Rosa

Chapter 4

As Rosa stood, frozen, in the entryway of her suite, her pulse began to race with uncertainty.

Could it be?

Was it him?

She wanted to see this fucker's face.

Rosa reached over to flick on the lightswitch. The entire suite lit up, blinding her vision for a moment. As shadows lifted away in the light, it also confirmed her worst suspicions.

Within the same second, his eyes snapped towards hers, his black obsidian to her light amber-gold, their gazes colliding in midair.

Dread ate into the pit of Rosa's stomach.

Him.

Him.

It was definitely him.

The tall, dark bodyguard with the crucifix and rose tattoos.

Even while he sat submissively before her, seemingly unarmed and cornered, dominance still radiated from him in a mesmerizing way. Power, control, and acumen thrummed at the core of his presence, drawing her to him like a soldier to her commander.

He was as handsome and intimidating as she remembered from the nightclub in Marseille, and, apparently, this determined wolf had managed to track down the fictitious and nonexistent lamb, Mademoiselle Adèle Moreau, after all.

Impressive.

Very impressive.

On a whim, she decided to follow his lead and carry on their discussion in English rather than French. The Italian accent in his French sounded abysmal to her ears, anyway.

Rosa smirked at him and cooed, "Are you here to punish me, mon beau?"

"Why," he countered smoothly, "would I punish a woman who has done nothing wrong? Unless, of course, there is a... crime... you wish to confess?"

Rosa bit back her annoyance at his pointed questions.

Did he think she was stupid?

She would deny, deny, deny her crime until the end of time.

Rosa shed Adèle's sweet, sassy act to confront him in her own voice, coolly, calmly, "I have done nothing wrong, and I have nothing to confess. Now, kindly, get the fuck out of my suite."

He challenged, "What if I want to stay?"

Rosa pulled out her Beretta and aimed the barrel directly at his head.

"Then," she growled, "we will be having a very different kind of conversation."

Her weapon didn't seem to faze him at all. His expression remained unbothered, bored even. He leaned back into his chair as though to get more comfortable.

She glowered at him.

This motherfucker was bold.

"I am not here," the man insisted in softer, gentler tones, "to hurt you. Set down your weapon."

"No."

"If I wanted to kill you," he pointed out, "you would be dead already."

Her jaw ticked with indignation.

Because, in a way, he was right.

This bastard had managed to stalk her all the way to Portugal and sneak inside her hotel suite. She didn't know whether to commend him for his competence or to feel offended by her own carelessness.

"Well, I am the one pointing the gun at you now," Rosa reminded him with a confidence that felt somewhat forced, "you should have killed me when you had the chance."