They should've killed me.
Arturo's dogs dragged me to that pit in Sinaloa thinking a bullet to the chest would end me. But Arturo forgot one thing:
I was raised in cages.
And cage dogs don't die easy.
Three months in the jungle with a shattered rib and maggot-filled wounds taught me something pain is just discipline with a crueler accent.
I didn't climb out of that pit a man.
I climbed out a curse.
Damián Rossi found me by accident or so he thought. He wanted information, someone who knew the Vega Cartel's underground bio routes, someone who hated Arturo more than he did. He wanted a pawn.
So I gave him one.
I played the loyal ghost.
Watched his mansion. Memorized its halls. Watched that soft little thing he calls "mi reina" strut around like she belonged.
Raina.
She was a weapon once.
Now she's just a wound wearing perfume.
But Damián?
He's weak around her.
I saw the cameras. The way he looks at her like she's not fire. Like she won't gut him in his sleep the second she learns the full truth.
He's slipping.
And the thing about slipping kings?
They bleed best.
Damián & Raina – The Fire That Doesn't Die
Location: Private chamber beneath the wine vault post-attack lockdown
The cellar door slammed shut behind them, the thick concrete walls muffling the outside chaos.
Raina turned on him instantly.
"You knew he was alive?"
Damián didn't answer.
She stepped forward, shoving him hard in the chest. "You knew. You let Vico walk these halls watch me. You let me sleep while that psychopath was probably jerking off to security footage"
"I didn't let anything," he snapped. His jaw was clenched, eyes blacker than sin. "I used him. Like I use everything."
"You used me."
"No," he said darkly. "I kept you alive."
"Why?! Why am I still here, Damián? Why haven't you locked me up in one of your penthouses like a porcelain trophy? Or sold me back to the highest cartel bidder like everyone else?"
He stepped forward until their noses nearly touched. "Because you're mine. And I protect what's mine even if it kills me."
She laughed bitterly. "That's not love."
He grabbed her wrist, firm but not cruel. "It's not love. It's something worse. Something I can't fucking turn off."
She tore away from him and turned her back.
"I should hate you."
"You already do."
He stepped behind her.
His hand slid around her waist.
"And yet you're still here. In my house. In my bed. In my veins."
Raina gasped as his teeth grazed her neck. She didn't want to lean into him but her body was a traitor. A hostage of muscle memory and lust.
"You think I want you?" she hissed. "I hate you."
"You can hate me with your mouth," he murmured, dragging his hand lower. "But your pussy's already begging."
Her knees weakened. Her eyes burned.
"You're sick," she whispered.
He spun her to face him.
"No. I'm in love."
And just like that, he kissed her not like a man claiming, but like one unraveling.
His lips were desperate, violent, soft only where it hurt most.
She didn't kiss him back.
Not at first.
But when his hand slid between her legs and pressed against the ache only he knew how to soothe, she broke.
Her fingers gripped his shoulders.
Her lips opened to him.
And when he carried her to the cold concrete table, ripping open her robe, laying her bare against the chill
She whispered, "I want the truth."
Damián looked her dead in the eye.
"Then be ready to drown in it."
And he slid into her in one brutal, tender stroke that made her cry out not just from pleasure
But from the terrifying realization that maybe just maybe the devil really had fallen in love with his sacrifice.