Chapter 13 – Noa #3
An undignified yelp escapes me, vision blurring as I whip around too quickly, nearly stumbling in my haze.
Unfortunately, the sight of Magdalena standing just inside the doorway—her gaze cool, assessing, like a surgeon peering down at a patient on the operating table—is no less startling than a reflection of it.
A scream lodges in my throat, but I bite it back, swallowing hard.
“What the fuck—” My voice is hoarse, breaking off as I wipe the back of my hand across my lips. My body is still shaking from the onslaught of sickness, my muscles rendered weak, useless. I’ve no patience when I demand, “Do you always make a habit of sneaking into people’s bedrooms?”
Magdalena does not react. She merely treats me to an unnerving perusal, followed by a small twitch at the corner of her mouth. “You look like a mess, ni?a,” she relays, matter-of-fact. “Something not settling well in your belly?”
There is no outright denunciation in her tone.
In fact, she speaks as if she’s making small talk.
If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought I’d made up the meeting with the elders up in my head.
As if I had imagined the way she spoke to her own son.
The way she’d reduced me—the same girl whose late father she’d told she was thrilled to make a daughter of, only months ago—to chattel, and poorly purchased chattel at that.
I look on when she moves, crossing the room with the same measured grace she carries herself with. When she stops in front of me, she lifts her hand and holds out a small package of medicine. I can only blink.
“This will help,” she says.
I stare at it, unmoving.
It’s such a small thing. A packet of pills. It could be a kind gesture. But she doesn’t know—doesn’t know what’s wrong with me. Does she?
My fingers twitch helplessly at my sides. A sick, hard knot of dread tugs at my guts.
She can’t know. This can’t be happening.
I’m not ready for the truth.
I gulp down the lump in my throat, shaking my head. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“Keep it,” Magdalena hums softly, unconvinced, but she doesn’t press further. She doesn’t argue. Yet neither does she take the pills back. There’s no label on the back.
And her eyes—
They pierce me. They are Matías’ eyes, but the way they look at me are more terrifying than his violence. The longer she keeps looking, the more it feels like a warning. Out of sheer self-preservation, I rush out of the bathroom, with Magdalena on my heels.
The bedroom door swings open.
I freeze mid-step.
Like the thought of him had been a summons, Matías walks in with his forceful gait.
I see his startled confusion, though, his gaze flicking rapidly between me and his mother, assessing the space between us, the way I stand, my arms have gone rigid at my sides.
Then his gaze drops, and he sees it: the small foil packet.
His brow furrows, for just a second. A frown tugs at the corner of his mouth, brief but telling. “What the fuck is that?” he demands.
Magdalena isn’t fazed by the fury that nearly makes me flinch. I react before she does. Instinctively, I pivot, stepping between them, my body blocking his line of sight to her. My fingers clench against the fabric of my shirt, the nausea roiling within me.
“It’s nothing,” I try, my palm reaching out to cradle his marred cheek. “I – I got a little overheated.”
Matías eyes the sweat glossing my skin, but only suspicion paints itself all over his face.
He doesn’t like being lied to—and I try not to.
His eyes snap back to mine, his focus fastening like a noose around my neck.
The slow, slanted exhale he releases is far more ominous than if he had simply yelled.
“You’re sick?”
I hesitate. Too long, and I know it.
I can feel Magdalena’s presence behind me like a looming force, but she says nothing. I can’t decide if that’s a fortunate occurrence or not.
Matías drags a hand through his hair, a restless motion that betrays the growing tension rolling off of him. His hold, where it curls around my wrist, is tender somehow. “You should have told me,” he grumbles, relenting.
He doesn’t sound angry. Not yet. He sounds... impatient.
He thinks it’s an illness.
He thinks it’s temporary.
I can’t begin to process the way it bothers me, though I’ve got no evidence to the contrary. It could be food poisoning. Motion sickness. A damned heatstroke. There’s any number of things. It doesn’t have to be—
Magdalena remains silent. I don’t miss the way she tilts her head slightly, in my periphery.
She doesn’t contradict or add to the exchange.
So, why can’t I shake off this fear that she’s waiting to drop a sword on my neck?
The thought alone sends another sickening wave through me.
I swallow it down. I can’t deal with that. Not now.
“It’s fine,” I say, pulling my shoulders back, forcing steel into my spine. “I don’t need to be coddled. I’ll be fine in no time.” Matías doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. But I feel the shift in him, the gradual boil of remnant doubt left beneath the surface.
This isn’t over.
Not even close.