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“Doc.” Santos arches a brow toward the man.
“It’s been too long for that to be affecting her, and she’s not displaying any behaviors that I’d attribute to an event in her brain. But to be safe, I’m ordering tests as well as a psychological evaluation.”
“A psychological evaluation? I’m not crazy!”
The doctor reaches for me and gives my shoulder a pat I’m sure is meant to be reassuring. “Everything will be all right. We’ll get this all figured out.”
“No. I still don’t believe it. It’s a lie!” I say with exasperation. “He’s not my husband.”
“It’s the truth!” Santos declares.
“Liar,” I hiss in return. “And you know how I know you’re lying?”
“Please, enlighten me.”
“Because I’d never marry you. Not in a million years. Not if you were the last man on earth. I hate you, Santos Alvarez. Even more than you hate me.”
“Well, you did marry me.” He thrusts his thumb into his chest. “Five years ago. You married me, and you’ve loved me more than you’ve ever loved anyone else. You’d do anything for me. You’d die for me! You said so yourself.” He grins smugly and my palm begins to itch with the need to slap him.
“You know what, Doctor? Maybe youshouldorder those brain tests. For him!” I poke Santos’s chest too. “He’s crazy.”
He snatches my wrist, pulling it hard in front of my face. “If I’m crazy, how do you explain this?”
My focus shifts to the Diablos tattoo on my skin and it takes a lot to swallow down the doubt that suddenly fills me. “I don’t know. I’m sure you did it while I was knocked out.” Though that doesn’t explain how it’s perfectly healed, but I don’t voice that.
“You begged Damian for it because you wanted everyone to know you belong to me. That’s how much you love me.”
“I hate tattoos.” I lift my chin slightly, peering into his eyes.
“Regardless, you did it for me. You are my wife.”
“I don’t know what you’re playing at—”
As I’m about to belie what he’s said, the doctor interrupts by clearing his throat. “I’m afraid he’s right,mija. You are his wife.”
I cast my angry stare on him. “How can you be sure? Did he show you a marriage certificate?”
“There was no need, because I was at your wedding.”
My lips part, the refusal of his statement on my tongue. But the words die there as confusion and uncertainty invade my thoughts. More important is the realization that it’s pointless to argue with two men who will only affirm what the other is saying. I’m going to get nowhere fast with them.
I drop back onto the pillows. “Perhaps you’re right. My head hurts. Could I please rest?”
“Of course, dear. I will order the scan for later this afternoon. In the meantime, rest.” He stands and collects his medical instruments from the top of the dresser, placing them all in a briefcase. “Santos, a word, if you please.”
Santos leans over and attempts to give me a kiss on the brow. Unable to help it, I growl, and he pulls away, but not before I see the grin that spreads wide across his features. “I’ll be right back,mi amor,” he whispers.
I nod, then shut my eyes and sigh. But the moment they step out of the room and I hear the door close, I leap into action.
The first thing I do is look for something other than the Devil’s T-shirt to wear. I ignore the fact that the drawers in my nightstand have things I actually use, such as the lavender-vanilla body butter I like to slather myself with before bed. Though it’s much harder ignore the bras and underwear I find in the dresser, all of which are my size.
I move beyond the bathroom to the closet. Sure enough, there are clothes that fit me perfectly here too. After dressing in jean shorts and a black tank top, I slip on a pair of white sneakers.
As I go back into the bathroom, I catch sight of my reflection and am startled once again at how different it is from what I expect to see. Running my fingers over my hair, my cheek, and down my chest, I realize that a lot more of me has changed than just my hair. I’ve allowed my usually tanned skin to pale, causing the green of my irises to seem muted. I’m also thinner, significantly so, and my body is less toned. Much softer.
Is it possible that five years have passed since the night of the attacks?
I roll my wrist and peer at the Diablos tattoo. On the chance that it is in fact a fake, I turn on the faucet and thrust it under the stream of water. I scrub at it mercilessly until my skin becomes red and raw from it. But there isn’t enough soap in the world to get it off. It’s real, and it’s been on me long enough to heal.
