Chapter 5 – Noa
Steam curls in thick tendrils against the marble walls, wrapping around me like an embrace I cannot return.
My skin burns beneath the scalding water, the temperature high enough to strip me raw, to rinse away the remnants of the past hour—the past day.
I scrub harder, my nails pressing into my arms, over my collarbone, the scent of blood still clinging despite the soap and heat.
It lingers where it shouldn’t, a phantom sensation against my skin.
Matías had pulled the trigger without hesitation.
I squeeze my eyes shut against the memory.
The sound had cracked through the room, sharp and final.
The dead don’t get second chances, and that man had been nothing more than a lesson.
I had watched his blood soak into the floor.
I had seen Matías wipe his hands as if it were nothing.
And now I am here, standing beneath a gilded showerhead, trying to convince myself that it wasn’t my fault.
Whether I made a choice or not, there is no certainty that he would’ve respected it.
Men like Matías don’t let their wives decide if they will execute someone or not.
The water runs red for longer than it should.
I breathe through the nausea twisting inside me.
When I step out, the mirror is fogged over, my reflection nothing but a ghost behind condensation.
I turn away from it, wrapping myself in the thickest towel I can find.
My new wardrobe looms in the adjoining room, an array of silks and lace, soft colors and delicate fabrics meant to paint me into the woman I am expected to be.
I reach for the simplest dress I can find.
Pale blue, sleeveless, something light against my still-damp skin.
It fits well enough. I smooth my palms over the fabric, ignoring the unfamiliarity of it.
There is no armor in dresses like these.
There are no places to hide weapons, no barriers against the scrutiny of men who will weigh my worth in the way I carry Matías' name.
But right now, I have no armor anyway. Only exhaustion and a mind I cannot quiet.
The estate is vast, stretching out in winding hallways and cavernous rooms filled with heirlooms and portraits of men who have shaped the Castillo empire with blood and brutality.
This is Matías' kingdom. And, by default, it is mine now, too. I can distract myself from what plagues me by exploring it. My run hadn’t been enough.
Any solace it had lent me has been obliterated thoroughly anyhow.
As I wander, the staff notices me. I can feel their eyes on me. But they do not interfere.
A housekeeper in her fifties barely pauses as she arranges fresh flowers in a vase of fabulous crystal.
I catch the briefest glance she shoots at me, an assessment too quick to decipher.
At the end of the hallway, an older guard watches my approach with the careful neutrality of a man who has been taught never to react first. They are waiting, all of them, to see what kind of wife I will be.
My footsteps click and echo against the polished floors, leading me through the heart of the estate and beyond.
Outside, golden light stretches across the verdant garden, painting the pathways in hues of amber and deepening shadow.
It is still warm, but not suffocating as it had been in the morning.
The sun has begun its descent toward the horizon.
The Castillo estate is not devoid of beauty.
The gardens stretch toward the high perimeter walls, lush with citrus trees and sprawling bougainvillea vines creeping up stone archways, their blossoms bright against the smooth gray barriers. Freshly watered soil perfumes the atmosphere, a scent rich and grounding in a way I did not expect.
Tomás had once told me about this place.
“You’d like it,” he had said, leaning back in his chair, a rare moment of ease softening his features. “You could sit by the koi pond, read your little poetry books. No one would bother you there. A little paradise in the middle of hell.”
I should have taken him more literally than I had. Maybe just how hellacious the Castillo operations can be wouldn’t render me this rattled then.
The koi pond is just as he had described.
A still, glass-like surface broken only by the languorous swish of the fish within it, swirls of orange and white moving in the water.
I stare down at them, my hands curling into my dress.
Eventually, I sink to the bench beside it. My spine slumps like a dying tulip.
I want to cry when I hear a heavy tread.
I can hear as Matías steps onto the stone path, the crunch of gravel under his boots like the slow beat of a war drum.
There is a confidence to his movements, the kind that makes men get out of his way before he even has to ask.
It’s in the way he takes up space, as if the world itself is waiting for him to make his next move.
I know it’s him. I don’t know how I do—he is a stranger to me—but I know it is my husband.
“Scared you so bad you're already looking for a way out?” he asks.
Despite myself, I itch to turn to face him.
I slip off the bench instead, sinking to my knees beside the pond, as if it is more interesting to me than he could ever hope to be.
My fingers skim the surface of the koi pond, disturbing the glassy water.
A ripple stretches outward, warping the flicker of golden-orange bodies beneath the surface.
If he wants my attention, I decide, he will have to earn it.
My own cheeks burn over the undignified squawk I expel when an arm steals around my waist and yanks me from the ground.
Just like that, I am in his lap, my bottom settled over massive, powerful thighs.
I can’t do anything but gape at him—unsure whether to react to his audacity, first, or the shock of contact he claims so casually.
Ridiculously, I notice that his hair is damp.
It clings to the jagged angles of his face, a sharp contrast against the scarred side of his jaw.
My mind catches on an unwelcome thought: had he stepped into the shower right after me?
This does not help the color burning high in the apples of my cheeks.
The idea sticks, cloying. My pulse goes haywire over the notion of his hands braced against the same tiled wall, his breath fogging the same mirror where my own reflection had stared back at me.
Had he traced the same rivulets of water down his body, scrubbed the same invisible weight from his skin?
There is an intimacy to the notion that feels obscene. Perhaps I’m unhinged, too.
A cigar lingers between his fingers, half-burned.
Smoke curls upward, twisting into the dying light of dusk.
He takes a leisurely drag, the ember flaring, his dark eyes flickering over me as though he is determining whether or not I belong here.
He exhales a steady stream of smoke, and when he speaks again, his voice is laced with an insufferable amusement.
“Gabo has a bet going that you’ll hang yourself before the end of the week,” he shares conversationally. A beat, then, “Another few of my men disagree. They’ve put money on… jumping off the roof. Swallowing rat poison. Or, heaven fucking forbid, telling my mother on me.”
The words are cruel, coated in the kind of casual malice that men like him wield like second nature. They are meant to provoke, to push, to see how deep he can press his fingers into my ribs before I crack open.
I am already squirming against him in objection. “Not everything is about you, Matías,” I say primly.
“Isn’t it?” he counters, deadpan.
I can’t even respond to that. Bastard, I think.
He doesn’t even have the decency to be fazed by my glare. It is a withering one. I wriggle harder, frustration piquing, only for his arm ensnared around me to remain unmoving.
“I’d stop writhing unless you’re trying to get my cock hard, Noa.”
Heat flares at the base of my throat, climbing higher, searing my cheeks as Matías' words settle between us. His voice is smooth, unbothered, like he hasn’t just said the most crude thing possible.
The worst part is that he watches, unblinking, waiting, cataloging the reaction that I fight to suppress.
I hate that I fail.
The blush betrays me, flooding my face in a way that must amuse him, because his smirk tilts the corner of his mouth, lazy and knowing.
I want to shove him away, to break free from the grasp that keeps me anchored to his lap, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of an outburst. Instead, I keep my spine straight, jaw tight, my pulse hammering traitorously beneath my skin.
He exhales slowly, cigar smoke curling between us. Then says, flatly, “You didn’t like watching me kill.”
I blink, stunned. The statement catches me off guard. Not because it isn’t true, but because I certainly did not expect him to acknowledge it. Let alone without the mockery that comes too easily from that wicked mouth of his.
My chest puffs in response, argumentative. “I’ve seen men die before,” I insist, the words coming out sharper than I intend.
Matías hums, tilting his head. “Not like that.”
He is right.
We sit there in that quiet recognition, the space between us shrinking as Matías moves slightly, shifting his hold, his fingers still draped over my waist as if I belong to him. I suppose I do. I stare at my bandaged hand, which matches his.
Apparently tired of the lull, he takes another swing to my nervous system. “What are your plans for surviving a beast, esposa?” Matías questions.
The way he says it is almost casual, as if it is a fact rather than an insult. As if it is simply the way things are. He calls himself that with such indifference, such certainty, that it unsettles me more than if he had denied it.
I turn my gaze steadfastly back on the pond, watching the ripples spread outward from where my fingers disturbed the water moments ago. “We make plans and God laughs,” I admit, slumping against him. His grip on me goes nowhere. “I don’t have a plan. Maybe I will actually hang myself.”
Matías lets out a quiet sound, deep in his throat, low and contemplative. Amusement? Approval? I don’t know which one unnerves me more.
He lifts the cigar back to his lips, but at the last second, he hesitates. In my peripheral view, I watch as he flings it to the ground, his boot coming down hard on top of it, grinding down his heel until the ember has died.
I can’t breathe.
His fingers brush a loose strand of my hair off my shoulder, the touch so light it could be mistaken for an accident.
But it isn’t. He twirls it around his finger, tugging.
My lips part, breath huffing over the twinge at my skull, burning.
His touch lingers, eyes assessing my features like I’m a puzzle he is slotting together.
He does not look away when his fingers drift lower, skimming the side of my throat.
I gulp painfully around the lump that’s lodged itself in my throat. I fear it may be my stomach.
“Such a wretched fate for such a pretty neck,” Matías laments.
I do not react. I force myself to remain still, to hold his gaze without wavering, even as the ghost of his touch coils at the base of my spine. I will not flinch. I will not let him have this.
I watch his mouth twitch. “You’ll get used to me,” he muses.
I tilt my head slightly. My eyes can’t help but roll at him, a vapid gesture I haven’t partaken in since I was a teenager. “That sounds more like a threat than a promise.”
Matías studies me for a moment. His hand drops from my throat, joining the other at my waist, just in time to hoist me upright. “Whatever helps you sleep at night,” he says.
The hem of my dress is just short enough to expose the way my knees shake. I don’t care if he sees it. I don’t care that he can witness how my nails curl against my palms, not hard enough to break skin, but enough to keep me grounded.
The words leave my lips before I can stop them—
“What do you care?” I snap, whipping around to face him, my curled fists propped on my hips. “You’re happy to leave me alone in our bed.”
He arches a single brow at me. “Our bed,” he echoes.
“Yes! Are you slow? That’s what I said. Our bed. I am your wife. You—” I splutter and hold up my bandaged hand in furious evidence. “You slit open my palm like you’re recruiting me to a cult in the woods. For whatever reasons we both had, you married me. And now you’re—”
“What?” His voice is like a whip. “What did I do?”
“Nothing. That’s the point!” I exclaim. What a spectacle I make of myself.
Yet, I can’t help it. “You married me, you took me to our bedroom, you insulted me and went to sleep. You went off, locked me away, took my things, and—maybe you did. Maybe you did traumatize me with your violence. What then? Does that even matter to you? Why are you here? What is this?”
As easily as he had fallen into the seat beside me, he rises to his feet now.
“Ardi told me to talk to you,” he states brusquely.
I can see it in his face, so plainly, the way he shutters himself in the blink of an eye.
“This is what it is. Grow the fuck up, Noa. There are no rose petals and sweet nothings in your future. That shit died with my brother.”
It shouldn’t surprise me that he has no real answers for me—at least, none he’s going to give to me. I don’t know why I can’t keep my mouth from trying, still, no matter how futile it is: “Matías, please just—”
“No,” is all he has to say to me.
The conversation is over, because he’s decided it is. He disappears like a mirage in slow motion, descending the way he came. Leaving me, if possible, even more lonely than I had already been.