Page 27 of When Lies Unfold

Tension riddles the muscles in the back of my neck, but I slide my bag off and grip it in one hand. “Here you go.”

I don’t step closer to hand it to him. I hold it out with the expectation that he’ll come to me.

It’s a juvenile standoff, and I have no business taunting this man. He stirs something within me, the urge to stand my ground even more. To get as far from the meek woman I once was.

It’s dangerous—I know it. It would be wise to play by his rules and do as he says. Even associating with him puts me in extreme danger.

Yet I can’t deny the sensation that sparks through me when his gaze turns squinty and he advances on me.

I will my heartbeat to remain calm as he plucks the bag from my grip and unzips it while his penetrating eyes pierce mine. When he drops his attention to the contents, my shoulders drop a small fraction in relief.

It’s short-lived, of course.

“Plannin’ to do some sewin’ in the dark?” Heavy suspicion lines his tone, coated in sarcasm that grows thicker as his eyes lift to mine. “Surely some pizote?1 or puma got a sock they need repaired, right?”

“Sewing calms me.”

“Yeah?” His brows rise. “Like the nighttime jungle does?” He grunts. “I’m sure all those snakes and scorpions crawlin’ around are extremely soothin’.”

“It’s peaceful and quiet,” I counter before lifting my chin a notch. “And no one’s there to threaten me.”

He makes a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat before withdrawing the small containers of cayenne pepper, turmeric powder, and valerian root powder.

Holding it up with furrowed brows, he stares at me. “Suppose you’re gonna tell me you’re out there sprinklin’ this to find your way back home?”

I grind my teeth, refusing to respond. The asshole doesn’t need to know why I carry those. That they’re powerful at stopping bleeding, boosting the immune system, or helping with sleep, respectively.

His expression grows pissier by the second. He shoves my bag at me so abruptly and unexpectedly, I scramble to grasp it.

In my socked feet, I’m forced to tip my head to peer up at him when he advances closer. Aggravation paints his expression. “You’re not buildin’ much credibility, Miss Arias.”

“Yeah?” I fire back hotly. “Well, here’s a newsflash: I don’t normally lose sleep over what a murderous narco thinks of me.”

Our eyes clash, battling it out in a silent war. His proximity within the quiet confines of my bedroom has a sudden awareness sinking in. His scent surrounds me just as it did when he found me in that bedroom the night of the murder.

His nostrils flare in irritation that I’m not cowering as expected, and the start of a smirk plays at my lips. When he raises his hand near my face, however, that smirk disappears as my full-body jolt makes him freeze in place.

That reaction is like ice water being thrown at me. It fills me with hate and resentment for a multitude of reasons, because there’s no way to retract my flinch or my sudden, white-knuckled grip on my bag.

My cheekbones and left hand ignite with the memory of pain, a familiar male’s hands delivering blow after blow.

I suck in a breath and take a small step back. Santiago’s brows converge as curiosity and a dawning awareness gloss over his features. “You got a leaf right here.” He murmurs this softly before plucking the offending object from my hair.

When he holds it between us as though it’s some kind of offering, I don’t accept it. Instead, I internally will him to leave it the fuck alone. He’s managed to open up a bloody wound that may never fully heal, and I can’t stand the thought of this murderous criminal possessing the knowledge.

Still holding the leaf by the stem, he watches me with an inscrutable expression. “You thought I was gonna hit you.”

There’s no inflection in his phrasing, and I know he’s seeking a response. But I don’t offer one. I can’t. My answer is lodged firmly in my throat.

My silence aggravates him. This much is evident by the tensing of his jaw. He lowers his gaze to the leaf, his tone hushed as if he’s sharing a secret. “I don’t go around hittin’ people for no reason. Certainly not women.”

Thick silence hangs between us before his attention returns to me. “And if I do, it’s always justified.” His voice drops even lower, possessing an almost intimate quality. “Always, Lola.”

When he turns and strides out my bedroom door, pulling it closed behind him, I’m left rattled for more than two reasons.

It isn’t solely because I had another encounter with the infamous Santiago Hernández in my home. Nor is it because my past trauma reared its ugly head when he raised his hand to me.

It’s because he called me Lola…and my reaction to that wasn’t entirely revulsion.

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