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Santos
It takes me a minute to focus my eyes on Madelena. She is stunning in the shimmering black gown. I chose it especially for her, but I missed seeing her in it tonight.
The high heels emphasize her long, slender legs, and one thigh is exposed by the dramatic slit of the dress. I don’t know if it’s the years of self-imposed celibacy or what that have me so drawn to this woman. I want her. But it’s not only physical. I have a responsibility to her—but again, it’s not that simple.
I drag my gaze to her face. Her hair is coming apart, and her makeup is smudged, with remnants of deep red lipstick across her cheek. Her eyeliner is smeared, the whites of her eyes pink.
She hugs my jacket to herself. I’m not sure she’s aware of how tightly she’s holding it, and on the back of one hand I see the same red as on her cheek. It’s the hand she used to wipe it away.
“Where were you?” she asks quietly, her gaze cautious, a line creasing the space between her eyebrows. That relief I thought I saw moments ago has vanished. Was it there at all? Does it make sense that she’d be relieved to see me?
The whiskey I’ve drunk over the last day and half churns in my gut. I stopped drinking a few hours ago, but it’s going to take longer than that to burn off the effects of this quantity of alcohol.
I glance at Val. “Leave. Make sure no one interrupts us.”
He looks at Madelena, hesitating.
“I said, go.”
He goes. I turn my attention back to my wife and my strange conversation with Thiago echoes in my mind.
“Do you care about her then?”
“What?”
“Santos, Santos, Santos. Take good care to make sure Camilla never knows that.”
I clear my throat, then close the space between us. I touch her cheek, brushing my thumb over the smear of eyeliner. I do care about her, but it’s not what he thinks. I am responsible for her. I have been since the moment I slit the palm of her hand and made my oath. Hers was forced. Mine, well, I held the knife. She can’t navigate my world and all the people in it who will do her harm, who will take what they need from her and discard her… if she’s lucky.
No one is to be trusted. No one. Not our brothers, not our mothers, not my sister. You and I are truly alone.
“Madelena. Were you crying?” My voice is hoarse. Raw. I take my jacket from her and toss it aside, but when my fingers graze the curve of her neck, she shrugs me off and takes a step backward.
“You disappeared.”
“I had to take care of something.”
“You were gone overnight. A full day and night.”
“I’m back. I’m not leaving again.” I reach for her once more, but she puts more distance between us.
“Did you tell your brother?”
I raise my eyebrows, assuming she’s not done yet because I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about.
“The cuts. He knew.”
Now I’m confused. “No. Of course not.”
“Then who…” she trails off, shakes her head. “You’re drunk. You told me you don’t drink, yet you stink of a distillery. You lied to me. How many times have you lied to me?”
I close the space between us, then wrap an arm around her shoulders to weave my fingers into her hair. She won’t be walking away from me again.
“What else are you lying about?” she asks. I want to ask what she’s talking about, but she continues before I can. “You left me here alone with them,” she says and for a moment, she’s that girl from five years ago. She was alone then, too, with only her brother to protect her—a brother too young and ill-equipped against men like the Augustines.
I realize as the whiskey-induced fog in my mind clears that she was scared.
“No one would hurt you,” I say, running the backs of my fingers over her cheekbone where her tears have left streaks. “They know they can’t touch you. I’ve made it clear.”
