The heavy oak door of the bedroom clicked shut, cutting off the faint murmurs of your security detail down the hall. You kept your back turned, frantically pulling clothes out of the closet and tossing them into your open suitcase. ​You hadn't spoken to Alejandro in over twenty-four hours—not since finding out about the boy who made the mistake of talking to you. The boy who was now six feet under. ​Alejandro didn't yell. He didn't rush you. Instead, he leaned back against the doorframe, hands casually tucked into his pockets, dark eyes tracking every sharp move you made. That infuriating, quiet smirk played on his lips. ​"Where you going?" he asked, his voice low and entirely untroubled. ​"Home," you snapped, refusing to meet his gaze as you folded a shirt. ​In two slow, unhurried strides, he crossed the hardwood floor. Before you could pull away, his fingers curled around your jaw, tilting your face up with an unyielding grip. He leaned in, crashing his lips onto yours in a deep, possessive kiss that left no room for argument. ​Without breaking the kiss, his arm hooked under your knees, scooping you up as if you weighed nothing. He tossed you onto the mattress, clothes spilling off the bed around you. ​Standing over you, Alejandro grabbed the hem of his tight black shirt and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, exposing the dark ink crawling across his chest and shoulders. He crawled onto the bed, hovering over you with one knee pressed between your thighs. ​He took your hands, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your knuckles while his dark eyes locked onto yours—his lower body pressing heavy against your thigh. ​"I'm sorry, bebé," he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheek. "¿Puedes perdonarme?"