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And he will never let me go.
CHAPTERELEVEN
Keeping Franco isolated from the coming shitstorm regarding his parents has been my sole goal, but now that the time has come to implement that wish, I’m dreading it. God, I want nothing more than to shelter him, always. Protect him from the harsh reality his parents plunged him into. I hate that he’s caught in the middle of their mess.
Above all, I hate that his safety resides on the whims of a man like Jaguar.
Speaking of the devil, he’s been unusually tame regarding this whole ordeal. He supposedly had Franco admitted into a private boarding school on short notice, and he arranged for his bags to be packed in brand-new luggage decorated in the cartoon character of his choosing. We’re flown to the location of the school in utter luxury, and presented with a private tour by the dean.
Franco is sullen at first. Only after we visit a state-of-the-art sports stadium, and a private game room does he perk up. I stall until the last possible moment before leaving him. He is then peppered with kisses as I promise to call him every night on the cell phone Jaguar gifted him.
Upon leaving, I am resigned to returning to Texas and finding myself once again in a frying pan. Instead, I’m brought to the California house by a silent, watchful Horatio.
“He is not to be disturbed,” he tells me before I leave the SUV alone.
Fair enough. Sensing that Jaguar is in his office on the lower level, I keep to the upper floors instead. My heart pangs as I pass Franco’s empty room, but I continue forward, into the safer, secluded bedroom I first woke up in.
I haven’t forgotten Jaguar’s twisted promise—or the retribution he wants to exact against me as a result of my transgressions against him over the past few days.
Why make it easy for him by waiting patiently for the slaughter? My thoughts turn to hiding in the pool and provoking him to come after me.
Curiosity makes me turn on my heel and enter the master bedroom instead. Jaguar isn’t there waiting for me, but he didn’t intend to completely leave me to my own devices, it seems.
On the bed, in tattered condition, is a small paperback. Hamlet. Knowing Jaguar, this isn’t his way of conferring a bit of light reading to me while I wait.
It’s a warning. Though I’m vaguely familiar with Hamlet’s story, I’ve never read it. My curiosity eats away at the part of me that knows I should be afraid. Instead, my fingers twitch, aching to delve into the pages and learn what his message to me is.
Caution holds me back. He must be watching me from his office, I think. Although the television is again out of view, and I cannot see him myself, I am sure of it.
A smart woman would hide her fear by feigning ignorance of his presence. I can’t. With a sigh, I strip the beautiful, modest dress I wore to see Franco and leave it on the floor. Then I step out of my panties.
Since I assume the camera is positioned toward the bed, I turn my back to it and stretch my limbs, sore from traveling all day. In the end, I climb onto the bed and open the book, not like a prisoner resigned to her fate, but like a devout parishioner eager to learn a new scripture. A novel decree with which to live her life by.
A new fragment of Julian Domingas and his twisted way of thinking.
It is only when I have completely cleared my mind of fear that I can begin to read.
And,Dios mío, what a journey he takes me on.
CHAPTERTWELVE
Iput all fear aside and focus primarily on the story unfolding in front of me. It has all the hallmarks of what Jaguar’s preferred genres must be. Drama. Violence. Tragic romance.
In summary, Hamlet is a man too clever for his own good, driven to destruction in his quest for revenge. Even when it means feigning his own madness, he is adept at shaping how the world views him. He is much like Julian Domingas.
And those foolish enough to love such a man wind up dead.
That is his warning to me. It registers grimly over my psyche, more potent than if he’d threatened my life directly. In the end, Hamlet didn’t kill his lover, Ophelia. She took her own life out of despair, unable to understand him or his callous actions.
Jaguar must think I’m the same—weak and easily disposed of.
“You’ve finished.”
The sound of his voice startles me into turning to the doorway. There he stands, his expression unreadable. On second glance, his furrowed brows make him seem wary, like someone who has spent hours pondering some complicated problem without success. Something tells me that work isn’t what has him so stumped.
“Did you enjoy your bit of light reading?” he asks me, crossing his arms so that the muscles bulge against his golden skin, making the lines of his tattoos dance and waver.
“Yes, I did,” I respond, rolling over without hiding my nakedness. “Your witty sense of humor strikes again, Jaguar. There is just one problem. I can’t tell if this—” I hold up the book. “Was a pointed jab at my life or your own.”
