When Lies Unfold

Chapter 44

“Now,how ’bout you tell the truth about why you were leavin’.”

Sinister. Menacing. Those black eyes bore into mine. “You wanna tell me why you were outside with a packed bag tonight?”

Fuck. I swallow hard. Because tonight, he’s been so…

I almost choose the word kind, which seems downright bizarre and unlikely for a man like him. But it’s true.

He shot his own nephew in retaliation for me. He carried Belleza’s body to the jungle so she could be buried. He helped dig her grave.

And when my legs gave out, he carried me back to the house.

But most of all, he held my hand and let me squeeze it as if willing to take on the brunt of my pain.

Rioting emotions ignite inside me, because I know better than to fall for ruses. I know better than to think anyone would choose me over money and power.

Once a pawn, always a pawn. There’s no getting past it.

But I know very well I have to give a little, so he’ll back off.

Handing over any information to him is not only supremely stupid but dangerous as hell. Yet I know he’ll hound me until I disclose something. And I’ll have to give him just enough…

Stick as close to the truth as you can.

Resignationenvelops me, thick and suffocating. I manage to dredge the words up. “It’s my birthday…of sorts.”

“Explain.” Expression hard, his gaze is positively arctic.

I inhale deeply before forging on. “Today is my birthday….and the anniversary of my death.”

His eyes narrow, but he remains silent, waiting for my explanation.

“I…left behind a prison. Emotionally and physically. And being here”—I gesture with my right hand—“is too similar. It’s a continuous reminder of my past.”

My throat threatens to swell shut, but I force the remaining words out.

“I worked so hard to build this life for myself.” A harsh, mocking laugh spills out. “And I get that it’s nothing like the life you have—I don’t have a ton of money and a huge home to show for it—but it’s mine.” My voice trails off, diminishing. “It’s something that’s all mine.”

Swallowing audibly, I meet his dark gaze. “And you came and ripped it away from me.”

We stand entrenched in silence. His focus remains riveted to my face as though he’s scouring for evidence of lies.

Something indecipherable flashes across his features, his expression speculative. “And those scars along your shoulder are from this”—he hesitates a millisecond—“life you left behind?”

I strive to trap the raw emotion attempting to rise to the surface. No good ever comes of revisiting my past in any way—whether tapping into wounded emotions or memories. “Yes.”

A muscle in his cheek jumps. “The ones on your face, too?”

“Yes.”

“How many are there?”

My brain stutters on his question. “How many…scars?”

That muscle in his cheek jumps again. “Yeah.”

My mouth curls in the start of a humorless smile. “Too many to count.”

He shoves off the vanity with such abruptness that it catches me off guard, and my body goes rigid.

Fury bleeds into his features, his nostrils flaring as if he’s desperate to inhale much-needed oxygen. Fists clenching and unclenching, his eyes bore into mine.

“And since today’s a complicated day for you”—his voice is like sandpaper, rough and raspy—“you got spooked with everythin’ that went on.”

I lift my chin defiantly. “And because I’m tired of being kept here with no say in my life.”

Silence saturates the air for a long moment.

“You don’t have prints on file.” Sharp, assessing eyes scrape over me. “That have somethin’ to do with this life you left behind?”

Don’t look away. Don’t paint yourself with any guilt.“Yes.” Because it’s true.

I’m simply not volunteering more information.

“Where else did he scar you?”

I straighten my shoulders, willing myself to answer him calmly and devoid of emotion. “Down my spine.”

A severe scowl descends over his face. “Where else?”

It’s instinctive to reach with my left hand, and I wince at the movement before correcting myself. Gesturing with my right hand to the left side of my head, toward my scalp, I add, “Here.”

Eyes glittering with anger, the stern angles of his face grow more distinctive. “And your hand.”

My fingers curl tightly, that area on my left hand igniting with fiery pain. “Yes.”

A deep, cavernous furrow forms between his brows. “And your so-called death happened today? On your birthday?”

“Yes.”

“You got away from him.” He says this as a statement instead of a question.

My answer sticks in my throat just the slightest bit. “Yes.”

His expression intensifies, gaze so cutting, it acts like a machete that’s slicing through to the truth. “But he’s still out there.”

My chest depresses heavily with what feels like a two-ton weight because he’s asking too many questions. “Yes.”

“He’s not close by, though.”

“No.”

“But you still fear him.”

I hesitate to answer. Do I still fear him? God, isn’t that just the infamous question… Because I’m not the same person I once was. There are only small shreds of the old me that still remain today.

Staring down at my palms, I study them as if they hold the secrets of the world while thoughts whirl in my mind.

If he were to find me today, he wouldn’t hold the same power over me. Now that I’ve had the glorious taste of freedom—true freedom—I’d never let myself be caged in a tortuous prison ever again.

The poetic nature of my “death” occurring on my birthday didn’t escape my notice. My main regret is that I never properly mourned myself. I never mourned the life that was stolen from me—the opportunities lost and the possibilities that never came to be.

I never properly mourned the youthful, na?ve, and sweet woman I once was.

“Lola.”

My name on his lips has my head snapping up. So lost in my thoughts, I now realize that I didn’t answer him. When our eyes lock, my answer dies on my tongue, because barely concealed rage blazes in his features.

“You really twenty-nine like your ID says?”

Razor-sharp fear claws at my insides. “Close,” I hedge.

Gaze turning flinty, his mouth flattens. “How old are you?”

Fuck. Acid churns a searing path up my throat. “Thirty-two.”

His words may be quiet and measured, but there’s no mistaking the ominous, threatening undertone. “Arias is your real last name?”

“Close enough.”

Jaw turning to granite, tense lines bracket his mouth, but he says nothing for a moment.

I’d chosen Lola because of the meaning behind it. Lola is a nickname for Dolores, a name that carries the message that in order to experience joy in life, one must experience great sorrow.

Dark eyes pierce me so intrusively, as if to sift through the partial truths. “Not gonna tell me your real first name, huh?”

Dammit. How he managed to infer that, I’ll never know.

Placing my hand over my stomach, I will the nausea twined with the phantom ache to subside and shake my head slowly. “It’s safer that way.”

That monster already stole so much from me. I refuse to ever say his name, let alone reveal myself to someone and risk them dragging me back to that prison. To him.

“You sayin’ that for my benefit or yours?”

“Both.”

“That so?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.” Features stamped with a heavy dose of suspicious curiosity, his brows rise a fraction. “You don’t think I could find that out on my own?”

I don’t answer because I’ve revealed far too much already. I have enough sense to know laying down any semblance of a challenge in front of a man like Santiago Hernández is begging for trouble.

For this reason, I briefly allow pain to dampen my voice. “I know you could if you wanted. But I’d prefer to leave my past where it belongs.”

“Behind you,” he finishes for me.

“Yes.”

His unflinching gaze canvasses me from head to toe. It spawns regret for revealing what I did, and it tastes rancid on my tongue.

“Those scars aren’t the only damage you got from ’im.” His eyes drop to the hand I didn’t realize still covered my stomach.

As if I’ve been burned, I drop my hand at my side. But it’s too late. He’s far too perceptive.

With a lift of his chin, he gestures to my stomach, and my heart splinters in my chest. “That why you’re hot and cold with Alma?”

His question acts like a punch in the solar plexus. “What?”

Slowly, he lifts a shoulder. “Sometimes, you’re a hundred percent with her. But other times…” His brief pause sends a fissure of alarm racing through me. “Other times, it’s like you’re tryin’ to hold back from gettin’ too attached to her.”

I shrug, attempting to play it off. “I’m just looking out for her, because I won’t be a permanent fixture here. This is only temporary, and I wouldn’t want her to get too attached to me.”

“Hmm.” That all-too-perceptive stare threatens to burn a path straight through me while his nonchalant tone has the tiny hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. “So, it has nothin’ to do with you not bein’ able to have kids?”

Dangerously taut silence suspends between us like a rubber band stretched to the brink of snapping. The casual way he posed that question has my stomach torquing so violently, bile rises up my throat. How could he know that?

His mouth remains in a harsh, flat line, seemingly calm and composed while my breathing turns shallow, my muscles knotting in fear. Voice muted, he finally says, “That’s what I thought.”

I sputter, trying to regain even ground. “I never said?—”

“Your lack of response said it all.” A vein along his temple stands out. “That fucker hurt you badly enough you can’t have kids?”

I link my fingers in front of me and draw in a deep breath. “Look, I think we’re getting off base here. None of this is important, because?—”

“It wasn’t important to you?”

His harsh question has my defenses rising. “What the hell kind of question is that? Of course, it was important to me.”

He advances a single step, his tall form as imposing as his dark tone. “Yeah? Then I’d expect you to act like it.”

I toss up my hand in exasperation, my voice rising in volume. “What exactly do you want from me?!” I advance on him, anger fueling me while anguish bleeds from each word. “To tell you it’s devastating? Knowing that I’ve always wanted a family of my own and he robbed me of that? Is that what you want to hear?”

“If that’s the fuckin’ truth, then, yeah.”