Page 69 of Espíritu

A bruise of shadow blooming beneath Luca’s sweater, edges frayed and darker than before—too much like the quinceañera girl’s.

Julian blinked hard, hoping he was imagining it. He wasn’t.

The guilt hooked deep.

Luca didn’t even know.

None of them knew.

He had to get out.

He turned—only to find Rio squarely in his path, silent and unmoving.

“You’re on restriction,” Rio said, cold and sharp.

The room went quiet. All eyes turned to the brothers.

“Restriction?!” Julian snapped. “What am I, twelve?”

“Trying to ground you is pointless,” Rio replied, already pulling out his phone. “You’d just sneak out anyway. But now?” He turned the screen toward Julian. His name glowed on the GPS app, blinking like a warning light. “I’m going to be watching your every move.”

“You’re kidding me—!” Julian’s words came fast, but Rio cut him off.

“If I catch you somewhere you’re not supposed to be, or you show up late again,” Rio said, calm and merciless, “I’ll call Enrique and tell him you’re not allowed to see Yadriel after school.”

Julian’s breath caught.

That was straight-up diabolical. The last thing he needed was to look bad in front of Enrique, and especially to be kept from seeing his boyfriend outside of school.

His anger ignited like gasoline.

“You can’t DO that!” he barked.

Rio shot back, “Watch me.”

“Fine,” Julian muttered. “Whatever.”

He stomped toward the hallway.

Rio didn’t move. Didn’t follow.

He just held Julian’s gaze—steady, unbudging—until Julian looked away.

Somehow, that felt worse than yelling.

“Stupid, stupid rules!” Julian muttered, pacing the small bedroom like a caged animal. He kicked a stray sneaker, sending it skittering into the wall with a dull thud.

He let out a sharp laugh that died halfway out of his throat. “Always finding trouble,” he told himself bitterly. “Even when you’re trying to dodge it.”

His limbs felt heavy with exhaustion, the kind that lived in his bones. He collapsed onto his bed, sprawling across the mattress as the old springs creaked under his weight. He stared up at the ceiling, at the cracks that splintered across the plaster like veins.

They reminded him of the Marca Hueca—jagged, wrong, and quietly growing.

Every time he thought he had a grip on things, something else slipped loose. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak the truth. Couldn’t stop screwing up with the people he loved.

A knock at the door dragged him upright.

He didn’t move. Maybe they’d go away.