When Lies Unfold

Chapter 22

Even though mynew bed is the most comfortable thing I’ve ever laid in, it took me ages to fall asleep. Past survival instinct had me on alert.

Sleeping with awareness is crucial to survival. I’d learned that long ago, because at one point in my life, I never knew when he would attack.

And a person is far more vulnerable when caught in the throes of sleep.

Of course, I’ve become a bit lax in my vigilance over the past two years. The sense of safety this village provided me with has lulled me into it.

Now, I’m paying for my decreased awareness and for my lack of restful sleep since Santiago Hernández entered my life.

I’m exhausted and more sluggish than usual, which is why I don’t immediately register the presence of others in the bedroom.

A gag is shoved in my mouth and quickly taped in place before a rough burlap hood is slung over my head. I struggle, but multiple sets of hands firmly restrain my wrists and ankles before they’re all cinched by zip ties. Then I’m carried out like a fucking animal led to slaughter.

Pure, unadulterated fear threatens to suffocate me, and I do everything I can to fight their hold, but it’s to no avail.

When I’m roughly deposited onto a cold metal chair, I immediately launch myself off it and attempt to crawl away.

Using my bound wrists in front of me for support while sliding my knees along the tile floor isn’t an easy feat, but I’m determined. My bound ankles don’t offer enough slack for movement, though, and someone promptly fists my hair and gives it a painful yank.

“Stay in the goddamn chair.” The commanding grunt comes from behind me. A burning sensation flares in my scalp from where his pull on my hair increases as I’m dragged backward.

He lets out a dark sound of satisfaction once I’m shoved back in the metal chair, the cool surface chilling my bare legs. Someone uses a thick restraint around my waist, securing me to the chair’s back, and my fear escalates even further.

Panic threatens to drag me under when I fail at drawing in much-needed oxygen to my lungs. It’s in this moment of terror that a familiar little voice screams from the back of my mind.

I’ll survive this. I know I can.

I’ve done this before, and I can do it again.

Just focus on surviving.

When the sharp edge of a knife presses against the side of my neck beneath the rough burlap hood, I repeat the mantra and force my heartbeat to slow.

It takes monumental effort to remain stock-still when they lift the hood slightly to rip off the gag. I suck in a breath my lungs desperately need before the hood drops back into place, keeping my vision obscured.

“What’s your name?” The slightest pause lingers. “Your real name.”

“Lola Arias is my real name.”

The knife digs into my skin, but I don’t react. My mind has already gone to that special, dark place it used to know all too well. Where I block out the pain and operate almost robotically.

I’m not lying about my name. It is my real name…nowadays.

“Are you a doctor?”

“No.” My response lacks any hesitation, and I know it conveys truthfulness.

“A nurse?”

“No.”

A grunt of irritation follows my answer. When the knife’s pressure disappears, I brace for whatever’s coming next.

I know this game all too well.

“What’s your real name?” The man hurls the question at me once again.

I answer just as I had a moment before. “Lola Arias.”

“How’d you know what to do for Andro’s wound?” This particular question comes from a male voice I recognize.

Santiago.

I shake my head to dislodge the hood from where it clings against my face so I can breathe more easily. “I don’t?—”

“Better give a real fuckin’ answer.” The warning in Santiago’s voice is bone chilling. “How’d you know what to do for Andro?”

The hood is yanked off my head, and my eyes are instantly ambushed by a near-blinding beam of bright light directed at my face. I squint, unable to focus, but decipher a dark, shadowed figure in front of me.

At my failure to provide a rapid response, a familiar hand grips my throat. Santiago’s hold is firm but not tight enough to restrict my airway.

“How’d. You. Know.” He doesn’t phrase this as a question, but as a demand.

“I trained on survival in the jungle.” The warmth of his hand isn’t enough to stave off the icy chill brought on by his tone. “We were trained on everything that could possibly happen.”

“And you learned from some jungle survivalist exactly how to stitch serious knife wounds?” Doubt saturates his words.

“Accidents happen. Our goal was to always be prepared.”

“Hmm.” He’s not convinced. That single syllable communicates this.

“I wanted to be a vet.” I squint against the light assaulting my retinas while attempting to focus on Santiago. “But I didn’t have the money to go to school, so I mentored at the vet clinic and took the survival course.”

“Yeah?” Disbelief coats his response. “What’s the number one animal that attacks household pets here?”

“Pizotes?1.”

“How many dogs did you save from pizote attacks?”

“Barely a handful. Most of them died from their injuries because they were so extensive.”

He may think that was a trick question, but it’s not. Everyone knows how vicious pizotes can be. They’re notorious for leaving household pets on the brink of death.

“You acted like you knew what you were doin’ with my nephew.” He loosens his grip on my throat, his thumb sweeping along my skin. “You ever remove bullets from people?”

“Twice.” My voice is raspy. “Only twice.”

Because the other times sure as hell weren’t on people. To me, they weren’t even remotely human.

I would’ve let them die if I’d been given the choice.

When he releases his hold on me, no one speaks while taut silence suspends between us.

“And those two times?” Santiago’s voice is low and lethally sharp. “Gonna tell me they were huntin’ and somethin’ went wrong?”

“No.” My answer is curt. Because I’m not falling for his shit. We all know that hunting is illegal in Costa Rica. He’s treating me like an imbecile. “One was an accident at a private shooting range. The other was an attempted robbery at gunpoint.”

The thing about reinventing yourself is adapting the truth. Staying as close to it as possible to avoid tripping yourself up in lies and avoid anyone else doing it to you.

The bad part is, certain twists start to feel like they’re no longer a modification but actual unadulterated truths.

Even worse is when you start believing your own lies.

“Yeah?” Interest laces Santiago’s voice. “They both survive?”

“Yes.”

He hums under his breath. “Good to hear.” He leans in closer, his hot breath dusting along my ear. “By the way…” I despise the shiver that dances over my skin, my body betraying me with its reaction to his proximity. “Doc said you did a stand-up job on Andro. You impressed him.”

Unease radiates through me because I don’t give a shit about impressing anyone here. They can rot in hell for all I care. Especially a doctor who willingly caters to them.

“Doc says he wants to meet you.” Santiago’s taunt has goose bumps rising on my skin.

Jaw tight, I grit out the words. “I’m pretty busy these days, with cleaning and being a part-time nanny. But thanks for the offer.”

A dark, nefarious-sounding chuckle skates over my skin. He moves, cutting into the bright light searing my vision. I blink a few times to focus on his face looming before me.

His penetrating, dark stare holds me captive while his strong fingers grip my chin. “Ah, Miss Arias. You forget your place. You don’t get a say.”

Fuck.

Giving me the impression he’s privy to my inner thoughts, he lets out another chuckle.

An instant later, the lights turn off, and we’re left in the pitch-black room. By the time my eyes adjust, Santiago is filing out of the room, leaving me alone, still restrained.

Hovering at the threshold, he doesn’t bother to turn around. “Sleep well, Miss Arias.”

The door slams shut, and the click of the lock serves as the final sound that greets my ears until morning.