CHAPTER 2

Dinner ended exactly as it began. Stiff, quiet, and suffocating.

Viola didn't wait for Vanessa or her mother to stand up. The moment Rafael pushed his chair back, she slipped away from the table. She kept her head down, tracing the edge of the hallway until she found the heavy glass doors leading to the east terrace.

She pushed them open and stepped into the cool night air.

Her chest heaved as she took a slow, uneven breath. The anxiety that had been wrapping around her throat all evening finally loosened. She leaned against the stone railing, wrapping her arms tightly around her ribs.

It was quiet out here. Safe.

A sharp, metallic click broke the silence.

Viola froze.

In the far corner of the terrace, a small flame flared in the dark. It illuminated a strong jaw, the faint scar near the mouth, and a pair of cold amber eyes.

Sebastian.

He closed the silver lighter with a snap. The scent of tobacco drifted through the cold air as he exhaled a thin stream of gray smoke. He didn't move from the shadows. He just stood there, leaning against the stone wall, watching her.

Viola's heart started hammering against her ribs. She took a small step back, her hand reaching blindly for the handle of the glass door.

"Running back inside?" His voice was rough, carrying easily across the terrace.

She stopped. Her hand hovered over the door handle. She kept her eyes glued to the stone floor. "I didn't know anyone was out here."

"Obviously." He took another drag of his cigarette. "You look like you're about to faint."

She was. Her fingers tightened on the railing behind her, and she said nothing, because her voice always betrayed her when she was nervous.

"You didn't eat," he noted. It wasn't a question.

Viola shook her head, once, barely.

"Your sister ate enough for both of you," Sebastian said dryly. "And talked enough for the whole table."

She blinked, surprised into glancing up. There was a faint, cruel smirk on his face. He was mocking Vanessa. No one ever mocked Vanessa. Men usually fell over themselves trying to get her attention, but Sebastian sounded bored by the very thought of her.

He pushed off the wall and started walking slowly toward her.

Viola's breath hitched. He moved with a heavy, predatory grace, like a man who never had to rush because everything eventually came to him anyway. The closer he got, the more terrifying he was. Too tall, too broad, taking up too much space on the open terrace.

He stopped a few feet away. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look at him. She quickly dropped her gaze to his dark shoes instead.

"Why do you shake so much?" he asked, his eyes dropping to her hands.

She hid them in her sleeves, her chest rising and falling too fast. "I'm... I'm not."

"You're lying."

Her throat was painfully dry. "I should go back inside. My mother will be looking for me."

"Your mother isn't looking for you," he said, his voice flat, devoid of any sympathy. "She's busy trying to convince my father how useful her eldest daughter would be to my cartel."

The bluntness of it hit her like a physical blow. She knew it was true. Hearing it said out loud made it hurt more. She kept her eyes on the dark fabric of his suit jacket, her breath coming short and shallow.

"Look at me."

The command was quiet, but it left no room for argument.

Viola hesitated. Slowly, she dragged her gaze up to meet his. Up close, his eyes weren't just amber. They were sharp and dangerous, like a warning sign she was ignoring.

"You're afraid of me," he stated.

"Yes," she whispered, before she could stop herself.

Sebastian stared at her for a long, heavy moment. He lifted the cigarette to his lips, but his eyes never left hers.

"Good," he murmured, exhaling the smoke into the space between them. "Stay that way, dulzura."

Viola's brow furrowed. "What does that mean?"

Sebastian tilted his head. A dark, mocking amusement flickered in his eyes as he stepped a fraction closer, his tall frame caging her against the railing.

"It means you shake so beautifully," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her trembling lips before slowly rising back to hers. "A man might think you actually want to be hunted."

Viola pressed back in horror, her shoulders hitting the cold stone. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out.

A slow, dangerous smirk touched the corner of his mouth. "Relax, dulzura," he drawled. "I'm not doing anything."

Then his eyes dropped.

To her sleeve. To the place where the wool covered her wrist.

Viola's stomach turned over. She tugged the sleeve down, quick, instinctive.

His hand caught hers before she could pull it back.

No words. No warning. His fingers simply closed around her wrist, firm and warm, and she went completely still. His hand was huge, wrapping all the way around it. She couldn't have pulled away if she tried. She didn't try. She couldn't breathe.

Slowly, he pushed the wool back.

The bruise sat between them in the dark, black and purple, the fingermarks clear even in the weak light. His jaw tightened, a small flex of muscle, there and gone.

Then his thumb brushed over the marks.

Once. So gently that it matched nothing about him. Not the scars on his knuckles. Not the man who had told his own father at dinner that he was a disappointment for still breathing.

Viola looked up into his eyes.

He was already looking at her. For one unguarded second, something moved behind the cold amber, something dark and intent. Then it was gone.

She waited for him to ask.

He didn't.

He let her sleeve fall back into place and released her wrist, stepping back, giving her space like nothing had happened at all.

He turned and walked toward the glass doors. Just before he reached them, he paused, looking back over his broad shoulder.

"Not yet."

He pushed the door open, leaving the faint smell of tobacco and something distinctly masculine in his wake.

Viola didn't move until she heard the heavy glass click shut behind him.

Then she tried to stand straight, and her legs refused.

Her knees buckled. She caught the stone railing with both hands and slid down to the cold terrace floor, her heartbeat slamming in her ears, her wrist tingling where his thumb had been.

Everyone who had ever touched her in this house had done it to hurt her.

He had touched her bruise like it was something that mattered.

And all she could think about, sitting alone in the cold, was the way he had looked at her. Like she was the only person in the world who existed.