His Ruthless Temptation

Chapter Seven

Two days had passed since I hid the stolen pistol in one of my handbags, buried deep among the few belongings I still possessed. It was unnerving to know it was there, close enough to touch yet concealed—a silent promise of what I was planning. I had rehearsed a hundred versions of what I would say, how I would act when I finally faced him again. I couldn't afford to reveal even the slightest hint of what I knew or what I intended to do. My hands had shaken slightly each time I remembered the weight of the gun in my grasp.

When Maricruz knocked on my door, her voice was impassive as she told me, "El patrón ha regresado." (The boss has returned.)

There he was. I forced a nod, murmuring a response as Maricruz watched me closely before turning and leaving me to prepare.

My steps were slow and measured as I made my way down the grand staircase, each footfall echoing in the silence of the house. My mind raced through everything I had planned—the questions I needed to ask, the mask I needed to wear to keep him from suspecting anything. By the time I reached his office, I had rehearsed a dozen expressions, settling on one of guarded calm.

The door was slightly open, and I could hear his voice before I saw him—calm, commanding, a tone that left no room for argument. Inside, he was seated behind his desk, speaking to three of his men. They stood stiffly before him, nodding as he spoke, their attention fixed entirely on him. I paused at the threshold, my breath hitching for a moment before I knocked softly and, without waiting for a response, pushed the door open.

The room fell silent as I stepped inside. All three men turned to face me, their expressions carefully neutral, though the unease in their postures was unmistakable. Acero, however, leaned back in his chair with an air of ease, his piercing blue eyes meeting mine the moment I entered. His lips curled into a faint smirk, and without looking away from me, he raised his hand, a casual flick of his wrist.

"Salgan," he ordered, his voice steady, cool. "Necesito un momento con mi mujer." (Leave. I need a moment with my woman.)

The men exchanged quick glances before bowing their heads slightly and stepping away. One hesitated near the door, as if waiting for further instructions, but Acero's sharp glance was enough to send him moving. The door closed behind them with a soft click, and I was left alone with him.

"Ven aquí," he said, his voice low. (Come here.)

I hesitated, my heart thudding in my chest as I remained rooted to the floor. He tilted his head slightly, his expression expectant, a silent reminder that hesitation was not an option. Forcing myself to inhale deeply, I moved forward, each step deliberate, until I was standing a few feet from his chair.

"Closer," he murmured, his tone softening, though no less insistent.

I faltered for only a second before closing the remaining distance. As soon as I was near, his hand extended, firm fingers wrapping around my wrist. Before I could react, he pulled me down, guiding me with unrelenting ease until I was perched on his lap. The chair creaked under the shift, and my body stiffened, every nerve hyper-aware of the closeness between us.

I tried to adjust, to shift away slightly, but his arm snaked around my waist, holding me in place. His scent surrounded me—cologne with a hint of cedar and something darker, distinctly him.

"Mariposa, mariposa," he murmured, his voice velvet-smooth, yet with a dangerous undercurrent that sent a shiver up my spine.

Before I could answer, his lips captured mine in a kiss that was anything but soft. It was commanding, consuming, a display of dominance that left no room for defiance. My hands hovered at my sides, twitching with the instinct to push him away, but I forced myself to stay still. My heart raced, each beat pounding against the weight of his hold. I reminded myself of the pistol hidden upstairs, the one lifeline that kept me tethered to my plan—my freedom.