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She laughs a short, ugly laugh. “You don’t know them.” She turns, but I catch her arm before she can walk away.
“Madelena?”
She shakes her head. “Let me go, Santos.”
I don’t. “Are you hurt? Is that why you were crying?”
“I’m not crying.” Her eyes dart away like she’s embarrassed.
“If they hurt you, touched you…”
She searches my face before her gaze moves down to my open collar. I’m sure I look like shit. A bender will do that to you, and I should shower, get out of these clothes, and eat something. But the look on her face has my gut tightening. Something happened.
I take hold of both her arms. “What is it?”
“If you were so concerned for me, why did you just leave me here with them?”
“They know they are not to touch you.”
“The rules aren’t the same when you’re gone.”
I look her over, seeing the dress anew. The hair and makeup. She would have attended tonight’s dinner. My mother would have given her no choice… and she wouldn’t have let her show up alone. I lean in and sniff her neck then bring her wrists to my nose and inhale.
No one is to be trusted. No one. Not our brothers, not our mothers, not my sister. You and I are truly alone.
“Why do I smell my brother on you?”
“I don’t think you get to interrogate me. It should be the other way around, don’t you think?”
“Why, Madelena?”
“Let me go.”
“Tell me.”
“You’re hurting me,” she says, twisting a little, and I realize how hard I’m squeezing her wrists.
I loosen my grip, look her over. Shifting both of her wrists into one hand, I grip the draped neckline of her dress and tug.
She gasps but I keep hold of her as I tear the dress away. She won’t be wearing it again anyway. It’s not violent or rushed or angry. I just want her naked. I need to have her naked. To know for myself.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Once the dress is gone and she’s standing in panties, a strapless bra and high-heeled shoes, I look her over.
“He touched you?” I ask, using my free hand to unhook the bra and let it slip away.
Her expression hardens, jaw setting. “Of course he did,” she says, her tone goading. “You weren’t here, remember? Tell me something, Santos.”
I let my gaze move over her bare chest, her breasts. I can see the beginnings of the scars that line the undersides of her arms. What state of mind is one in to do that? To self-mutilate?
That dark presence inside me laughs out loud at that because I should talk. But my scars, they’re different. They’re punishments I deserved. I can’t imagine she deserved that mutilation, the self-harm.
“Are you even listening to me?” she asks.
I blink, forcing my eyes to focus on hers because she was talking, and I was so lost in thought I didn’t hear.
“Tell me something,” she starts again. “Am I yours?”
