Page 103 of When Lies Unfold

Sinister. Menacing. Those black eyes bore into mine. “You wanna tell me why you were outside with a packed bag tonight?”

Fuck. I swallow hard. Because tonight, he’s been so…

I almost choose the word kind, which seems downright bizarre and unlikely for a man like him. But it’s true.

He shot his own nephew in retaliation for me. He carried Belleza’s body to the jungle so she could be buried. He helped dig her grave.

And when my legs gave out, he carried me back to the house.

But most of all, he held my hand and let me squeeze it as if willing to take on the brunt of my pain.

Rioting emotions ignite inside me, because I know better than to fall for ruses. I know better than to think anyone would choose me over money and power.

Once a pawn, always a pawn. There’s no getting past it.

But I know very well I have to give a little, so he’ll back off.

Handing over any information to him is not only supremely stupid but dangerous as hell. Yet I know he’ll hound me until I disclose something. And I’ll have to give him just enough…

Stick as close to the truth as you can.

Resignation envelops me, thick and suffocating. I manage to dredge the words up. “It’s my birthday…of sorts.”

“Explain.” Expression hard, his gaze is positively arctic.

I inhale deeply before forging on. “Today is my birthday….and the anniversary of my death.”

His eyes narrow, but he remains silent, waiting for my explanation.

“I…left behind a prison. Emotionally and physically. And being here”—I gesture with my right hand—“is too similar. It’s a continuous reminder of my past.”

My throat threatens to swell shut, but I force the remaining words out.

“I worked so hard to build this life for myself.” A harsh, mocking laugh spills out. “And I get that it’s nothing like the life you have—I don’t have a ton of money and a huge home to show for it—but it’s mine.” My voice trails off, diminishing. “It’s something that’s all mine.”

Swallowing audibly, I meet his dark gaze. “And you came and ripped it away from me.”

We stand entrenched in silence. His focus remains riveted to my face as though he’s scouring for evidence of lies.

Something indecipherable flashes across his features, his expression speculative. “And those scars along your shoulder are from this”—he hesitates a millisecond—“life you left behind?”

I strive to trap the raw emotion attempting to rise to the surface. No good ever comes of revisiting my past in any way—whether tapping into wounded emotions or memories. “Yes.”

A muscle in his cheek jumps. “The ones on your face, too?”

“Yes.”

“How many are there?”

My brain stutters on his question. “How many…scars?”

That muscle in his cheek jumps again. “Yeah.”

My mouth curls in the start of a humorless smile. “Too many to count.”

He shoves off the vanity with such abruptness that it catches me off guard, and my body goes rigid.

Fury bleeds into his features, his nostrils flaring as if he’s desperate to inhale much-needed oxygen. Fists clenching and unclenching, his eyes bore into mine.

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