Seducing My Husband's Brother

Dread on the Menu

PURITY

••••••••••

Sigh.

I let my lids fall shut, blocking out everything and anything. Everything that evokes those memories; anything that's a distraction. But what I'm trying to block isn't out there, it's within, eating at my very soul.

Why would Marco write that?

It doesn't make any sense. Not that his other letters did, but this one nips too close to something I've kept buried for far too long.

He's not even the fateful type.

And neither am I.

More like... not anymore.

I used to be a believer, that's until the Reigns brothers happened to me. Now, I can't even get myself to believe in anything.

That aside, what are the odds?

Marco quoting that exact book, the exact same verse. That exact same extract?

Why?

I take another breather, relieving my chest, but not quite feeling relieved myself.

Peeling my eyes open, my reflection registers for the umpteenth time. Why am I even trying so hard to look good?

Maybe to spite him?

After yesterday's disciplinary session, I've been finding it difficult to get out of my head the minimal moments of passion I once shared with my dear husband.

He f***s with a certain craze that I'm all of a sudden craving. And coupled with his big d**k? I'm a done woman.

"Mantente fuerte, Pure. Don't f*****g go back to your vomit."

Pressing my curls into place, my eyes dance over my outfit, taking in every detail and admiring the scorching hotness that's me.

My dress in red—keeping the season in heart. It clings around my butt, and loosens around my torso.

My back is left bare, and the neckline dips with purpose, revealing only a suggestion—enough to make the eye linger, not enough to satisfy it. Only pieces of the fabric fall loosely over my breasts, my hard n****e making their own statement.

When did I become this hormonal?

My eyes linger on the cross resting between my cleavage, tracing the outline. They say that the Cross of Penance symbolizes purity, a reminder that the De la Cruz carry their legacy while keeping a sanctified version of themselves.

Gently, the tip of my fingers taps on the cold metal. I don't have any memory of the first time this was locked around my neck, but as far as I know, this is given to a De la Cruz immediately after birth.

The blood infusion ceremony, though, I remember. I was only eight. I remember crying on my mother's lap, complaining how painful it was. I think there started my phobia for needles.

I turn my palm over, searching the top of my thumb. It's gone. You'd never even guess it actually happened.

"Let's not keep mi esposo waiting." I grab my lipstick and slide another layer over the one already there. Smacking my lips, a small smile stretches my face. "Fantástica."

The elevator doors open, and the rooftop spreads out before me, dusted in crisp, cold snow. The wind hits first. Cold bites my exposed back, tugging at the loose straps of my dress, and I clutch them against my chest. Okay, maybe I didn't think that through.

I hear footsteps approaching from my side, but before I can turn, Ryat's voice comes. "Wow... the snow didn't see that coming."

I turn towards him, my face set in a deep frown, his annoyingly bright.

"Who the f**k sets a date on a rooftop in New York cold February?" I hiss.

He spreads his hands out, looking around. "Who else but a husband who is confident in his wife's heating properties."

That's not funny.

Seeing my displeasure, he steps beside me. "This way, mi amor."

Pretty sure the buffoon doesn't know what that means, but I let him have it. Can't believe I feel for Ryan because he communicated in Spanish. A simple introduction. Motherfucker played his cards right.

Looking ahead, the decorations come into view. It's pretty simple, but romantic.

Lanterns with steady flames outline a small circle shade. Fairy lights hang overhead, swaying gently, like a thousand stars on a pitch black night sky.

A table draped in white fabric sits in the middle of the shade, a single champagne bottle and two flutes arranged at its center, with two red chairs positioned opposite each other—perfect for two. Roses are sprayed randomly on the floor, some swept around by the breeze.

My hands tighten around my body, more to shield from the biting cold than to hold my dress in place.

Ryat leads me to the table and draws out a chair for me. I take the seat while whispering my gratitude.

He moves to the other chair and makes himself comfortable, a smug smile resting on his face.

"What do you think?"

I take a second look around, digesting the scenario. In all honesty? This was way more than I expected. I thought it would be some poorly thought about arrangement, but this is actually impressive.

"Hm. It's nice."

His smile widens, then he leans closer, grabbing the uncocked bottle by the neck. First, he fills my cup, then his own, after which he leans away with the flute resting delicately between his fingers.

I don't do well with alcohol, so I ignore the glass. "You said Ryan put you up to this?" I try my best to sound unaffected.

He nods, then lifts the glass to his lips, sipping the liquid like it's some fragile substance.

Sigh. I was a fool to think this would be anything but bland.

After our first valentine together, Ryat never spent another with me. He'd always disappear, leaving me to wallow in my misery.

The cold penetrates the surface of my skin, clinging to me like it's one with my soul.

"Why?"

His brows quirk. "Why what?"

"Why did you decide to give me the card?"

He shrugs, dropping his glass on the table. "Thought since we were stuck with each other, we might as well make good of the time." He pauses. "It's what Ryan was aiming at."

My mouth falls open, "Ow, that's so thoughtful of him."

He nods. "Yeah. It's the reason I'm here at all."

I nod, struggling to keep my smile at bay. The prince of the mafia, yet Ryan grounded his ass—sweet.

He c***s his head towards my glass. "Not a fan of champagne?"

A small smile graces my face. "I can't hold my alcohol."

He nods, mild surprise flashing on his face. "I didn't know."

"You'd know if you ever spent time with me," I whisper, reaching for the glass anyway.

"So you are going to take that now?"

I throw my head back and down the entire content of my glass. "Ahh!"

He chuckles. "Well, I think I'd enjoy meeting drunk Purity."

"It definitely takes more than one glass to make me a mess."

"Are you asking for more?" He brings the bottle closer but I shift it.

"No."

Chuckling, he sets the bottle back down. "I wish you'd use that word a little more often."

That catches my attention. "Meaning?"

His eyes carry the dark gloom that surfaces whenever he's at his worst. "No." He repeats. "It would have been much better if you had practiced saying no to advances."

I draw air through my nose, releasing it through my mouth. "Look at me thinking the same of you."

A single side of his lips pulls up. "Fairs."

I exhale again, mist curling from my nose—at this point, I'd freeze.

Running my hands along my arms, I salvage the little warmth the friction creates.

Out of nowhere, a sudden warmth envelops me, throwing me off. The familiar scent of Ryat's cologne—smoke, icy cedarwood and black pepper—invades my nostrils, giving me just the information I needed, but not quite enough.

Then, his hot breath lands on my neck, making my p***y tighten. "Trust me, you would make a wonderful ice statue, but I suggest we save that for dessert."

Before I can react, the ding of the elevator pulls our attention. Some intruders—kitchen staff, judging by their uniform—pour through the metal threshold.

There are five in total. All carrying one item or the other.

It's the regular routine, nothing out of the ordinary. No fancy displays. No crazy stunt. But something stands out. A man, with his face concealed behind a surgical mask, just like the dish lying flat on his palm is concealed beneath a large metal cloche.

He's muscular and taller than the rest—probably what makes him stand out. A sea of tattoos peek from beneath his rolled-up sleeves, and a small scar cut through his left brow.

As if picking up on my interest in him, he walks to me, laying the domed plate on the table.

On leaning away, he whispers. "Buen provecho."

"A—" my words die in my throat as he departs, heading straight for the elevator.

Turning to look at Ryat, I find that his full attention is on the staff as they set the food around the table.

I look back at the elevator, but he's gone. Just as quickly as he appeared, he disappears.

"Something wrong?"

My eyes snap back to Ryat. "Nada." I shake my head. "Nothing at all."