Chapter 14 – Noa
Matías insists fresh air will do me good.
I think it’s ridiculous.
I tell him as much, but he just smirks, shrugs, and drags me outside anyway.
And because I’m still feeling like death warmed up, I don’t fight him as hard as I should.
The Castillo estate stretches far beyond the high walls that encase it.
Past the gardens and the dense tree line, it feels less like a fortress and more like a haven. Almost.
I don’t expect to enjoy walking with Matías.
But, not unlike it had been with breakfast, it’s easy.
It has only been a matter of days, and it is so different, now, walking in this same garden at dusk that he’d left me last week.
Except, today, he strolls beside me, hands tucked in his pockets, matching my languorous pace without comment.
Gone is the tensity in his shoulders from earlier.
What’s even more jarring? He teases me. Real teasing. Not the usual brand of power-laced taunts, but the easy banter of children’s sandboxes. Like he’s trying it on for size.
“You look like hell, esposa,” he says, glancing at me sideways, a smirk tugging at his lips. I don’t tell him he isn’t the first person to tell me that today.
I roll my eyes, yet find a smile toying with my mouth. “Thank you, Matías,” I simper. “That’s exactly what every woman wants to hear from her husband. Forget compliments about my ravishing disposition and offers to take me in the rosebushes.”
“Do you want to be taken in the rosebushes, Noa?” There is real humor radiating from his syllables. “Who knows what might end up scratched.”
“Speaking from experience?” I scoff.
“What kind of man do you take me for?” he tries, and is quick to hold up a hand before I can answer. “Don’t answer that. I’m just saying, if you die out here, I’m leaving your body for the vultures. I’m not hauling you back.”
I giggle despite myself, rebelliously kicking a loose stone in my path. “That’s ridiculous. You’d at least make Gabo do it.”
Matías chuckles—and the sound is warm. “You’re catching on.”
We walk in easy silence for a while, the sound of birds overhead and the rustling of trees filling the spaces between us.
I focus on the rhythmic crunch of gravel beneath our feet, on the whisper of the evening breeze kissing my skin, on the way my nausea seems to settle just a little in the open air.
Then Matías speaks again, surprising me. “I grew up here, you know.”
I glance at him. “Obviously.”
He huffs. “I mean, I really grew up here. I was a menace. Constantly pissing off my tutors, sneaking out of my lessons, pulling whatever shit I could to avoid being forced into a suit for dinner.”
I can envision it too easily. “That I can believe.”
His lips quirk, and there’s something almost nostalgic in his expression. “One time, I climbed out of my bedroom window to steal mangoes from the trees out back,” he divulges, nudging into my side.
I blink up at him. “You climbed out of your window… for mangoes?”
“Not just any mangoes. The best fucking mangoes.” He gestures vaguely toward a grove in the distance. “They were perfect. Sweet, juicy, worth the effort. And the arm I broke.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You broke your arm?”
He grins, unrepentant. “Small price to pay. I learned to labor for my fruit early.”
A laugh bubbles up before I can stop it, catching in my throat, shaking loose something I didn’t realize I’d been holding onto.
Matías watches me, and the scrutiny is nothing like all other brands of it I’ve confronted today.
It’s gentler, somehow. More complex. Sweet, almost. Like he’s cataloging the sound.
I shake my head, grinning. “You’re an idiot.”
“No, I was an excellent thief,” he corrects. “Just not much of an acrobat.”
I huff, shoving my hands into the pocket of the hoodie I stole from his closet this morning. He’d put it around my shoulders when I’d stepped out with him. It still smells like him—spice and faint smoke. I don’t think about it too hard. “So, did you get the mangoes, at least?” I ask softly.
He raises a hand to his chest, feigning offense. “Of course. You think I’d tell you this story if I didn’t?”
I shake my head, still amused, and for the first time, I see him without all the walls. No tension, no threats, no cruelty waiting beneath his words. Just… something human.
I slip my hand into the crook of his arm, holding onto him more deliberately now. "Can I ask you something?"
His eyes flick toward me, brow slightly raised. "You just did."
I make a face at him, but press on. "Were you closer with him? Your father, I mean. I always got the sense your mother was very close to Tomás." I hesitate, then add softly, "Is it okay to ask about that?"
Matías doesn’t answer right away. His steps slow slightly, the warmth between us shifting to something quieter, more introspective. "You're astute," he finally says. "I was. Everyone's always assumed I must've been jealous of my brother. That isn't the case."
"No?" I gently nudge him, prompting carefully.
"No," he agrees, then props his chin atop my head. "Our Papá believed in embracing one's potential. Tomás was suited for politics. I was a better enforcer. We fell into our roles organically. It wasn't sunshine and rainbows. It's always going to be the cartel. But we spoke the same language."
How insufferable, I think, to receive such vulnerable history from him and to only find myself hungry for more.
I can't help myself, though I suspect I ought to quit while I'm ahead.
I ask, words muffled where my face is half-burrowed in his bicep now, "Why does she treat you the way she does? Did she not love your papá?"
His laugh sounds exhausted, but not surprised.
"Wrong," he snorts. "She loved him very much.
I'm just a walking reminder of what she's lost." The way Matías says it is so...
clinical. Dispassionate. Like it truly doesn't bother him.
How can it not? "Now, two-fold. I'm not only a walking reminder of her dead husband, I'm also the wrong son.
I'm the one who didn't keep the one she understood and adored alive. "
"Matías, that's—" I start to say.
And then my vision blurs.
The world tips sideways, the edges of my sight dimming, swirling. A heavy fog rolls into my head, pressing against my skull, muffling the sound of Matías’ voice. My body sways, and I barely register the rough warmth of hands catching me before everything goes dark.
It happens fast. One second, I’m listening to Matías, my lips still curved from the lingering echo of laughter. The next, the ground isn’t where I left it.
My legs seem to give out beneath me as the world tilts. My body doesn’t listen to reason. My breath hitches, coming too fast, first, then dragging lethargically.
The distant sound of Matías’ voice cuts through the haze, panic piercing.
“Noa,” he calls out, sounding faraway and so loud all at once.
His hands are on me, though; I feel them, I trust them.
A jarring tug, the heat of his grip, the ensnare of his arms locking around me.
There’s such urgency in his words, my head lolls towards them, as he garbles: “Noa—Noa, fuck, look at me.”
I try. I do. But my body betrays me, my head drooping as if it no longer belongs to me. My pulse roars in my ears, drowning everything else out. I don’t know if I’m shaking or if the earth beneath me is quaking. I barely feel Matías shift, barely process the way he lowers me carefully to the grass.
His fingers find my face, cupping my cheek. His touch is firm, insistent. His eyes—wild. Frantic. There’s no amusement now, no teasing, just something fierce and unrelenting as his gaze sweeps over me. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
I try to answer, but my mouth won’t move.
I try to focus, but my vision blurs at the edges.
Darkness curls in—and then, in the blink of an eye, swallows me whole.