7: You don't sleep alone tonight

For a second, I could only stare at him.

His hand covered mine against the table, warm and immovable, his eyes locked on me with that infuriating calm confidence, as if he had not just threatened to punish me in the middle of a restaurant.

My pulse thudded in my throat.

“Excuse me?” I said.

Santiago’s smile deepened, slow and wicked. “You heard me.”

I tried to pull my hand back.

He let me.

I snatched my hand into my lap, fingers curling around the fabric of my dress as if that could steady me.

“You can’t say things like that.”

“No?”

“No.”

His brows lifted, the picture of dark amusement. “Interesting.”

“What’s interesting?”

“That you think I need permission to speak.”

Before I could answer, Santiago lifted two fingers, barely a gesture at all. Lucía appeared almost instantly, as if she had been waiting just outside the glow of our table.

“Sí, Señor Morales?”

Santiago leaned back, still watching me while he spoke to her. “Tortilla española. Gambas al ajillo. Croquetas de jamón. Pan con tomate.”

“And for drinks?” Lucía asked.

“A glass of Rioja for me. Sparkling water with lemon for her.” His gaze flicked to me. “She wants a clear head.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Lucía’s mouth twitched, though she wisely said nothing. “Of course.”

When she left, I leaned forward, lowering my voice. “You don’t get to decide what I want.”

A low chuckle left him. Warm. Dark. Far too pleased.

“No?” His smile turned sharper. “But I just did.”

I stared at him, furious and a little terrified.

He smiled hungrily. “That look… por favor, cariño, you’re making this very difficult for me. It almost feels like you’re teasing me.”

My mouth fell slightly open, almost offended. “Well, I am not.”

He leaned forward, the candlelight carving shadows beneath his cheekbones. “Oh, mi ángel, you should know…” His eyes lingered on mine, dark and deliberate. “I enjoy a challenge.”

A shiver threatened to crawl down my spine.

I buried it under anger.

“You’re still avoiding the question.”

“What question?”

“What you meant.” My voice dropped, but the words came out sharper than I expected. “When you said bad girls get punished.”

His eyes darkened.

The air between us changed.

Not colder.

Hotter.

He rested one arm on the table, relaxed as a king in his own court. “I meant that while you are under my protection, you will follow certain rules.”

I stared at him. “Rules?”

“Yes.”

“I am not a child.”

“No.” His gaze moved over me slowly, not crude, but intimate enough to make my breath catch. “You are certainly not.”

Heat flashed across my cheeks. “Then don’t speak to me like one.”

“I am speaking to you like a woman who has no idea what kind of world she just walked into, and who is now acting recklessly about her own safety.”

My mouth snapped shut.

Santiago seemed pleased by my reaction.

His voice softened by a fraction. “Rule one. You do not leave my sight without permission.”

I laughed once, bitter and disbelieving. “Permission?”

“Rule two. You do not speak to strange men who approach you. Not politely. Not defiantly. Not at all.”

“Excuse me? You do not own me.”

“After tonight?” His voice lowered. “Yes, I do.”

My anger flared so sharply it almost stole my breath. “You’re insane.”

His jaw tightened.

“Yes,” he said simply.

The admission silenced me for half a second.

Then he continued.

“Rule three: you do not lie to me. Ever.”

This time, I didn’t respond. I just stared at him, eyes wide in shock.

“And,” he added, voice dipping lower, “if you put yourself in danger, if you disobey me merely to prove you can, if you ever run from me while men like Marek are watching...” His hand moved slowly across the table, stopping just short of mine. “Then I will remind you that recklessness has consequences.”

My heartbeat thudded once.

Hard.

“What kind of consequences?” My voice slipped out almost as a whisper.

His lips curved.

“The memorable kind.”

I swallowed.

He leaned closer, his voice turning velvet-dark. “The kind that might involve you across my lap, learning exactly how patient I am willing to be.”

My whole body went still.

For one wild second, the restaurant vanished. The candlelight. The soft clink of glasses. Lucía moving somewhere behind us. All of it blurred around the image his words had placed in my head.

Then outrage came roaring back.

“You arrogant, controlling, impossible man.”

His smile widened, enjoying my reaction far too much.

“I am not yours to discipline.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then stop acting like a woman determined to test my limits.”

“I’m testing whether you have any.”

He laughed softly. “Very few.”

Before I could respond, Lucía returned with our drinks. She placed his wine in front of him and my sparkling water beside my empty plate. The tiny bubbles rose furiously in the glass, which felt irritatingly appropriate.

“Food will be out shortly,” she said.

“Gracias.”

Lucía retreated again.

I grabbed my water and took a long sip, mostly to avoid looking at him.

Santiago lifted his wine, watching me over the rim.

“You’re angry.”

“You just threatened to spank me.”

“I implied it.”

“That does not make it better.”

“It makes it more polite.”

I nearly choked on my water.

His mouth curved. “Careful.”

The food arrived before I could throw my water in his face.

Plates filled the table: golden croquettes, sizzling shrimp, thick slices of tortilla, and toasted bread rubbed with tomato and oil.

The smell was too good.

My stomach betrayed me instantly.

Santiago noticed.

“Eat.”

I glared at him.

His smile flickered. “Please.”

The small courtesy annoyed me more than the command.

Still, I picked up a croquette and took a bite.

Warm.

Crisp.

Creamy.

Delicious.

I hated that too.

For several minutes, we ate in a silence that wasn’t peace but wasn’t war either. Santiago refilled my water before I asked. He moved the shrimp closer when he noticed me looking at them. He did not touch me again, but his attention never left me for long.

It was suffocating.

It was reassuring.

It was both, and that was the worst part.

I was reaching for another piece of bread when the restaurant door opened.

The low murmur of conversation dipped.

Julián stepped inside.

His suit was still perfect, but his face had sharpened into something dangerous. He moved straight toward our table.

“Señor Morales,” he said quietly, but I could feel the tension in his voice.

Santiago leaned back slowly, swirling the wine in his glass, looking bored.

“Julián. You’re interrupting my dinner.”

Julián moved closer, his voice dropping. “You should know – Wiktor’s men are moving. They followed us from the café. Two blocks down, black sedan. They’re watching the building.”

A chill slid down my spine.

Santiago’s smile never faltered, but his hazel eyes darkened like smoke. “Cowards. Always watching, never acting.”

Then his gaze shifted to me with intense eyes. The atmosphere around him changed – playful lion replaced by predator. Santiago flexed his jaw, setting his glass down with a quiet clink.

“Well,” he sighed, “change of plans.”

I swallowed hard, sensing the danger, my stomach twisting. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” Santiago said, standing with deliberate calm, tugging me up beside him, “you don’t sleep alone tonight.”