Chapter Forty-Four #3
I always knew he would be the most stunning creature ever, and my greatest undoing.
He glances down at the knife in his hands. Then he peeks up at me.
“I’m… sorry, Angel,” I whisper. “I’m sorry that I don’t know what I’m doing with you, and I’m sorry that I ruined your attempts at revenge.
You were right, you deserve a fair fight, baby.
I just…” My words jumble up and I rake my fingers through my hair.
“I wanted to keep you. I want you here, safe and protected. I wanted to keep you separate from all of the bullshit happening outside of this cage…”
“Don’t act like that’s why you put me in here,” he breathes, not as viciously as I’m sure he wants to be.
“Well, no… Not initially,” I murmur. “The plan was just to keep you…”
“Keep me,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “You keep saying that, and it’s fucking crazy. I’m not a pet, Diablo. I’m not another one of these birds you have flying around in here because they’re pretty to look at…”
“If you still think—” I step in closer, gaze narrowing, “—that I’m holding you here as some kind of decoration, little bird, you clearly aren’t paying attention.
I am a monster, Angel. We know this. I’ve never professed to be the hero of the story.
So when I say I want to keep you, understand that it is most definitely selfish, rapacious, and possessive in nature.
But I can be all of those things and still care about you. Still have… feelings for you.”
I pause to take a breath while he gawks at me, those significant words hanging in the air. “Your wings are not broken, Angelito. That’s why you’re in here… Because you could so easily fly far away from me, but I’m… desperate to stop you from doing that.”
He’s staring up at me for entirely too long. It’s no more than a few seconds, but it feels like an eternity when I have no idea what’s going through his mind.
While I’m preparing myself for a sharp slice. From the blade in his hand, or… otherwise.
“I’m… not sure what you… want me to say,” he finally mumbles, emerald lustor gleaming perplexity at my face. “What do you want from me, Manuel?”
The softness of his voice, using my real name, cuts me down so much more thoroughly than even the sharpest of knives could.
He doesn’t want to be trapped… He doesn’t deserve to be.
And so I know the best gift I could give him is this key in my pocket… But the truth is, I’d rather him stab me than leave.
It’s so goddamn staggering.
“Would you stay…?” I ask him, so softly it’s barely audible. “If I set you free, little bird?”
He swallows visibly. “You’ll never know if you don’t unlock that door…”
I can’t do that. Because I’m afraid…
Fucking ridículo, but I’m more terrified of losing him than anything else…
“I just want you… and I don’t understand it,” I confess the truth, because hiding it is doing nothing for me.
“I thought I would know exactly what to do with you when I got you, but none of it is happening the way I expected. You’re…
confusing, pajarito. Everything about you brings me to my fucking knees, and the craziest part is that I don’t even mind being there. ”
I grab his hand, using it to point the knife at my heart. It’s not open, but still, I’m pressing it up to my chest while he gapes at me like I’m insane.
I’m sure I am. It’s not even a question anymore.
“If you still want to kill me, I respect that,” I tell him. “But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t…”
A tiny, humorous breath puffs from his lips, though he’s still just staring at me.
“I’m serious,” I murmur quietly. “I don’t want… to lose you. To… leave you.”
“Jesus Christ…” he whispers.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, mainly because I’ve never said it to anyone but him, and I like it. The way it feels, and the way it sounds when I say those two words to him, and mean it. “For being awful.”
“You are,” he grumbles. “The fucking worst.”
I nod. “I know.”
“But you’re not really sorry for that…” he rasps. “Are you?”
I actually have to think about it for a second. “I’m sorry for how it hurts you. But I know part of you likes it…”
He frowns.
“Tell me I’m wrong.” I can’t help but smirk.
“Fuck you, Diablo,” he breathes, chin wobbling in grievance. “Here…” He hands me the knife back. “Just… stop.”
I’m momentarily panicked that he’s not accepting my peace offering.
“No.” I give it back, but he won’t take it. He stumbles away, and I follow him. “I’m serious, Angel. Take the fucking knife. I want you to have it back—”
“Why??” He barks. “You don’t want me to kill you, you just said it yourself. And you know…” He pauses to gulp. “That I’m not going to…”
“Why not?” My head tilts.
He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Fuck off. You’re just playing me… You’re still trying to prove how weak I am. Well, guess what, Diablo?? Message received! I am weak. Because no matter how badly I want to, I can’t fucking kill you!”
I’m fluttering, clutching the knife with white knuckles, forehead lined in duress. Of course, I don’t want him to kill me, but I don’t want him to feel bad about it either.
I have no idea what the hell I’m doing anymore…
“Well, okay… Maybe a quick stab then?” I unbutton my shirt. “Just a tiny poke to the gut…? It’s okay, I can handle it. Prometo.”
“What the actual fuck?!” He snorts a befuddled sound. “Usted demente, I swear to God!”
“Baby, please,” I chuckle sadly. “I don’t want you to be upset. What do I have to do?”
Handing out the knife, move closer still. But he won’t take it.
“In what world is that a fair fight??” He growls.
“Fine, then just take it, and you can wait until my back is turned or something.”
He stops this time, as if maybe he’s considering it. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about that.
“You realize you’re asking me to stab you because I wouldn’t watch a movie with you… right?” His expression is one of morbid fascination.
I think I like it a lot.
“Not just that,” I pout.
Angel laughs, and it warms my insides like a shot of the hard stuff.
He bites his lip, taking a hesitant step closer. “What else?”
Easing up to meet him in the middle, I say, “I want more dates, pajarito.”
He slips his fingers inside my open shirt, running them over my tattoo. “Si?” His gaze lifts to mine, and I nod. He’s quiet for a moment before he whispers, “Me too.”
Taking his chin, I hold his eyes for a few heavy seconds, absorbing the emotions in them. Good and bad. Then I drop my mouth onto his in a lush kiss, though he breaks it before I’m ready.
“After our dates…” He speaks in a breathy rumble over my lips, “do I have to come back into the cage?”
Jaw straining, I’m fighting to loosen the reins of my control just a little. Because I know I want to, but it’s just… difficult.
There’s so much other stuff tied to it.
“Yes…” I mutter. He rolls his eyes like the petulant little thing he is, until I add, “For now.”
His fingers graze down the curve of my pectoral, tracing the sinews in my torso. “I think I can work with that…”
I hand him the knife one last time, but he shakes his head.
“If you trust me…” He peeks up at me. “Then I don’t think I need it right now.”
Fuck me, what is this kid doing to me?
Pressing another soft kiss on his lips, I give it only a few leisurely seconds of sweet suction and playful tongue-flicks before I’m pulling back with a hum.
Holding up the knife, I look it over in my hand. “Do you know the origin of this knife? Where it really came from?”
His lashes flit past the hooded lust. “I heard my grandfather made it and gave it to my father in hopes that it would be passed down by each Alvarez man to his son when he became Lieutenant.”
I have to fight rolling my eyes. “Of course you did.” His brows knit, and I exhale. “It is true, your grandfather passed this knife down to your father. But he sure as shit didn’t make it himself.”
“He didn’t…?” He looks uneasy at the prospect of hearing something unfavorable about his family.
“No,” I grunt. “He stole it. From a Peruvian sex worker.”
Angel’s eyes turn to saucers.
Flipping the knife over to reveal the symbol—the bird wrapped in barbed wire, carved into the ivory handle beside his initials, I take a breath.
I have never told this to another living soul.
“Her name was Isabella Blanco. She was my great-aunt.”
“What…” Angel’s soft voice gusts.
“She, born Ignacio Blanco, was skilled in forging steel. She used to make all kinds of things, mostly blades and swords. But it didn’t exactly pay the bills, so she would moonlight as a sex worker to make ends meet.
Her street name was Ivory, because she was known for the jewelry she used to wear, which she’d made from real ivory. ”
Angel looks completely entranced. “Where did she get it?”
“A customer she was fond of didn’t have cash, so she took it in trade.” I grin. “Anyway, she made this, and carved this symbol into it… El pájaro dentro de alambre de espino.”
“Wow…” He gleams, taking the knife to examine it more closely. “What happened to her?”
“Your grandfather, Arturo Senior… He killed her.”
Angel gasps.
“He stole the knife, said he’d found it when he was in Peru for business. Your father started the rumor that his father made it. Even carved his initials in it to corroborate his lore,” I scoff, jaw clenched. “Obvious bullshit, but no one dared question him.”
“Why would my abuelo kill Aunt Ivory?” He asks, expression painted with empathy.
I have to smile at how goddamn sweet he is. Azucar puro, seriously.
“Well, no one knows for sure.” I brush my thumb over his pout. “But I think he killed her to keep her quiet.” His blinking goes rapid, despite the melancholy in his eyes. “They were having an affair, and your grandfather couldn’t have anyone finding out, since he was married… and she was trans.”
The hatred in my voice is as sharp as the blade he’s holding.
Angel appears devastated. “But you don’t know… for sure?”
“I know that they were sleeping together during his trips to Peru, and I know she was conveniently dead after his last visit. And then there’s the knife…”