ALINA'S POV
The hall slowly emptied, glittering gowns sweeping past marble floors, cigars burning low in crystal ashtrays, and the last clink of glasses fading into silence.
Señor Cortez stood at the head of the grand room, raising his glass for the final toast. His words were smooth, regal, the kind of vote of thanks only a man born for command could give. The others drank, bowed, and left, escorted with grace.
But while he spoke, his eyes never left me.
I lingered at the edge of the room, pretending innocence, the curve of my body angled just so, my fingers dragging lightly down the stem of my glass. My tongue grazed my lower lip in slow, deliberate tease. He caught it. He had to. But he kept his composure, his face a mask of power while the storm brewed in his eyes.
It thrilled me.
