Page 62 of Wicked Endeavors

It would be so, so easy to kill him.

It would be so, so easy to disappear.

But even now, even after everything, she hesitated. Teo’s death would hurt Bas, but it would hurt her, too. His wit and intelligence, his kindness and charm, those were things that couldn’t be faked. He may not have been completely honest with her, but she still cared about him. Why should she hurt just to hurt someone else?

“I’m sorry,” Teo murmured.

“You’re not,” Marisol replied. “But you will be.”

She stepped back, taking one last look at the people who had changed her and betrayed her. Then she raced out of House Muerte forever.

EXHAUSTED, HER EYES RED FROM CRYING, MARISOL walked slowly up the path instead of allowing the carriage she’d paid for to carry her the rest of the way to Alta Lira. She needed the fresh air to clear her head, and she needed the time to figure out how to explain all that had happened to Gaspar. It seemed surreal that days ago she had been fighting the first friends she’d made since Yoselin died, that she’d been seconds away from putting a knife into one of their hearts. It seemed surreal that weeks ago she had ignorantly believed that she was making friends even while she was lying to everyone.

It seemed surreal that months ago she had been sure that the Coronet would be easy.

The servant who opened the door to Ruiz’s summer home stepped aside for her immediately, and she saw another one run off, presumably to inform Lord Ruiz that his ward had returned. Instead of going to find him, Marisol went to her room for a bath. Sweat and tears and blood were caked onto her clothes and skin. Her nose had bled on and off during the journey. Her brain seemed to rattle around her skull until it was bruised. She was in no state for a reunion. She was barely in the right state to breathe.

Once she’d traded her elaborate gown for a simple emerald nightdress, she finally, finally took apart her illusion. She watched her true face appear in the mirror, as unfamiliar to her as a book in a foreign language. Dark skin and darker eyes. A broad nose and plump lips. A full figure and a heart-shaped face surrounded by thinner curls than she’d given herself as Marisol.

She was still beautiful, but it was no longer a disarming kind of beauty. She looked like a normal girl, nineteen years old and tormented.

Instead of lingering, Marisol washed her hair, her real hair, and then began the long process of detangling and conditioning. It still hadn’t quite sunk in, that she was no longer the scion of the Vinyet family and engaged to the prince of Domingo. The persona she had constructed was so persistent that she didn’t bother to force a change in mindset. She would come back to herself in increments the longer she was home. She just had to be patient.

Once she emerged from the washroom, her dried hair in twists and wrapped in a satin scarf, Gaspar was sitting on the edge of her bed.

He’d regrown that awful mustache, but otherwise he was just as she remembered him. His warm eyes and round cheeks, his olive skin and straight black hair. He stood as she stared at him, and suddenly she was in his arms. She didn’t remember moving, but pressing her cheek against his black jerkin made her feel a certain peace.

“There you are,” he said, laying a hand on the back of her head. His voice was a fond rumble. “Did everything go as planned?”

“I didn’t kill them, if that’s what you’re asking,” Marisol whispered, feeling him stiffen before she finished, “but I got the final plant.”

She pulled back long enough to rescue the orange blossoms from her bedside drawer and hand them over. Her arms crossed over her chest, as though trying to disguise how hard her heart was beating.

“I thought I wanted revenge, but… you were right. I couldn’t do it. I think that what I really want is belonging. I want to remain your adopted daughter and live at Ruiz Manor. I want to enter society for real, as myself.” She swallowed hard, aware of how weak her voice sounded. “I want to move forward, Gaspar. To remember what it’s like to actually live.”

“Honestly, I figured that would be your decision. All that anger can only sustain you for so long, Marisol. You’ve always had a good heart,” Gaspar said with a smile. “I need time to work on these. Why don’t you get some rest, and we can talk about everything in the morning?”

“I lost my daggers,” Marisol told him as she climbed into bed, not because he’d told her to, but because she was drained. “I’m sorry.”

“They were a gift. There will be other gifts.”

She settled beneath the blankets, inhaling the scent of mint and letting it calm her breathing. “I think I stretched the magic too far. When I was—”

Gaspar hushed her. He tucked one of her twists back under her scarf. “Tomorrow. Rest.”

Marisol kept her eyes open long enough to watch him turn down the lights, whisper good night, and leave the room with the door closed. Part of her protested that he hadn’t acknowledged her wishes, not really. But the rest of her was asleep before the thought could fully form.

A servant woke her up while it was still dark outside. “Lord Ruiz wants to see you in his study.”

“What time is it?” Marisol yawned.

“He wants to see you in his study right now,” the woman said, giving Marisol another rude shake. “I’ll come back in ten minutes. Don’t be in this bed when I do.”

Marisol made a face at her back. After dressing in a linen housedress of ocean blue, removing her headscarf, and teasing out her curls until a waterfall of dark hair spilled over her shoulders, Marisol made her way to the study. There was only one reason that Gaspar would have summoned her already, and her heart beat an excited rhythm as she thought of the great things they would do together. He had been vague about the next phases of the plan, but after months in Coventry she understood his hesitancy. She couldn’t complete her own scheme without the inconvenience of emotions making her doubt everything. She would have to prove herself worthy of more trust than he’d given her.

He was, she knew now, the only person who had ever depended on her, believed in her. At this point, he was the only person who cared if she lived or died. She could be perfect for him.

She had to be, or she had nothing.