Page 12 of When Lies Unfold

Just because he’s spared my life—so far—doesn’t mean he has a soft spot. It’s all calculated. He’s a lowlife, just like his murderous nephew.

“I’ll be watchin’ you, Miss Arias.” He delivers this ominous threat in a barely audible murmur. When he leans in again, his proximity has goose bumps rising along my skin. “Every fuckin’ move you make. And the moment you fuck up”—he has the muzzle of his gun pressed beneath my chin in a move far too fluid and unnaturally soundless—“nothin’ll stop me from pullin’ this trigger.”

The cool metal is unforgiving against my flesh, prodding in a way that’s far too familiar.

My throat turns bone dry while my mouth feels as though it’s been filled with sand. When I attempt to moisten my lips, his focus drops, riveted to my tongue’s quick movement.

All oxygen is robbed from my lungs and the air flares to life as though it’s been electrified. Those obsidian eyes flicker with what I’d assume was heat if it were anyone else but him.

When he speaks in a low, gravelly tone, each movement of his full lips holds my gaze captive. “Good night, Miss Arias.”

It shouldn’t sound like a caress. Not from this man. That’s what I repeat internally, because…shit.

My entire system must be out of whack. That has to be it. Years of avoiding men. Of celibacy. Of getting my life back on track after my dreams were stolen from me.

It’s all taken a toll, and now, my proverbial compass that’s supposed to point toward a nice, attractive, nonthreatening man is severely damaged.

With that subdued farewell, Santiago lowers his weapon and strides toward the door, exiting quietly. Even in his absence, he’s polluted my home with a dense, malicious smog.

I reach the count of ten before my knees go shaky, and I slump back against the wall.

Five years. I rebuilt my entire life, and now one man—one undeniable asshole of a man—is threatening every part of it.

My legs quiver, and I crumple to the floor. Curling my knees against my chest, I wrap my arms around them and stare sightlessly across the living room.

I have no choice but to prove to a cartel leader that I’m trustworthy.

And I will. Fuck Santiago Hernández and his doubts. His threats. His arrogance.

I haven’t made it this far by being easily tripped up by some vicious criminal.

I sure as hell don’t plan to start now.

1 A little house.

6

SANTIAGO

When I slide into the vehicle beside Gordo, my attention’s still seized by that damn casita door.

And the woman behind it.

I can lie to myself all I want and say I didn’t want to leave solely ’cause I don’t trust her. But that’s not the whole truth.

There’s a weird motherfuckin’ pull between us, and I know she felt it too. I could tell when her breath caught in her throat and her tongue darted out to wet her lips.

When she didn’t answer my questions—when she failed to give me more insight into who she is beneath the surface—disappointment and frustration were fierce as fuck.

Even stranger is whatever the hell it was that held me back from askin’ about the scars on her face.

I scrub my hands down my face and force my thoughts away from the distraction and complication I sure as fuck don’t need.

My men navigate the vehicle along the rough terrain of the unpaved road while I ruminate over what occurred tonight.

I turn to Gordo. “You told ’em to watch over the house?”

He dips his chin in a nod. “Yeah, boss.”

---