lips as he plucks another photo. He flicks it into my general direction.
“They are mine!”
“Are they, LeAnna? Or shall I call you, Aria?” His warm, alluring tone puts top-shelf whiskey to shame. In quick strides, he walks with heavy-booted steps over renderings of his face. He stops in front of a canvas painting, which had taken an entire week to create from another photo. The Cuban snatches it off the easel, staring at the creation of himself. My panties percolate at the sound of a low, angered growl building in his throat.
Bold brushstrokes match his swagger. I’d spent more money on gold and mocha pallets to paint him in these past months than I had in my entire undergrad at NYU. There are a thousand renditions of his photos rendered my favorite medium—paint—in this room. So, if he plans to pick them all over, that’ll take forever too.
I don’t mind forever, as long as he doesn’t murder me.
My legs take a wider stance as he takes another drag from his handmade cigarette. Then, without a word, he shoves his fist into the center of the framed canvas. “This your property, Aria, sí?”
“You need to leave—”
“Or what, Aria?” His Latin accent plays my name sensual, slow. I’m painfully aware of how enthralling the devil is. Though his stance is threatening, I remind myself not to . . . fear him. Never mind the natural reaction, desire.
Focusing on another painting, he lights one side of the acrylic paper with his cigarette. Cinders curl into an insignificant flame. Letting the scrap fall, the Cuban crushes the furious little spark with his boot.
“We should tell the authorities how you stalked me. Took photos, painted me without consent, sí!”
“You wouldn’t dare!” I snarl.
He taps 9-1-1 into his cellphone. He poises his finger over the call button, and my jaw clamps shut. “Let’s do this, mami. You say I’m breaking and entering.” His chuckle is a low rumble in his colossal chest. “This room depicts something else altogether.”
Flushed with heat, I level my gaze on the notorious killer. “You’re the stalker. Murd—” My voice breaks. He’s a murderer who collects beautiful women.
As he inhales his cigarette, smoke clouds the magnificent structure of his face. “Aria, you’re gorgeous, deranged. Not a compelling combination. This will end badly for you.”
“You’re a sick fuck, Dominic Ángel Alvarez. You know my name? I know you!” I grit out, finding the voice that abandoned me when ReAnna vanished. “You’re—”
My body is planted against the wall. Hunter green eyes glare down at me. “What were you saying? Repeat yourself, Aria!”
“Kill me,” I threaten. “More paintings of you are here. More photos than you can conceive of finding after disposing of my body.”
“Kill you?” Dominic calls me crazy beautiful, serenading me with an imaginary Spanish guitar. The backs of his knuckles run like soothing leather across my cheek.
When I tremble, he stops murmuring sweet words in my ear. He rubs his index and thumb finger together. “You’re crying, Aria. Look at those big brown eyes, so surprised. You weren’t aware?”
He knots his fingers into my hair, baring my throat and vulnerable pulse to his lips. More Spanish words float from his devious mouth, which he presses along my cheek. I become attuned to my tears. This is how the other women die, so caught up in the rapture of him; they lose themselves.
As I’ve said, I know these things.
I’ve watched, waiting for Dominic to break another pretty soul—because I’d pounce before he consumed her.
His gaze dances over mine, spearing me against the wall. “You begging me to tear you apart, Aria?”
“No,” I whimper.
“You’re crying. I have yet to rip you to shreds. Should I break you, chula?”
My heart shutters to a stop. There was one thing in this world I obsessed over before the sight of Dominic Ángel Alvarez. The disappearance of ReAnna.
For the rest of my life, I’ll obsess over her. Had I not breathed life before her, would the shame claw so deep? It’s too late for questions, too late to save my twin. Now, I’ve vowed to rescue Dominic’s women.
“Mami, should I show you what happens to bad girls, sí?”
“Try me!” I cling to convictions I never knew I had. This second obsession of mine won’t extend as long as the first one. Justice will be served with my death. Aside from the photos and sketches, I have notes, and a virtual journal set on a timer. The media calls him El Santo. El Diablo’s more appropriate. Dominic’s balls are