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CHAPTER EIGHT
SONIA
I’m fuming,tossing and turning, too furious to fall asleep. “Ugh!” I scream into the pillow. Why do I let that man get under my skin like this? After so many years, he’s still driving me insane.
A sound at the door has me stiffening. It’s the lock, I realize a second before it’s pushed open and I hear someone slip inside.
“Who’s there?” I demand, sitting up, fumbling with the blankets.
The light comes on and I squint into the brightness to see Santos moving toward the bathroom. “It’s been a long day,” he says. Reaching back, he grabs a fistful of his T-shirt and tugs it over his head in one swift motion.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting ready for bed.” From the back of his pants, he removes a gun I hadn’t noticed before and ejects the magazine before setting it on the dresser. Then from under each pant leg, he produces a large blade and places them both beside the firearm.
But his weaponry isn’t what has me alarmed. It’s the fact that he’s intending on sleeping in the same bed as me.
“You can’t seriously think you’re sleeping in here.”
He ignores my statement, going into the bathroom. Through the reflection in the mirror, I watch as he continues to undress. Of its own accord, my traitorous gaze travels the expanse of his exposed skin, taking in the muscles of his arms and neck and the matting of hair on his chest that gets thicker as it travels down over his tight abdomen to his…
Jesucristo. I should look away, but my eyes refuse to obey. How can I? Is it possible that a man’s penis can get bigger with age? Or is it that I haven’t seen one like this in so long? Although if what everyone keeps telling me is true, I’ve had that inside me recently.
My belly tightens at the memory of what it was like to have him inside my body, and it threatens to burn me up on the spot. Out of all the things I should forget, why can’t I forget that?!
Santos steps into the shower and out of sight, releasing me to my good senses. I shake my head, placing my palm against my fevered brow.
“I can’t sleep here,” I whisper to myself. “I can’t.”
Bolting off the mattress, I go to the door and put my hand on the handle but stop short of turning it. Where would I go in a house full of dangerous men who might murder me, or, worse, rape me? Though I doubt they’d touch a hair on the “wife” of their arrogant leader. Still, Damian told me I’m the only woman here, and sexual need can drive men to do stupid things.
I could run now. My father may be dead, but that doesn’t mean I have nowhere to go. It’s dark enough that I could slip out unnoticed. It wouldn’t be the first time. There were plenty of late-night escapes when I lived at Villanueva. Except I knew the land then. Here, I’d most likely fall victim to a coyote or a ditch. They might not find me until the vultures give away the location of my decaying corpse!
There is one other option. I move to the dresser, where the gun lies between the two knives. The firearm is out of the question. He made sure of that when he removed the bullets. But the blades are still here and are just as deadly. I run my finger over one of them, from hilt to tip. Feeling the sharpness of it against my skin, I sigh, because as tempting as it is, I’m not a killer. I’m not like them.
“If you prefer a different method, I can always take you down to the basement. You can get really creative down there.”
I snatch my hand away, slicing my finger on the insanely sharp blade. Quickly, I wrap my other hand around it as I turn to Santos, who’s standing in the doorway of the bathroom with rolls of steam swirling around him and a white towel barely clinging to his hips. “I’m not going to murder you.”
“Really? Because it seemed like you were plotting my demise.”
“Perhaps I was amusing myself with the possibility. But I’m not like you, Santos. I don’t take innocent lives.”
He smirks. “Neither do I. But you’re right. We’re not alike, because I don’t find killing amusing.”
Shame bathes my cheeks in a hot flush I can’t help, and I glance away. “Can’t you put some clothes on at least?”
He sees the torture on my face, I’m sure of it. Then his mouth pulls up and he says, “You’re wearing enough clothes for the two of us,” before he plucks the towel right off.
I push past him into the bathroom, grumbling, “I hate you,” as I pass.
“Maybe if you say it enough times, you’ll eventually believe it.” He follows me to the sink to inspect the damage the knife made. As if the pressure I applied was the only thing holding it in, blood gushes from the slit, dripping in thick rivulets.
“Shit!” Santos screams, scaring me more than the little cut. “You took your fucking finger off!”
“No, it’s fine.” I hold it up and his face pales.
Hurriedly, he digs through the cabinets until he produces a first aid kit. I watch in fascination as he pulls out bandages and ointments, his hands shaking the entire time.
