His Ruthless Temptation

Chapter Ten

The first thing I registered was the soft touch trailing along my arm. For a second, I thought I was safe—that maybe everything was just a horrible nightmare. But then the relentless throb in my head yanked me back to reality. My eyes fluttered open, and the sunlight filtering through the lace curtains felt like knives against my pounding skull.

I knew this place. Medellín. His house.

Panic took over me as I turned my head, and there he was—Acero. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and black slacks, his chain glinting faintly. His hand calmly brushed my arm again.

I jerked away instinctively, recoiling against the headboard. Pain tore through my skull like white-hot fire, and I crumpled back into the pillows with a strangled cry, clutching my head as tears pricked at my eyes.

"Just in time," he said smoothly as if he were greeting an old friend.

The words barely made it through the haze clouding my thoughts. My trembling fingers found my forehead, grazing a swollen, sticky gash. The crusted blood matted into my hair sent a wave of nausea rolling through me.

"I didn't feel like calling a doctor yet."

Excuse me ? He wanted me to die from whatever damage he caused in my head ? Still trembling, I looked at him, desperate to find a way out of the situation. "Look..." My voice was almost gone, barely above a whisper. "I didn't mean... I just—"

Before I could finish, a faint smile curled his lips. He stood, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt, and leaned down. Without a word, he scooped me into his arms, holding me as if I weighed nothing.

"Let's not keep everyone waiting," he murmured.

Everyone? Who did he expect me to see like this? For a moment, I wondered if my attempt to reason with him had actually worked. Is it that simple? Could he really let everything go after slamming my head into a window and leaving me like this?

It felt absurd, like the calm before a storm.

I was too disoriented, too weak to fight him as he carried me down the familiar hallways of the house. When we reached the dining hall, the heavy double doors swung open before us. Acero carried me inside and set me gently on my feet just beyond the threshold.

"After you," he said, gesturing toward the long table ahead.

My heart stopped the moment I looked up. Seated around the grand table, staring back at me, were faces I recognized—faces that shouldn't be here.

Acero leaned in close, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "I believe you may recognize some of your old friends."

My breath caught in my throat as my gaze darted from one person to the next. First, the guard I'd stolen the gun from. His face was almost unrecognizable, swollen and bruised, one eye nearly shut. His head hung slightly.

Then Rosa. She sat stiffly, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as silent and tears rolled down her face. Her shoulders trembled with the effort of keeping quiet, her anguish palpable.

Finally, Dana Walsh. She tried to keep her expression neutral, but the cracks were there—her clenched jaw, her trembling hands. She looked utterly exhausted, as though the fight had been drained out of her.

They were all here—battered, broken, and silent, their eyes fixed on the table. None of them dared to look at me. I stared at them, horrified, and it hit me instantly: he knew.

If Acero had gathered everyone involved in my escape, he was definitely not over it.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, his tone theatrical, "the lady of the hour."