When Lies Unfold

Chapter 7

Saturday

Early morning soundsfrom the wood rails, nearby roosters, and howler monkeys rouse me from my sleep. I blink my eyes open, realizing one of my sharpest knives remains in my fisted hand.

It’s not the first time I’ve gone to bed with a weapon in my grip or under my pillow. It seems like a lifetime ago when that felt like a necessity.

When I peer around my bedroom and notice nothing out of place, my muscles lose a fraction of their tension.

“Okay.” My muted voice seems to echo within the tight confines of the bedroom. “It’ll be okay. I can do this.”

I sit up, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and shuffle into the bathroom. Placing the knife on the vanity, I twist my hair up with a clip.

As I stare at my reflection in the mirror, a flash of recognition hits me. It’s my eyes that remind me most of her…although hers had a multitude of crinkles at the corners from smiles and laughter.

“Abuelita?1.” I breathe her name on the barest breath of a whisper. On its heels comes a deep lance of pain ricocheting through my chest.

There’s a reason I bury my memories deep in the recesses of my mind. It isn’t necessarily that I don’t want to remember—it’s simply far too painful when I do.

My fingers drift up to trace a path along my brows before sweeping beneath my brown eyes, identical to my abuelita’s.

My mother often complained that I was a carbon copy of my grandmother when she was younger. All my mother wanted was a mini version of herself in both looks and personality, so I was an instant disappointment.

I was everything she never wanted: a daughter who barely resembled her and wanted nothing to do with designer dresses and expensive shoes. I’d always felt more at ease being barefoot in nature, getting muddy, and learning about everything I touched.

As for my father, he’d wanted a son. So, my existence was an utter disappointment for him as well.

It’s why they happily handed me over to my abuelita so often. Because they didn’t understand nor want me, but my grandmother did.

During those special times I spent at my grandmother’s, tucked away in her home that sat along the edge of the rainforest, she’d share stories from her childhood on how she’d been raised to live off the land. How she’d been just as curious and adventurous as I was.

We spent countless hours in her garden while she taught me to cultivate everything she deemed “necessary for life.” My parents thought I was playing in the dirt, but I’d been learning how to heal the body by using what nature provides.

My grandmother had always gone against the grain and been headstrong, which were qualities my father barely tolerated.

Those times spent with her were a reprieve from the constant criticism I endured when I was with my parents. The same parents who’d turned a blind eye to my wants. My goals. My happiness.

My safety.

At the dark, distressing turn of my thoughts, I duck my head over the sink and scrub my face with soap and cool water.

Imagining the tainted memories joining the soapy water down the drain doesn’t do me much good, especially when my fingertips glance over the small scars decorating my skin. With a sigh, I dry my face and brush my teeth, forcing my mind to go blank.

Once I reclaim the knife off the sink, I grab my cell phone off my nightstand and pad into the kitchen. Something instinctive has me surveying it and the living room, but nothing appears out of place.

I set my phone on the counter with the knife beside it but still within reach. I spoon ground coffee into the small cloth filter hanging from the polished wood frame and place my favorite mug beneath the simple, typical Costa Rican coffee maker.

Since we’re not currently without electricity—which is a gift in itself—I cheat and plug in my electric kettle to heat the water faster. Once it’s ready, I pour the steaming water over the coffee grounds and wait for it to create my morning pick-me-up.

This electric kettle was a splurge—a secondhand gift to myself once I’d hit my two-year mark here—a milestone, of sorts. It was when I’d not only proven I could survive on my own, but I’d also formed a friendship with Sabrina.

While I wait for my coffee to brew, I pull up my music playlist on my phone, deciding on Shakira’s “Te Felicito.” The song playing softly in the background uplifts me from the ominous sensation that’s hovered over me since last night.

Once my cup is filled with the dark brew, I cradle my mug and inhale the rich aroma. A smile forms on my lips because it’s Saturday and I can move past all the shit that went on last night. That bastard will see that I pose no threat to him whatsoever.

I lean back against the counter, and my eyes fall closed as I take my first sip, the bold, hot liquid hitting my tongue.

“Mornin’, Miss Arias.” The deep, masculine voice that greets me causes my eyes to flare open in shock. I almost aspirate my coffee, the other half of it spraying out with my startled cough.

My heart thunders in my chest at the man casually leaning against my loveseat. Both of his hands are braced along the back of it, those long fingers decorated with black ink.

Today, he’s in a white button-down shirt that contrasts not only with his tattooed flesh, but his dark skin as well. With the fabric cuffed at his elbows, it puts those corded, inked forearms on display.

I barely register the coffee’s hot dampness soaking into my tank top as my other hand instinctively reaches for the knife I left on the counter.

His focus flickers to it. “Wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Good thing you’re not me, then.”

A faint smirk tugs at his mouth. “Think you’d do damage before I draw my gun?”

I offer a careless shrug. “I’d rather go down with a fight.”

His mouth flattens. “I’m not here to kill you.” A pause lingers before he tacks on, “Not today.”

Fuck this smug asshole. “Then why are you here?” I grab a dish towel to blot the coffee from my tank top. “It’s five in the morning. And I’m not exactly dressed for company.”

He inspects me, starting with my messy hair twisted atop my head, then moving over my now-damp cotton tank that clings to me before lingering on my braless breasts.

I hate that my nipples pebble beneath the fabric. They’re either screwed up from being assaulted with hot coffee or starved for a man’s attention. It’s a toss-up.

His inspection continues, sweeping over my cotton shorts and down my bare legs. “I disagree.” The gleam in his eyes sends my unease to an all-time high. “Looks like you’re dressed for a certain kind of company.”

My response is quick and succinct. “Not yours.”

Expression darkening, he straightens, and every muscle in my body goes rigid in response. Even from a few feet away, he’s tall and far too imposing.

I toss the dish towel on the counter while my other hand tightens around my coffee mug. “Why are you here?”

He advances slowly, and the fingers on my free hand twitch, urging me to grab the knife.

Awareness enters his gaze, mingling with malicious glee. “Go ahead. Grab it.” He draws to a stop in front of me, and I know he gets off on making me peer up at him. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Unbridled hatred coats every inch of my words. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

In the blink of an eye, he has me by the throat, his tattooed fingers encircling it in a grip tight enough to make me gasp.

The mug falls from my hand, shattering on the tile floor and splattering coffee at our feet while my right hand claws at his at my throat.

Pinning me against the counter, his heavy, muscled form acts like a two-ton weight, his broad torso against mine as his pelvis and thighs trap me in place.

I scramble with my left hand to grab the knife off the counter. I no sooner raise the blade when his other hand darts out and restrains me. The punishing pressure he applies to my hand has me gritting my teeth so hard they begin to ache, but I refuse to relinquish the weapon.

“You don’t know who you’re goin’ up against.” He grinds out each syllable while his harsh features illuminate with the promise of painful retribution. “Gonna lose. Might as well give in now.”

When he applies more pressure to my left hand, searing hot pain renders me near breathless and my grip weakens.

My glare is cutting. “Never.”

“No?” That cocky tone pisses me off, and I buck my hips, attempting to knock him off-balance to free myself from his body’s confinement, but it’s no use.

When he adds more pressure to my hand, my damaged flesh can’t sustain the pain and my eyes water. The knife slides from my fingers, dropping to the kitchen counter. A loud, agonized protest rushes past my lips, and I despise that sound of weakness.

He goes eerily still while an uncanny hint of awareness edges into his features. As if gauging my reaction, he presses the pad of his thumb into the scarred area of my palm. I suck in a sharp breath before mashing my mouth shut.

He releases the pressure on my hand but still maintains his hold. “What happened.” He doesn’t pose this as a question so much as a demand.

Forging past the discomfort, I push each word out from between clenched teeth, still struggling to break free from the restrictive weight of his body. “Fuck. You.”

One edge of his mouth tips up while his gaze turns glacial. “Mm, that wouldn’t be such a hardship.”

He presses his hips against me, yet I somehow know this man isn’t the type to force himself on a woman.

It doesn’t make this situation any more bearable, however.

“Let me go!”

One dark brow lifts. “Not gonna do that when you’re misbehavin’ like you are.” A smirk takes hold of his lips. “Think I might like you better like this.”

“I wish you had been the one who died last night!”

He gives an exaggerated frown. “You don’t mean that. You’re just sayin’ that ’cause I made you spill your mornin’ coffee.”

I attempt to free my left hand from his hold, but he doesn’t relinquish it. When I take a swing at his face with my other, he swiftly jerks me around with far too much ease and presses my front against the counter.

With his fingers still encircling the front of my throat and his unrelenting hold on my left hand, he’s now pinned my other arm between my body and the counter, the hard edge digging into my flesh.

“You’re gonna learn not to fuck with me.” He rasps this against the shell of my ear. “I’m not like your cop boyfriend, Nando.”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” I lash out.

“Mm. But he wants to be.” His rumbled words skitter over me. “Think he’d be mad if he knew I had you like this?”

It’s as though he abruptly switches gears because his voice drops an octave lower, possessing a lethal edge. “You’re gonna learn to answer me, one way or another?—”

His words cut off, and I freeze with trepidation, wondering what caused it. When his warm breath dances across the back of my neck, every fiber of my being goes wrought with tension.

“You got a thing for scarlet macaws, too, huh?”

I silently beg him not to inspect my tattoo too closely nor examine it in depth. That will only lead to more questions I’m unwilling to answer. This is a perfect example of why I normally keep my hair covering the nape of my neck.

Of course, I hadn’t planned on a visit from this asshole first thing in the morning when I’d messily tied it up.

With his hand still wrapped around my throat, his thumb languidly sweeps along the outermost edges of the macaw’s spread wings.

I’m rendered frozen in place. The tiny hairs along my arms stand on end while I silently plead for him not to trace his fingers over its entirety, that he doesn’t study the inked artwork too closely.

“Beautiful.” His single word emerges as a husky whisper and a foreign sensation spills over me, electrifying every nerve ending.

A heavy beat of silence hangs between us before I muster the ability to speak. “Why are you here?” Noxious anxiety makes my whispered words sound ragged. “I didn’t say a word to anyone.”

His thumb pauses in mid-stroke of the tattooed wing. “I’m here ’cause, like I told you, I don’t like loose ends.” I part my lips to protest when his barely audible words curl around me. “Had to come and check on my liability.”

His hand flexes around my throat. “Gonna give you another chance to answer my questions. You play nice and I’ll let you live. You don’t and, well…you know what happens. Understood?”

I swallow hard, his palm restricting much of the movement. “Understood.”

“What happened to your hand?”

“An accident.”

His fingers flex around my throat, his voice deepening with warning. “Be specific.”

“When I was…younger…” I strive for composure, drawing in a much-needed breath before continuing. “I was climbing a fence topped with barbed wire. It was raining, and I lost my balance. My hand slipped and slammed down on one of the spikes.”

His grip eases on my left hand to trace his fingers over the scarred tissue disguised by my tattoos. “Had to have hurt pretty damn bad from the feel of it.”

He’s not wrong. It’d been some of the most debilitating pain I’ve ever endured.

“How’d you get the scars on your face?”

“An accident when I was younger.”

He makes a noise that indicates his disapproval. “An accident with what?”

“I tripped carrying something and fell into some of the glass pieces.”

A pause precedes his, “Huh.” Predictably, his next question is, “Why the butterfly tattoos?”

I knew he’d pry again. The bastard wants to know every fine detail.

“Because they’re pretty.”

Palpable irritation emanates off him in thick waves. “I want the real answer.”

The real answer’s none of your goddamn business.I swallow the urge to voice that. “Because they represent a transformation—and a freedom.” My response is muted, my words clipped.

I’d been desperate to conceal the visible pain of my past with something symbolic. An image representing the promise I’d made to myself. To give the damaged flesh a second chance.

Just like the one I’d been given.

“Freedom, huh?” He grunts. “That important to you?”

“Yes.”

Silence greets my simplistic answer. When he brings his mouth close to my ear, his lips and breath dust along the shell of it with each word. “Better answer me right away next time, Miss Arias. Or you’re not gonna like the outcome.”

My breathing hitches as a shiver rolls through me, but it’s not entirely out of terror from his threat. The heat of his breath dusting along my skin and the intimate quality of his voice curl around me, waking up senses I’ve long since ignored when it comes to men.

What the hell is wrong with me? Mentally shrugging off my insane reaction to this man, I focus on calming my breathing, because I need him to leave me the hell alone. To stop probing about things that don’t pertain to him.

As abruptly as he initially grabbed me, he releases me and steps back with the knife in hand while pieces of my ceramic mug crunch beneath his shoes.

I spin around in time to witness him toss the knife into the sink. It clatters noisily before settling in place.

My gaze clashes with his as he regards me like a puzzle he’s trying his damnedest to solve. But that’s not what I want or need.

Far from it.

Leave me the fuck alone,I silently plead. But he doesn’t make any indication he’s preparing to leave. His phone does ping, however.

His sinister focus remains locked on me as he withdraws his cell from his pocket. Relief pummels me once he averts his attention to whatever notification he’s received.

My relief is short-lived, however. When his attention returns to me, his expression resembles a turbulent storm as he pockets his phone.

“You expectin’ company?”

What the hell is he talking about?I gesture to my braless state, including my coffee-stained tank top and messy, unkempt look. I don’t bother suppressing my exasperated sarcasm, my temper officially frayed. “Does it look like I’m expecting company?”

The universe must hate me, because at that moment, someone knocks on my door. My head whips in the direction of the sound while confusion riddles me. Who the hell would show up here this early in the morning?

Strong fingers take my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. Features like granite, he scrutinizes me, his features etched with suspicion, before he drops his hand at his side. “You should answer that.”

Regarding him warily, I huff out a frustrated breath, about to take a step when he suddenly scoops me up in his arms. Caught off guard, I grasp awkwardly at his broad shoulders. “What the hell are you doing?”

Wordlessly, he carries me to the door and sets me on my feet. Then he stands off to the side, out of direct sight of my visitor.

“Don’t need you hurtin’ yourself by steppin’ on pieces of your cup.” He adjusts his expensive-looking watch before raising an expectant brow when a second, more persistent knock sounds. “Better answer your door, Miss Arias.”

I blink away the confusion this man assails me with. One minute, he’s threatening me, and the next, he’s carrying me so I don’t step on broken ceramic pieces?

Wariness blankets my movements as I pull open the door. Using it as a barrier to hide most of my body from sight, I stop short in surprise. “Nando.”

“Good morning.” With one hand braced against the doorframe, the officer’s usual megawatt smile has been replaced by a more censured one. It’s not hard to know why.

It’s because of the intimidating-looking SUV he’s parked his Policia truck beside. Without an ounce of chrome, the all-black vehicle with dark-tinted windows acts like a beacon of nefarious intent.

“Am I”—Nando hesitates; his inquisitive light-brown gaze briefly darts past me—“interrupting?” His features are awash with a mix of concern and suspicion.

With a heart of gold, Nando’s been nothing but a gentleman toward me. Although I’ve politely sidestepped his interest, he hasn’t given up.

Instead of being annoyingly persistent when he hints at us potentially meeting up for coffee or asks if I feel like joining him on a hike to the nearby waterfalls, he has an endearing way about him.

Nando has so much to offer some lucky woman, and as much as I wish I could fall in love with someone like him, I can’t. It would be the pinnacle of unfairness to him.

Nando Herrajes is a good man. He’s kind, honest, and helpful. He doesn’t take bribes like many law enforcement do. He’s everything the man currently standing out of view isn’t.

Attempting to play it cool, I force a casual tone. “I’m not really fit for company. I just woke up.”

An uncharacteristically ruthless quality crosses his features as he tips his head toward Santiago’s SUV. The one whose engine is still running, with Gordo likely behind the wheel. “If you’re not fit for company, then whose vehicle is that?”

I sense the movement, the distinctive prickle of awareness, before Nando’s eyes lock on the man who’s stepped into view behind me.

“She’s not fit for company…except for mine.”