10

Salvador Silver Mendoza.

I’m on my second tequila, and the night hasn’t even bled open yet.

Tonight was supposed to be about work. I had plans. Things to handle. But with the wreckage life insists on throwing at me, I’ve got no choice but to sit through my mother’s tea party, put on a show, and silence the vultures.

My shirt is the color of midnight—black enough to swallow the light, dark enough to keep my sins hidden. Mother walks beside me into one of our infamous receiving room and complaint rolls off her tongue.

“The guests are already asking about Catalina—left and right, it’s like they think she’s some celebrity or something.”

The receiving room is filled with Diego’s usual company—men with too much liquor in their veins and too little sense in their heads. They are men I tolerate at best. Diego, sprawled in an armchair with a girl on his lap, hand wandering up her thigh, notices our mother and immediately shoves her off. Too late. Mama Doza’s eyes have already seen it.

“Is this a guest?” she stares down at him.

The girl barely manages to stand straight. From the apron on the table, I assume she’s part of the event planning crew. Figures.

“Apologies, ma’am.” she squeaks before bolting out, followed closely by Diego’s friends, who take one look at me and decide they’d rather be anywhere else. Nathan chuckles from his seat, thoroughly amused.

Mama Doza turns to the head housekeeper with a venomous command. “Fire that girl!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And Catalina?”

“I’ll call her now, ma’am.” Eloise is already dialling.

I sink into the couch and place my drink down among the others littering the table.

“Are you sure you’ve got her under control? She won’t start running her mouth?” Mother asks, she is referring to Catalina.

I think about her—about that look in her eyes when I kissed her. Like she was burning from the inside out. How flustered, how flushed, how heated her alabaster skin…for a second, just a second, I could have sworn she hated me less.

“No. She’ll do as I told her to.” I exhale smoke.

Mama Doza doesn’t look convinced, but her attention shifts.

“And you, Diego—did I say my tea party was an excuse to drink, smoke, and seduce the event planners?”

“Mom, I know the girl—”

“Shut your mouth. If your father were looking down at you right now, he’d be disgusted. And Nathan, when is your wife coming home?”

“Soon, Mom.”

Before another word can be exchanged, Eloise speaks.

“Sir, Catalina is out.”

My head turns instantly. Instinct. I don’t know when my instincts started submitting to the call of her name.  I pick up a glass to leave. It doesn’t matter whose it is as I swirl the liquid and sip, expecting nothing until I see her.

And the drink turns to dust in my throat.

The dress isn’t the problem. The problem is how it molds to her like it was stitched onto her skin, black satin whispering over curves it has no business caressing. Midnight curls tumble down her back, the strands so dark they swallow the light, so long they skim her waist.

Her skin is soft like the inside of a secret—it is like whipped butter, yet like gold-dusted alabaster. Then there’s the neckline. The halter cut wraps around her throat like an offering, baring the Giselle slope of her collarbones, teasing at the freckled breasts. Permit me, cleavage.

I let my eyes go lower. The cinch of her waist is smaller than I remember, small enough that my hands could lock around it with room to spare.

So, a thought slides into my mind. It is dark but I invited it.

How it would feel to take her by that waist, pull her ass against me, press into her until she forgets how to speak—

I grip my glass and force the thought down before it takes root. I know one thing, standing here, looking at her. Catalina isn’t just going to turn heads tonight.

She’s going to start a war and look, it doesn’t even stop there.

She hasn’t seen me yet, so when she turns, I catch the diameter view of her full ass, and fuck—

One word? No. I have more than one word.

She is—she is temptation stitched into skin. A slow-burn sin wrapped in silk. Nothing can do her justice, not even my own damn eyes.

And then she faces me.

Her breath suffers, rising, falling—just slightly, just enough for me to catch it. But it isn’t just me who’s gone silent. My brothers have, too. I won’t be the idiot who loses his voice over a woman.

So, I clear my throat.

“Sister-in-law, you look good.” Patrick says.

“She’s not our sister-in-law. She’s collateral, brother.” Maddy walks in, draped in pink fur over a dress that barely counts as clothing.

I narrow my eyes. “I know you’re not wearing that to meet our distinguished guests. It is a tea party, not a club.”

“Salvador—”

“You go back and change.” My tone has never held room for argument. She looks to our mother, hoping for intervention but none comes.

 I make the mistake of looking at Catalina again and for the second time tonight, she fucks with my head. She won’t even meet my gaze, and I don’t know what’s worse—that she won’t, or that I want her to. Jaw tight, I throw back the rest of my whiskey into my mouth yet ignoring the way my pants suddenly feel a little too fitted.

“Wait—what drink was that?” Diego starts, but I silence him with a look.

Then I turn back to her.

“You’re to smile and play the wife, Catalina. The housekeepers briefed you, didn’t they?”

“Yes, sir. We told her.” One of them confirms but I know who I am speaking to.

“I was talking to her.” I mention.

Catalina hesitates. Her beautiful lips parts—red, soft, shaped for things I shouldn’t be thinking about right now.

“Yes.” she finally answers.

“Our guests are waiting. Let’s go.”

Mama Doza extends her arm to me, and as always, I take it. I am her golden son, her pride. But on my right, I extend my arm to Catalina. Of course, she takes it. Her hand is smaller, almost weightless against mine, but she smells like all the warm notes in cashmere and vanilla.

The doors swing open.

Fireworks split the sky at our entrance and like bees to honey, our guests swarm. The movement startles Catalina, and I feel it—the way her grip tightens on my arm for just a second.

A flicker of instinct. A reaction. I feel it. And I like it.

Once Mama Doza releases my arm, I flex my fingers before settling my free hand over our entwined arms.

“This must be her—your wife, Mrs. Mendoza.”

I nod.

“How come we didn’t know about the wedding ceremony? You could have invited us, Salvador.”

“Does this mean you’re officially off the market? We don’t see a ring on your finger, yet your wife is wearing one.”

“Is your name Catalina? What family do you come from? It must be a prestigious one.”

The questions start flowing toward Catalina now.

“I am from—”

She begins, but I don’t let her finish.

“From a simple family. They would prefer to keep their name out of the public eye.”

Murmur follows.

“Then they must be very influential for you to have taken an interest.”

“We’ve heard rumors, Mrs. Doza,” one of the mayor’s wives says. “About your son’s wife being… forced?”

Behind them, their husbands wait for their turn.

 “Those rumors are untrue.” Mother says.

One of the aristocrats leans in over Catalina. “Now that I see her… she looks like the daughter of a king. So beautiful. There’s no way a girl this stunning could be involved in such nonsense.”

I should be pleased. Their perception is shifting exactly as planned but instead, something burns under my skin.

Because Catalina is still on my arm.

Because her scent is thick in my lungs.

Because I am getting hard, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

I exhale through my nose against the heat. Tension and ache is pressing into my slacks. I drag my tongue across my teeth to force control.

Subtly, I untuck my shirt, letting it fall over the front of my pants. Smartly. It’s the only way to keep them from seeing what is happening to me.

“You are so lucky, Evelyn. Your daughter-in-law is beautiful. Would you be willing to bring her to the Women’s Club this weekend? This is my formal invitation.” The president’s wife is the one speaking now. My mother glances at me, hesitating. I know she doesn’t like turning down social events—her reputation wouldn’t allow it.

“Of course.” she says.

“Come, let’s see you.” The president’s wife pulls Catalina from my side. And by doing so, Catalina’s tempered hips brushes against my frontal region. I let out a tight grunt and mother looks at me in confusion.

I straighten my shoulders to mask the tension. I don’t know what the hell is happening—if it’s the whiskey in my system or something worse—but every interaction with Catalina is making my situation more unbearable.

“So beautiful…” the president’s wife muses as she admires her. “You are about to be the most popular young woman in this city—in the whole damn country. Tell me, what do you do? You must be incredibly successful if you captured the heart of Salvador Mendoza.”

“I’m still in college.” Catalina answers politely. “I study Clinical Pharmacy—”

“Wow, such a broad spectrum!” The guests storm into murmurs before she even finishes her sentence.

“Enough questions for my daughter-in-law. We have performers, and we have food to enjoy.” Mother says, then looks at me with orders in her eyes.

Take her out of this spotlight. Now.

“Come on.” I tell Catalina.

Together, we weave through the crowd toward another side of the garden where my brother and most of our relatives are gathered. I don’t miss their stares—the disbelief, the curiosity. None of them truly believe I chose a wife of my own free will.

“Our relatives are whispering.” Nathan mutters beside me.

“Let them fucking whisper,” I snap, digging through my pockets for a cigarette. A drink. Anything to calm the gothic pulse pounding below my belt.

“You need to put on a show.” Nathan murmurs.

“Brother—” Diego starts to say something, but I don’t care to hear.

Before Catalina can take a seat, I pull her into my chest.

“Stay still. Move slowly, like a dance.” I tell her.

Beads of sweat start to grow at my forehead. I know she can see it.

“Are you… are you okay? Your body is—hot.” She stammers.

I swallow.

What the fuck did I take?

I cannot take it anymore! With one hand, I pull her out of the garden until we’re inside the house, away from the eyes, into a space that holds only us.

I bend over a table and grip it’s edge.

“Are you—should I call someone?” Catalina asks softly.

“No. You can leave.” I rasp.

I think she has gone until I feel her hand on my back.

“I’m a pharmacist. At least let me see what’s wrong. Are you—are you injured?”

My eyes are squeezed shut. I can feel her unhooking the buttons of my shirt and then, she gaps. I don’t have to open my eyes to know what she’s seen.

The rigid outline, the dangerous stoke of my cock—sharp as a device.

Like a loaded weapon.