino!”

  “Sixty thousand on Rubino!”

  More bets for the contender roared through the air, one right after another until Vlad suddenly appeared through the crowd, making his way to the center stage. Standing a few feet away from where Rubino continued to pounce on Noah. I thought he was going to say the fight was over, declaring Rubino the winner to save Noah’s ass since he was obviously his fighter.

  He didn’t so much as give them a second glance, but I never expected him to announce, “Ladies and gentlemen, choose his fate,” turning this into some sort of Mortal fucking Combat game.