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“Let me go,” she says, her voice like that of a wounded animal.
I release her wrists and take my arm from her middle.
She slips away, putting space between us, and her gaze moves to the exit behind me.
“Don’t,” I tell her.
She’s quiet as she considers her options. A part of me hopes she’ll try to run for it and go after her brother. He won’t save her. What’s done is done. But I’m not sure she’s finished trying. Mercedes De La Rosa is a woman used to getting her way.
“What are you going to do?” she asks in a tone she reserves for staff. She wants to wound, but I know her too well. She may not realize that, but it’s true. And I see this as her attempt to deflect attention from herself. She’s vulnerable. And she doesn’t like being vulnerable.
She folds her arms across her chest. Her gray sweats are a few inches short of her ankles, and her feet are bare. The matching top is too baggy. Not her usual attire. Not to mention a face free of makeup. She looks younger without it. I wonder if anyone would recognize her if I walked her out of here.
Not that it matters. She won’t be leaving from the front door.
“I think you know,” I say, taking a step toward her. The truth is, I want this. I want it too much. Santiago is my closest friend. The man I trust most in this world. And he trusts me. But would he give me custody of his sister if he knew just how much I wanted it?
I should have refused and told him to find someone else. Someone impartial. A better man may have. But the temptation of having Mercedes De La Rosa beneath my roof and under my control was too much to resist.
Besides, she was in no state to be refused. Neither of them were. I keep telling myself that.
She takes a step backward as I take another forward. She’s known me all her life, but only ever as her big brother’s confidante and friend. Apart from the time she stayed in my home while Santiago recovered at the hospital, we haven’t spent much time together, and even then, I made sure to keep our interactions brief. Proper. What does she see when she looks at me now?
Her gaze flits over my shoulder to the door again, but I don’t comment. If she wants to run, I’ll allow it, but she won’t get past me. Maybe she needs to learn that for herself. And the feel of her pressed against me moments ago, her slight weight in my arms? Well, I am a man. And we’re all beasts, aren’t we? Men and women alike? Animals. For all our refinement, money, and polite conversation, underneath it all, we are all just animals ruled by our baser needs. Our wants and desires.
“Are you going to put me in that cellar?” she spits, lips tight, arms hugging closer as she takes another step away until her back hits the wall. “Huh? String me up like you did her?”
Her. Ivy. She can’t even say her name.
I close the space between us so I’m standing inches from her.
She tilts her head back to look up at me. At five-foot-ten, she’s tall, taller when she’s wearing her usual heels, but I still have about six inches on her. And even though her throat works to swallow and the pulse at her neck thrums in double time, she steels herself, gritting her jaw. Dark eyes like lasers burn into mine.
I raise my hand, and she winces.
I pause, eyebrow rising.
She presses her back to the wall and blinks.
Hair sticks to the gash on her cheek. I brush the strands away, feeling her shudder at my touch. My gaze falls to her lips. Her mouth is open, breathing shallow. And when I inhale, I smell shampoo and beneath it that acrid scent of fear.
She’s afraid.
She’s afraid of me.
It’s how it should be. How it needs to be.
“Are you going to put me in that cellar or not? Answer me!” Lines crease the perfect skin of her forehead in her ill-fated attempt to take control of the situation.
Patience, I tell myself.
“Are you afraid of that?” I ask.
She presses her lips together and exhales through her nose. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Not even me?”
Her eyes search mine, and she shakes her head. The little liar.
