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I once thought that maybe having an older stepbrother meant having someone who would protect me from my family, but my stepbrother is a monster, a cartel king. The way he looks at me is wrongβlike Iβm already his. The way he touches me is raw and forbidden. If Iβm found out, my mother is going to kill me. The bruise on Viola's wrist had turned black-purple overnight, and the sleeves of her oversized sweater were the only thing keeping it hidden. She tugged the wool down over her knuckles as she crossed the hallway of the Hierro estate, keeping her head low, letting her hair fall around her face. Stay quiet. Stay invisible. Maybe the evening would pass without blood. "Stand up straight, Viola." Octavia's voice cut through the hallway, as cold and polished as the marble floor. "And for God's sake, fix your hair. You look like you climbed out of a gutter." Viola flinched and tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Sorry, Mother." Vanessa brushed past her, smelling of expensive perfume, effortless in a tight midnight-blue dress. Then she stopped. Turned. Something red dangled from her fingers. A cheap, neon-red mini dress. "Mother," Vanessa said smoothly. "Look what I found in Viola's wardrobe." Viola's chest seized. She stared at the red fabric, and for a second she couldn't pull air in. She had never seen that dress in her life. Octavia's face hardened as she looked at it. "What is this?" "Red, Viola?" Vanessa tilted her head, all false concern. "Where exactly were you planning to wear this?" Viola shook her head, taking a small step back. "Mother, it isn't mine. I didn'tβ" Crack. The slap snapped her head to the side. For a moment there was only the ringing in her ears. Her cheek lit up with fire. Her eyes stung, and the taste of iron sat at the back of her tongue. She didn't touch her face. She didn't cry. Crying only ever made it worse. Her mother stepped closer, lip curling with disgust. "I go to church. I pray to God every day to keep filth away from this family. And this is what you bring into my house." Viola stared at the floorboards, breathing shallow, shame crawling hot up her neck. Behind Octavia's shoulder, Vanessa was smiling. Small and satisfied, like she had just won something. "Go fix yourself," Octavia ordered. "Your stepbrother is arriving today. After years." She looked Viola up and down. "If it were not for Rafael, I would not even let you attend. I don't know why he wants you there to embarrass us." Vanessa let the dress slip from her fingers onto a chair, a soft, amused breath escaping her. "Do not embarrass me tonight," her mother warned. "Do not speak unless spoken to." "Yes, Mother." Upstairs, Viola pressed a cold, damp cloth to her cheek and watched her own eyes in the mirror. The red mark was already dulling into something quieter. By morning it would be faint enough to hide under a layer of cheap foundation. Marks on the face were bad manners in this house. Marks anywhere else were fine. She pulled her sleeve back down over the bruise and smoothed it flat. One day, she promised herself, she would leave this house and never come back. She didn't know how yet. But that one small thought was the only thing that got her down the stairs. Dinner was suffocating. Rafael Hierro sat at the head of the table, older than she remembered, slower, but his eyes still tracked everything. Nobody spoke much. There was only cutlery and the clock on the wall, and Viola kept her eyes on her plate and her hands in her lap, sleeves pulled down tight. Then the doors opened, and the air vanished from the room. Every head at the table turned toward the doorway. The man standing there didn't walk into a room. He consumed it. Six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, with the dense, heavy muscle of an executioner pressed into a dark suit. He did not look civilized in it. Viola had never seen him before in her life, but the room told her who he was. Her mother sat up straighter. Rafael's eyes sharpened. And beside her, Vanessa's lips parted on a soft, hungry breath. "Sebastian," she breathed, barely a sound at all. Sebastian Cain Hierro. Her stepbrother. The one the staff whispered about. Viola's stomach dropped. So this was him. He ignored everyone and stopped only at Rafael's end of the table. "You're late," Rafael said, his voice gravelly and thick with authority. "And you're still breathing," Sebastian replied, smooth, careless, utterly without warmth. "We all have our disappointments." Rafael's jaw tightened. He didn't snap back. Sebastian pulled out the chair directly across from Viola and sat back heavily, arms resting on the table. He looked bored. He looked like he wanted to burn the house down with everyone inside it. Viola kept her eyes on her plate. Her heart was beating too fast, and she couldn't make it stop. "Sebastian." Vanessa leaned forward just enough to display the neckline of her dress, her voice pure honey. "It's been a long time. You look... well." His eyes moved to her. Slowly. They dragged from her face down to her neckline and back up again, and his lip curled, barely, like he had caught a bad smell. "Don't," he said. Vanessa blinked. "Don't what?" "This." He flicked two fingers in her direction, already turning away, pulling a silver lighter from his pocket. "It's embarrassing to watch." The table went quiet. Vanessa's face went rigid, a blotchy red creeping up her neck. Octavia's mouth pinched into a line, but even she didn't step in. Then Vanessa's eyes found Viola across the table. Sharp with humiliation. Looking for somewhere to put it. Viola knew that look. It never ended well for her. "Viola." Vanessa's voice was honey again, the kind that always came right before the knife. "Pour the wine. Or is sitting quietly all you can manage?" Her mother didn't object. Her mother would never pour her own wine while Viola sat there breathing. Viola stood and reached for the bottle. It was heavier than she expected, and she needed both hands, and as she stretched to fill Rafael's glass, the sleeve slid up two inches. She felt it happen. She set the bottle down fast and yanked the wool back into place, her face on fire. Nobody commented. Rafael didn't even glance at her. Vanessa's smile went sharp at the edges, like she had smelled something and filed it away for later. "The girl is clumsy," her mother said smoothly, reaching for her glass. "She walks into doors." Across the table, the silver lighter had stopped turning. Sebastian's eyes were on her wrist, on the place where the wool had slipped. Then, slowly, they lifted to her face, and for the first time since he had walked in, he actually looked at her. His eyes were a striking, impossible amber. Cold. Sharp. Predatory. They dragged over her pale face, lingered for a second on her nervous lips, then locked onto her violet eyes. Viola froze. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't look away. People always looked away from her eyes. Sebastian didn't. He watched her like she was something he had just decided to open. "Who," he finally said, his voice deep and rough, wrapping around the room like a threat, "is this?" He didn't point. He didn't blink. "My youngest daughter," Octavia answered, her voice tight with irritation. "Viola." Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "I never knew you had another daughter." "She was shy when you were here," her mother said quickly. "She didn't meet anyone before you moved out." The corner of his mouth twitched, a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. He leaned forward on his elbows. "Viola," he repeated softly. He made her name sound dangerous. She couldn't answer. Her hands were trembling in her lap. He held her gaze for one more agonizing second, then leaned back and broke it. "Quiet little thing, aren't you?" he murmured, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. He struck the silver lighter and lit it, the small flame dancing between his long, scarred fingers as he exhaled the first thin stream of smoke. Viola kept her eyes down, but she felt the shift at the table anyway. When she dared a glance, Vanessa's smile had gone stiff with disbelief, like she couldn't understand what had just happened. And beside her, her mother was watching Viola with a cold, deadly glint in her eyes. Viola knew that look. She had grown up under it. It meant punishment. It meant she would pay for this later, for being looked at, for daring to exist where Sebastian Hierro's eyes had chosen to land. Her body understood before her mind did. Her shoulders jerked, a small, helpless flinch she couldn't stop, and her nails bit crescents into her palms under the table. She forced herself still. Forced her gaze back down to her plate. The conversation restarted around them, slow and awkward. Vanessa's brittle, desperate attempts to pull his attention back. Rafael asking about shipments. Octavia laughing at things that weren't funny. Viola stared at her plate and willed her heartbeat down. It didn't work. She could feel the weight of his eyes, ignoring the beautiful sister entirely, fixed on the quiet, terrified one. Dinner finally, finally ended. Sebastian rose first, and the table seemed to rise a half-second late, like the room answered to him. "You'll stay, then?" Rafael asked, watching his son. Sebastian buttoned his jacket. His gaze moved once around the table, bored, and for one brief second, it landed on her. "This house might not bore me after all," he said. Then he walked out, and the room remembered how to breathe. Everyone at that table heard a man talking about business. About whatever kept a cartel prince entertained. But Viola sat there trembling, her wrist throbbing under the wool, and she knew, with a certainty that turned her stomach, that he hadn't been talking about business. Being noticed by Sebastian Hierro didn't feel like a compliment. It felt like being prey. 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. Chapter 3 Viola stood in front of the small mirror in her bedroom, her fingers gently touching her jaw. Yesterday, right after her mother's hand had cracked across her face, she had run to the bathroom and desperately covered the angry red mark with cheap foundation. Now, with the makeup washed off, a faint, yellowish-blue bruise stained her pale skin. A quiet, sad laugh left her lips. Her mother went to church every single day, praying to God to keep sinners and filth away from their family, yet she never hesitated to strike her youngest daughter. Viola had never worn a short dress in her life. But the exact second Vanessa said she had found that cheap red dress in Viola's closet, her mother believed it blindly. No questions. No chance to speak. Vanessa could parade around the house in short, tight dresses all day and be called flawless. Viola was always the filthy sinner. It was always like that. So she had learned to avoid them all, whenever avoiding was possible. She dropped her hand and pulled the collar of her oversized grey sweater higher. Her tiny room was freezing in the early morning, but the chill on her skin wasn't just from the temperature. Every time her mind drifted back to the terrace last night, a fresh wave of goosebumps prickled along her arms. Her stepbrother. When her mother had first married Rafael, bringing a twelve-year-old Viola to this massive estate, a small, naive part of her had hoped. An older stepbrother might mean someone who would protect her. But Sebastian had never visited. Or maybe he had, and she just never knew. Vanessa had met him before. Viola had never seen him in person until yesterday. She only knew him through the whispers of the staff. They called him a monster. A cartel king who answered to no one, who had built his own kingdom in the dark instead of sitting in his father's chair. A butcher, one of the maids had said once, and then immediately crossed herself, as if the word alone could summon him. And then there was the other story. The one Viola had overheard last winter, her hands buried in dishwater at the kitchen sink, so invisible that the maids forgot she was there at all. Rafael had gotten tired of waiting for his son to come home. So he sent six of his own men to fetch him. To drag the young king back to this estate whether he wanted to come or not. None of them ever made it past Sebastian's gates. A week later, a delivery arrived at the house. A gift box, addressed to Rafael personally. Inside, packed neatly in ice, were six heads. And a note, written in Sebastian's own hand. Stop sending people to fetch me. It gets messy. One of the maids had known one of the six. She didn't come back to work for a month. And Rafael, they said, hadn't raged when he opened the box. He had just closed the lid and lit a cigar, like a man who finally understood what his son had become. Viola had told herself it was just a story. Servants exaggerated. Stories grew in the telling. Then last night, he had looked at her in the dark, and she had believed every word. Because his cartel made people disappear and made entire families suffer, and the men who stood against him didn't get graves, and everyone in this house knew it, and no one ever said it out loud. She shook the thought off, grabbed a worn paperback from her nightstand, and slipped out of her room. She kept her head down, navigating the massive, quiet corridors. She just wanted somewhere to hide before Vanessa woke up and the daily torment began. She slipped into the library. It was a massive, two-story room smelling of old paper and dark wood. Viola found a large, high-backed leather chair tucked into the farthest corner, curled her legs up underneath her, and opened her book. For a little while, it was peaceful. Then the heavy oak doors clicked open. Viola froze. Her fingers gripped the edges of her book. Heavy, unhurried footsteps crossed the hardwood floor. Not the sharp click of Vanessa's heels. "Tell Mateo to handle it," a rough voice commanded. Sebastian. Viola stopped breathing. She sank deeper into the leather chair, praying the high back hid her completely. "No," Sebastian continued, cold and flat, into his phone. "I don't care what excuse he gave. Excuses don't bring my goods back." A pause. She could almost hear the silence on the other end, the fear in it. "Listen to me," Sebastian said, his voice dropping lower, quieter, and somehow that was worse. "He can give me my goods, or he can give me his life. He has until sunrise. Enoch will collect whichever one he chooses." The phone clicked shut. Viola sat perfectly still in her chair, her heart hammering. He had just ordered a man's death the way other men ordered coffee. No heat. No anger. Just a morning task. Silence fell over the library. She waited for his footsteps to leave. Instead, she heard the soft clink of glass against crystal. He was pouring a drink. "If you're going to hide in my house, dulzura," his rough voice drifted through the quiet room, sounding completely bored, "you need to learn how to breathe quieter." Viola's heart dropped into her stomach. She squeezed her eyes shut, hands shaking, then slowly lowered her legs and stood up from the chair. Sebastian stood by a dark wooden cart across the room. No suit jacket today. A black button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing thick veins and old scars. He held a glass of amber liquid in one hand. He didn't look surprised to see her. He just took a slow sip, his sharp eyes pinning her in place. "I'm sorry," Viola stammered, clutching her book to her chest. "I didn't mean to intrude. I'll justβ" "Leaving," he finished for her. She nodded, eyes on the floor, her face heating up. She hurried out from behind the chair, practically hugging the bookshelves, desperate to escape the suffocating weight of his presence. "Stop." Viola halted instantly. Her sneakers squeaked against the wood. She didn't turn around. She heard the soft clink of his glass being set down. Then slow, heavy footsteps approaching. He walked around her until he stood directly in her line of sight, blocking the exit. Viola kept her chin tucked down, staring at the middle button of his dark shirt. Sebastian didn't speak at first. He just stood there, tall and imposing, invading her space without even touching her. Then he tilted his head, his gaze dragging over her face in the morning light. His eyes stopped on her left cheek. "Look up." Her breath hitched. Her hands tightened around her book. "I really shouldβ" "I won't say it twice." Trembling, she slowly raised her head, her violet eyes meeting his amber ones. Sebastian stared at the faint, yellowish bruise on her pale skin. His expression didn't change. No pity. No soft concern. He studied it for a long, silent moment, with the cold, clinical precision of a man reading a label. Viola's skin prickled under the weight of his stare. Only then did he speak. "Who hit you?" he asked, his voice completely flat. Viola's stomach twisted. She quickly reached up, pulling a thick section of her dark hair forward to hide her jaw. "No one. I... I hit my face on a door." Sebastian let out a short, humorless scoff. He shoved one hand into his pocket, looking down at her like she was the worst liar he had ever met. "A door," he repeated dryly. "Right. Because doors leave fingermarks." Viola flushed, dropping her gaze to his chest. Her throat felt tight. She hated that he saw it. She hated that he knew. "It's fine," she whispered. "It doesn't hurt." "I didn't ask if it hurt," he replied carelessly. "I asked who did it." "It doesn't matter." "Was it the mother?" His eyes narrowed slightly. "Or the sister?" "Please," she said, taking a small step back. "Just leave it alone. I'm used to it." Something moved behind his eyes at that. He closed the distance she had made with one unhurried step, and his hand came up. Viola went rigid. His fingers found her chin, tilting her face up toward the morning light. His grip was firm. Unarguable. The kind of hold that said her face would stay exactly where he put it. Then his thumb traced the edge of the yellowish mark. Slowly. Along the fading border of it, never once pressing the tender center. One deliberate pass, and she understood with a small, dizzying shock that he was being careful. Sebastian Hierro, the butcher from the servants' stories, was touching her bruise like he was trying not to hurt her. Her eyes betrayed her and lifted to his. He was already watching her. And this time he didn't let the gaze go. He held it while his thumb finished its path along the edge of the mark, dominant and gentle at the same time, and her heart slammed so hard she was sure he could hear it. "You let them treat you like a stray dog," he finally said, his voice dropping into a rough, cruel murmur. "No wonder you flinch at your own shadow." The words stung, hitting her right in the chest. Viola didn't have a response. She knew she was weak. She knew she didn't know how to fight back. She tried to drop her gaze, to hide, but his fingers held her chin exactly where he had put it. She couldn't even look away from him. So she just stood there, trapped in his grip, feeling more exposed than she ever had in her life. Sebastian watched her for one long moment. Then his thumb left her skin. He let go of her chin and stepped aside, clearing the path to the door. "Run along," he dismissed her, his tone dropping back into a cold drawl. Viola didn't look at him again. She hurried past him, practically running out of the library. She made it ten steps down the hallway before she pressed her back against the cold wall and slid down to the floor. Her cheek was still tingling where his thumb had been. Her breath came in short, shallow pulls. And in the daylight, with his scars and his cold eyes and his flat voice, the gentleness of his touch had confused her more than cruelty ever could. It felt like a man counting something. Like he was memorizing every mark on her skin and filing it away for later. That thought terrified her more than anything. Chapter 4 The study in the Hierro estate always smelled the same. Old leather, expensive scotch, and decaying power. Sebastian stood near the massive mahogany desk, looking out the large window that overlooked the manicured gardens. He wasn't wearing a suit jacket, just his dark shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke against the glass, completely ignoring the man sitting in the heavy leather chair behind him. "You cannot keep running your operation from the forest," Rafael snapped, his gravelly voice rising. "You are the head of the Hierro family now. The Spanish Boss. This house is yours. The families, the legacy, all of it. You belong in that chair, Sebastian. In this house. Ruling the way your blood demands. Not playing cartel king in the dirt." Sebastian didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He just tapped the ash from his cigarette into a crystal tray. Rafael had been giving this same speech for three years. He couldn't stand that his son had taken the mafia crown but refused to wear it the way Rafael wanted. Sebastian had built his own empire. His own men, his own territory, run with a ruthless efficiency the traditional Spanish Mafia had never seen. "I don't play," Sebastian replied smoothly, his tone flat and unbothered. "I rule. There is a difference, old man." "You are disrespecting the legacy," Rafael growled, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his cane. "The Hierro name built Spain's underworld. And you treat it like a coat you can leave on a hook. Move back into this house. Sit with the families. Manage them. If you won't, maybe I should." Sebastian finally turned around. He leaned against the edge of the desk, crossing his ankles, looking down at his father with completely dead, cold amber eyes. There was no anger in his expression. Just pure, predatory calm. "You can try," Sebastian murmured lazily. "But we both know you don't have the teeth for it anymore." He took one more slow drag and exhaled. "And just so we understand each other, father. I am tired of being pushed. Keep this speech up, and I will dismantle everything you built. The families. The routes. The name carved above the door. I'll burn your legacy to the ground and stand in the smoke, and I won't feel a thing." Rafael's face flushed a deep, ugly red. His breathing grew heavy, but he didn't rise from his chair. He knew better than to physically challenge the monster he had created. Instead, he leaned back, his dark eyes narrowing into a toxic, manipulative glare. "If you are so unwilling to do your duty," Rafael said softly, his voice dropping into a dangerous register, "maybe I should ask Diego." Outside the heavy doors, Viola pressed a trembling hand over her mouth. She had been passing by the study with a stack of fresh towels when she heard the deep voices. The heavy oak doors were cracked open just an inch. She knew that if anyone caught her lingering there, she would be punished, but curiosity had glued her feet to the marble floor. All the talk about cartel business and territories had gone completely over her head. But then Rafael said it. Maybe I should ask Diego. Viola froze completely. Diego. The forbidden name. When her mother had first married Rafael and brought a twelve-year-old Viola to this estate, she had been given exactly one terrifying warning. Never speak that name, and never, ever go near the locked top floor. It was a forbidden area for everyone in the house, and no one dared to ask what dark secret was kept up there. Through the crack in the door, Viola saw exactly what the name did to her stepbrother. His fist clenched against the desk so hard his knuckles turned white. The cool, unbothered mask he always wore vanished, replaced by a dark, lethal energy that made the hair on Viola's arms stand up. "Careful, father," Sebastian warned softly. The words were laced with a freezing coldness that made her blood run cold. Rafael smiled, a cold, victorious curve of his lips. "I am not threatening anything. I am just saying... you should think about your responsibilities." For a long moment, Sebastian said nothing. Then, to Viola's disbelief, the monster bent. "I will come back to this house," Sebastian said, his voice flat, emptied of everything. "I will sit in the chair, and I will handle the families the way you want. Consider it done." Rafael's smile widened. "See? That wasn't so hard." "And father." Sebastian's voice dropped softer, and somehow that was the most frightening it had ever sounded. "If his name crosses your lips again, I will forget that you are my father." Viola's grip tightened on the towels. Sebastian Hierro, who had just threatened to burn his own legacy to ash, had surrendered everything Rafael asked for. Because of one name. Whatever Diego was, it was the only thing in this house that could make him kneel. Sebastian pushed off the desk, turned his back on his father, and started walking straight toward the exit. Panic seized Viola. She scrambled backward, pressing herself flat against the hallway wall, clutching the towels tightly to her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, holding her breath, praying the shadows would hide her. The heavy doors pulled open. Sebastian stepped out into the quiet corridor. He didn't turn his head. He didn't look in her direction. He just started walking past her. Viola's lungs burned. As he took a few steps away, she let out a tiny, silent sigh of relief. He hadn't seen her. But then, his footsteps stopped. He didn't turn around. "Eavesdropping is a bad habit, dulzura," his rough voice cut through the silence. "Are you being a bad girl?" Viola stopped breathing. How did he know? He hadn't even looked at her. A violent jolt of panic seized her chest. "Forget what you heard tonight," he continued, still facing away, his voice low and almost lazy. "A good girl like you doesn't want people dying over a name." Her blood turned to ice. People. Dying. Over a name. She didn't reply. She didn't wait to see if he would turn around. She just bolted, her soft footsteps sprinting down the corridor as fast as her trembling legs could carry her. Sebastian stood in the hallway, listening to the frantic sound of her running away. A slow, dark smirk played on his lips. As soon as the hallway was empty, the smirk died. His eyes went completely cold, though something deep and dangerous burned in the amber depths. He walked down the corridor to his private wing, shutting the heavy door of his bedroom behind him. He unbuttoned his dark shirt, shrugging it off his broad shoulders and tossing it onto a chair. As he turned, the dim light caught the dark ink staining his skin. A sharp, dangerous serpent tattoo wrapped tightly around his ribs. And etched across his broad back was a cold Spanish quote: La lealtad se paga con sangre. (Loyalty is paid in blood.) Bare-chested, he walked toward the massive window overlooking the dark estate. He pulled out his encrypted phone and dialed a number. "Is everything in place?" Sebastian asked, his voice low and smooth. A brief confirmation came from the other end. A dark smile touched his lips. "Good. It's time." He hung up, tossing the phone onto the bed. His mind should have been entirely on the plan. He had no use for anyone in this house. To him, everyone under this roof was just a piece on a board waiting to be played. But his thoughts drifted. "Viola," he murmured softly to the empty room. The name suited her. It matched those rare, violet eyes. She walked around the estate on eggshells, constantly looking over her shoulder like she expected someone to jump out of the shadows. She fascinated him. She reminded him of a little rabbit he had caught in the woods when he was a child. A frightened, wounded animal that trembled wildly the second it realized it was trapped. That was exactly what Viola was. A terrified little rabbit, completely at his mercy. And tonight, the little rabbit had heard the name. Diego. Spoken out loud in front of a girl who flinched at her own shadow. He should have been furious. He should have dragged her into that study and made her understand exactly what silence cost in his world. Instead, something sick and warm unfurled in his chest. She was carrying it now. His most guarded secret. Walking around his house with it inside her trembling little chest, not even knowing what it was. That shouldn't have excited him. It did. Just thinking about the way she froze under his gaze sparked something very dark in his chest. This house might not bore him after all. Chapter 5 Viola spent the rest of the day hiding in her tiny bedroom. She didn't go down for lunch, and she skipped dinner entirely. She just sat on the edge of her bed, her knees pulled tight to her chest, waiting. She expected her mother to burst through the door at any second. She expected to be dragged to the dark storage rooms and punished for eavesdropping. But no one came. He had caught her sneaking, but he hadn't told her mother. Viola couldn't understand why. Why would he keep her secret? He clearly didn't care about her. But no matter how hard she tried to make sense of it, her mind kept looping back to the forbidden name. Diego. She remembered the way Sebastian's posture had snapped. The lethal, murderous energy radiating off his massive frame. Whoever Diego was, the mere mention of his name had almost pushed her stepbrother to kill his own father. By 2:00 AM, the estate was dead silent, but Viola's mind was still racing. The walls of her small bedroom felt like they were closing in. Her chest was tight with anxiety, and her stomach cramped with hunger. She needed air. Slowly, she slipped out of her room. She walked softly down the long, dark corridor toward the east wing. There was a large, open balcony at the end of the hall that overlooked the gardens, usually abandoned at this hour. She stayed close to the wall, her bare feet making absolutely no sound against the marble. As she neared the balcony, the faint, quiet sound of a soft gasp stopped her in her tracks. Viola froze. A woman? The thought panicked her. The gasp sounded breathless, almost like someone was in pain. Her first instinct was to turn around and run straight back to her bedroom, but what if someone was in danger? Swallowing her fear, Viola tiptoed closer, inching toward the stone archway of the balcony. She peeked around the edge, her violet eyes adjusting to the dark. The blood instantly drained from her face. No one was in danger. A beautiful woman in a deep green dress had her back pressed flush against the stone wall. Sebastian's massive frame had her completely pinned. The woman's bare legs were wrapped tightly around his narrow waist, her hands desperately gripping the dark, messy hair at the back of his head. Viola's feet froze to the floor. Sebastian was kissing her with a brutal, consuming dominance. His broad chest pressed heavily against her, his mouth eating at hers before dragging open-mouthed kisses down the long column of her neck. The woman let out another breathless, needy moan, throwing her head back against the stone. And something happened to Viola's body that she didn't understand. Heat. It unfurled low in her stomach, slow and thick, spreading down through her belly and up her throat at the same time. Her skin went tight and hot all over, like a fever breaking. Her own breath turned shallow, quickening to match the woman's gasps, and she hated herself for it. Her thighs pressed together without her permission. There was a strange, fluttering pull between them she had no name for. Her fingers curled against the cold stone of the archway, holding on like it was the only solid thing left in the world. She was a virgin. She had never even been kissed. She had certainly never seen anything this explicit, this deeply intimate, in her entire life. She knew she needed to look away. Every moral her mother had ever beaten into her was screaming at her to run. But her body wouldn't obey. Her body leaned forward, toward the heat, like it wanted to know more. Shame burned through her hotter than anything. What was wrong with her? Suddenly, the beautiful woman's eyes fluttered open. Her gaze drifted over Sebastian's broad shoulder and locked directly onto Viola hiding in the archway. The woman stopped moaning. She pulled back slightly, a look of pure amusement crossing her flushed face. "Well, well," the woman said softly, a smile in her voice. "Who is this little mouse?" Sebastian stopped. He didn't let the woman go, but he slowly turned his head, looking over his broad shoulder. His striking amber eyes pierced through the dark, landing directly on Viola. His hair was a messy ruin. His jaw was tense. Slowly, a dark smirk played on his lips. He let his gaze drag up and down her completely frozen, terrified form. "Enjoying the show, dulzura?" his rough voice murmured in the quiet night. Viola's face went up in flames. "I was just, I didn't, I'm sorry," she stammered, the words tripping over each other. She ripped herself away from the archway and ran for her life. She sprinted blindly down the dark corridors, the sound of her own panicked heartbeat roaring in her ears. She threw herself into her bedroom, slammed the door, and locked it. Viola practically dove onto her bed, grabbing her pillow and pressing it tightly over her face as a silent, humiliated scream tore from her throat. Why didn't I run sooner? her mind shrieked. Why did I just stand there? She hadn't wanted to stare, but her legs had felt glued to the floor. Now he knew she had seen them. She was never going to be able to look him in the eye again. And the worst part, the part she buried deep under the humiliation, was that the heat in her stomach still hadn't gone away. If her mother ever found out she had witnessed something like that, she would actually kill her. Avoiding Sebastian Hierro became Viola's full-time job. On Tuesday, she rounded a corner carrying clean sheets and heard his voice ahead, low and rough, talking to one of the staff. She didn't think. She darted into the nearest door, the cold storage room beneath the stairs, and stood frozen between the shelves of preserves and old boxes, her heart slamming so loudly she was sure it echoed. His footsteps approached. Slowed. Stopped, right outside the door. Viola stopped breathing. Her fingers dug into the sheets. Dust and cold air filled her nose, and she stood there in the dark like a statue, praying to a God she wasn't sure listened to her anymore. One second. Two. Then the footsteps moved on. She stayed in that freezing room for twenty more minutes, until her legs stopped shaking enough to carry her. On Thursday, she took more desperate measures. Sebastian was at the lunch table, sitting at Rafael's right like he already owned it. Viola's chair was directly in his line of sight. She couldn't do it. She couldn't spend an hour under those amber eyes, not after the balcony. So when Vanessa made her usual comment about Viola's sweater, calling it something even beggars would reject, Viola did something she never did. She answered back. "At least beggars earn what they wear," she said quietly. "They don't steal it from their sister's wardrobe." The table went dead silent. Vanessa's face went white, then blotchy red. Her mother's palm cracked against the table. "Go to your room," Octavia hissed, trembling with rage. "No lunch. No dinner. I don't want to see your face for the rest of the day." "Yes, Mother." Viola walked out with her head down, hiding the smallest flicker of relief in her chest. Being punished was familiar. Being hungry was survivable. Sitting across from Sebastian Hierro was neither. But on Sunday evening, avoiding him became impossible. Rafael had ordered the entire family to gather in the main drawing room. When Viola quietly slipped in, keeping her head down, the suffocating tension was already thick in the air. Sebastian was sitting on one of the large leather sofas in the center of the room. He was wearing a dark black shirt, and Viola absently thought black must be his favorite color, since he was always wearing it. The top three buttons were left undone, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbone. His dark hair was messy, a cigarette resting lazily between his lips. He sat like a king, his legs spread, looking completely unbothered. To Viola's complete shock, Rafael actually looked happy. It was a cold, restrained kind of happiness, but he was practically glowing with victory as he stood by the fireplace. "I have gathered you all here to share some excellent news," Rafael announced, his gravelly voice carrying easily across the room. "Finally, my son has agreed to fulfill his duties." Viola glanced up nervously from her corner. "Sebastian is officially shifting his base to this estate," Rafael continued, a triumphant gleam in his dark eyes. "He is taking over his rightful position as the head of the Spanish families. We are throwing a celebration next week to announce it to the cartel." Vanessa gasped, a bright, calculating smile lighting up her flawless face. "Oh, my god! Congratulations, Sebastian!" Octavia immediately chimed in, her tone sweet and polished. "This is wonderful news. The Hierro name will finally be exactly where it belongs." Viola stayed completely silent, pressing her back against the wall, trying to disappear into the wallpaper. He was moving in. Officially. The man who terrified her, the man who fascinated her, the man she had caught doing that on the balcony, was going to be living under the exact same roof. Permanently. She swallowed hard, her chest tightening with panic. Slowly, carefully, she let her gaze drift toward the sofa. His striking amber eyes locked directly onto the quiet, terrified girl hiding in the corner. He took a slow drag of his cigarette, watching her through the smoke. "Does having me here permanently terrify you?" his deep, rough voice suddenly cut across the room, completely ignoring Vanessa's smiling face. The entire room went dead silent. Vanessa's bright smile vanished instantly. Octavia stiffened in absolute shock, her eyes darting between the cartel boss and her unwanted daughter. Even Rafael frowned, utterly confused. Viola stopped breathing. The blood completely drained from her face as every single furious, shocked stare in the room snapped directly to her. Her hands started to shake. She pressed them flat against her thighs to hide it. It didn't work. Sebastian just sat there, waiting. He exhaled a slow stream of smoke, utterly patient, like he had all night. "Well?" he pressed, his voice dropping lower. "Answer me, Viola." Her name in his mouth, in front of everyone. Her hands shook harder. Her mother was staring at her with dawning fury. Vanessa's confusion was already curdling into something uglier. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Nothing existed in her head except the roaring of her own blood. And that was when she saw it. The smile creasing the corner of his mouth. Slow. Unhurried. The smile of a man who knew exactly what he was doing to her, and was enjoying every second of it. Somehow, that smile was the most terrifying thing she had ever seen. Because Viola understood, with a certainty that turned her blood cold, exactly what that smile was promising. Her hiding was over. The storage rooms, the skipped dinners, the punishments she provoked on purpose, none of it would save her anymore. He was moving into this house. Her house. There would be no hallway without his footsteps in it, no dinner table without his eyes across from her, no corner left to disappear into. And worse. He had just done this in front of everyone. Her mother was already staring at her like she had committed a crime. Vanessa looked like she wanted to claw her apart right there. Whatever Sebastian was doing, he wasn't hiding it, and the price for his attention would be collected from her, not from him. He wasn't done with her. He had barely started.
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Ran 8 days Β· stopped 15 Oct