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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SONIA
I’m goingto be sick. My stomach is in knots as I pace my room in the darkness, glaring at the empty bed.
It’s not like you want me warmingyourbed anyway.
The insinuation was unmistakable. I swallow down my pride. What the fuck does it matter where he sleeps tonight? He’s right. I don’t want him in my bed. I’ve only been saying that since the day I woke up here.
I don’t want him. He’s a criminal. I hate him. He’s bad for me. I don’t…
Visions of him warming another bed, of his hands all over another woman fill my mind until I see red in spite of the darkness. Now Idowant him here, if only so that I can strangle him!
I can’t spend my night this way, waiting up for him like a hopeless fool. Fuming, I leave the room in search of something to numb the agony I’m in. My destination? The kitchen. There’s an entire shelf in the pantry full of liquor, enough to drown in.
Without even bothering to turn on the light, I head in that direction, thankful the house is quiet and there are no guards lingering about. At least, not that I can see.
I’m not sure what I grab when I reach in and wrap my fingers around the neck of a glass bottle. It doesn’t really matter. Anything will do.
I unscrew the top and suck down the liquid fire. It burns a path down my throat and I cough as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Tequila. Definitely tequila.
“It only hurts the first time.” I giggle and take another sip.
Almost instantly, my blood begins to warm and my limbs become languid. This was exactly what I needed. My worries grow distant and my smile wider with every gulp.
“You’re coming with me, Mr. Tequila. I bet you won’t make me feel like shit.” I giggle again because that’s a big, fat lie.
Bottle in hand, I make my way down the hall that leads to the living room. “Sonia.”
I whirl around at the sound of his voice, searching for him within the shadows. That’s when I see him on the couch. He stands, then approaches me slowly.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I demand. “Shouldn’t you be out fucking some whore?”
He chuckles. “I don’t fuck whores.”
All sense of calm goes out the window, replaced by sheer, unadulterated rage. “Go to hell!” I scream and throw the bottle toward his head with as much force as I can.
Santos ducks and it misses him by inches, crashing hard against the coffee table, where it shatters loudly. We both remain silent for a moment as we stare at each other.
But when he speaks in a low, menacing tone, I realize my mistake. “You could have killed me. Do you know what I do to someone who tries to kill me?” He takes a step toward me, but I don’t stay to find out.
I bolt to the hall that leads to the bedroom. It’s not intentional, more like muscle memory. Not that anywhere else would be safer.
He catches me just outside the room, slamming me against the wall so hard, my teeth rattle. I manage to slap him before he grabs hold of my hands and pins them on either side of my head. I try to wriggle, but he’s a mountain towering over me, completely unmovable.
“Let me go.”
“Never,” he growls.
“I hate you,” I cry.
“You don’t.”
A tear rolls down my cheek as I nod. “I do. Go back to your other woman.”
He brings my hands closer to my face until he’s able to brush my skin with his thumbs. They find the tears I thought were hidden by the dark and it fills me with shame that he knows of my pain.
He releases me. “As much as I like that you’re jealous, you shouldn’t be. I was in the living room this entire time.”
