Chapter 4 – Noa #2
The man spasms in his bindings, jerking against the ropes that bite into his wrists.
A gurgled sob bursts from his throat, thick with snot and desperation.
He shakes his head violently, or tries to, the movement stunted by the punishing grip on his face.
“Por favor,” he wheezes. “I didn’t—I swear, I didn’t mean—”
Matías watches him impassively. The way a scientist might observe a specimen pinned to a glass slide.
Then he lets go.
The man slumps forward, choking on his own breath, tremors wracking his frame as if the reprieve is some kind of gift. He doesn’t dare lift his head, doesn’t dare look at the man who holds his life between his fingers.
Matías wipes his bloody hands on a pristine white cloth, the motion unhurried, methodical. As if he were wiping away nothing more than spilled ink. “No,” he decrees. “That’s too merciful.”
“Bring me the knife.” He doesn’t glance at Arturo, nor at Gabo.
A ripple of unease slithers down my spine, coiling in my gut.
I force my body to stay still, to betray nothing.
But my hands curl at my sides, my fingers pressing into my palms. It has no right to faze me, this evidence of precisely what Matías is.
He has a reputation that precedes him. What men like him do when trust is betrayed, when power is questioned, is information I was raised knowing.
But knowing is different from seeing.
Here is what I know: He wants me to see this. That is why he doesn’t damn me from the room, despite being totally aware of my presence here. This is a test. A demonstration. A warning.
I take a step forward, the chill in my veins stark against the oppressive heat clinging to the walls.
If Matías senses it, his body does not give it away.
I don’t see a single muscle tic in response to my proximity, as involuntary as it isn’t.
His attention remains on the man before him, the pitiful wretch whose face is barely recognizable beneath the blood and bruises swelling his features.
The coppery tang of suffering lingers thickly, iron-laced and pungent.
My voice slices through it. "Is this necessary?"
For the first time since I entered, I have Matías’ full attention.
I watch as his gaze sharpens with interest. His lips curve, dark amusement sparking in his expression, as if the question itself is a joke only he understands.
"It’s necessary if you don’t tolerate betrayal.
" He speaks as if to a na?ve little schoolgirl.
I can hear my mother’s voice in my head, reprimanding me for grinding my teeth. I fight not to wear my ire. Nevertheless, my fists clench at my sides, knuckles whitening. "And what if he was desperate?" I attempt to reframe the situation – to be useful, instead of a passive spectator.
Matías chuckles, a low, knowing sound that slithers beneath my skin. "Then he should have begged for my mercy before he took what wasn’t his."
The man in the chair whines in response. My head can’t help but turn his way, eyes burning at the sight of him. So much destruction. Such casual cruelty. His limbs tremble, too weak to fully lift his head, but his shoulders rise and fall in a broken, heaving sob.
Matías gestures lazily toward him, turning his gaze back to me. "You want to rule beside me, esposa? This will be a part of it."
My stomach lurches in response. A quiet war rages within me, curling its claws around my ribs, squeezing.
What if I don’t want to rule beside him?
I never asked for this. This has never been about what I want.
It has been about duty and survival. How preposterous, that he, of all people, does not understand this.
Now it is him who creeps closer. I don’t move away. I hold still, rooting myself in my spot. The warmth of his breath fans across the bridge of my nose when he speaks. "You knew what this world was before you walked into it."
I tilt my chin up, refusing to let him see me flinch, too, like I’ve no more power than the prisoner tied to the chair. Even if I truly, perhaps, don’t. "I know it doesn’t have to be this way," I insist.
The space between us contracts, thick with the unspoken battle waged between our gazes. Something crackles there—something heavier than defiance, more volatile than fear.
Then, without warning, Matías presses a gun into my palm.
I inhale sharply, my fingers instinctively curling around the steel. The weapon is heavier than I expect, its familiar weight an anchor and an albatross all at once. The metal is still warm from his grip.
"Then decide," he says so softly. "Spare him, and I’ll let him walk. But if he steals again, it’s on you."
A trap. A test. A power move.
Each uproarious beat of my fickle heart hammers home the reality of the choice before me. It is a precipice he shoves me toward: if I let the man go, I take responsibility for him; if I pull the trigger, I become part of this.
Matías watches me, waiting.
I grip the gun tighter, every nerve in my body screaming. There is no right answer. Not in his world. Not in mine. Nausea overwhelms me over the knowledge that they are now, and until the end of my life, the same. Whether I like it or not.
My fingers curl tighter around the barrel of the gun, but the sensation is distant, detached.
The man before me shifts in his chair, his one working eye barely open, a garbled breath rattling from his bruised lungs.
His lips tremble, thick with blood and the remnants of a plea that he no longer has the strength to voice.
He doesn’t look at Matías. He looks at me now.
I know that look. I have seen it before, in different eyes, in different places. It is the look of a man who knows he is already dead but begs the world to disagree. It is a hope so thin it barely clings to life.
Matías stands beside me, his presence oppressive, his breaths measured and calm.
He does not rush me. This is a game to him, a lesson designed to fit within the rules of his world.
He probably relishes in this—watching me hesitate, watching me choke on a decision that costs him nothing but weighs against my ribs like a stone slab.
He enjoys the war inside me.
My eyes fixate on the weapon in my hand. The gun is a natural extension of me. I’m acquainted in its shape, its mechanics. I know how to aim. I know how to fire. I know exactly where to place the shot so that it is quick, efficient, clean.
But I don’t want to do this. I take another breath, ignoring the smothering odor of sweat and blood sticking to the back of my throat. I don’t want to do this.
I can’t.
Then, I turn sharply and shove the gun into Matías’ chest. He catches it effortlessly, his grip firm but loose, as if he had anticipated this outcome from the beginning. Even I can hear those silly tears in my voice when I spit, “If you want him dead, do it yourself.”
A smirk curves at the edge of his lips, amused. His eyes are flat, unfathomably dark. “So that’s who I’ve got for my wife, huh?” Matías asks.
And he does not hesitate. He doesn’t even look away from me. The shot rings out before I can fully register the movement. A clean, calculated crack that splits the moment in two.
I stare in unrepressed horror at the body slumps forward, head lolling, lifeless. A dark stain blossoms across the floor beneath him, pooling outward in dire testament to Matías’ merciless judgement.
Bile is flooding my mouth when I turn on my heel and rush toward the door.
I can’t, I think, swallowing hard. My throat feels stripped now.
I can’t. What have I done? Who have I tied my life to?
A voice at the back of my head asserts I should be relieved.
I should be grateful that I was not forced to become executioner, that the blood on the ground does not belong to me.
He could have made me do this. We both know that.
Before I reach for the door, a hand clamps around my wrist. My breath leaves me in a panicked yelp when I’m whipped around. Matías. Every limb of my body simultaneously stiffens. My shoulders hunch in on themselves to protect me, like it’ll brace me for the blow that is undoubtedly coming.
He looks at me with undiluted pity. “You’ll have to get used to it,” he says gruffly.
The words are a murmur against the violence in the room, seeping into my skin like a whisper of ink spreading through water.
“Don’t tell me what I have to get used to,” I whine at him, having apparently lost any sense of self-preservation I’ve ever had. “My humanity is still intact.”
Matías’ gaze lingers on my face, then his lips twitch—not in frustration, not in irritation, but in quiet amusement. “Ah, but for how much longer?”
I flinch. Just like the thief had, a prisoner who is now no one at all, just a corpse they probably won’t even bury.
The instant his grip loosens, I don’t wait for another word. I wrench my wrist from his hold, fleeing, away from the room shrouded with the echo of death and the ghost of my conscience clawing at my heels.