Page 119 of Drawn Blue Lines

“You already have.”

“You’re lying,” I hissed. “Brody doesn’t know this place exists, and unless you plan to stop hiding like a little bitch, no one is coming for me. This is it, Ignacio. This is the end of the line. Walk into the sun or fade into the background. I don’t really give a shit.”

His cold eyes searched mine then hardened. “You really don’t know?”

I scowled through a rattled cough. “Enlighten me.”

“When said you were nothing but a puppet, I meant it. When I said you were the rat who never failed to take the offered cheese and got her fucking neck snapped, I meant it. When I explained that you’ve done exactly what I thought you would do and run to exactly who I thought you’d run to for years, I fucking meant it.”

“For years…” My voice trailed off as I stared at the blade, the words flitting through my head. Ignacio saw the moment they clicked together, his smile widening along with my eyes, my heart slamming against my chest. Slowly lifting my hand, I covered my mouth, my shoulders heaving with exertion.

Speaking the words out loud peeled back the hidden layers to reveal a truth that I didn’t want to face but couldn’t deny.

“What’s wrong rat? Cat got your tongue?”

“Cristiano,” I whispered, the word muddled behind the safety of my palm.

Ignacio’s dark gaze gleamed under the muted glow of the swinging overhead light. “How do you think I found you in the first place, puta?” he taunted, running his tongue across his teeth. “Did you think he really wanted to marry you?”

“It can’t be.” I was going to be sick. I rolled over, my stomach contracting into a coiled knot of betrayal.

As the light flickered again, Ignacio stood, a deep laugh rumbling in his chest. “I warned you not to fear the knife to your throat as much as the one in your back, Mari.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Brody

Mexico City, Mexico

Val looked up from his glass, narrowing his bloodshot eyes at the bruised man standing before him. “Your eyes are blue.”

Ignoring the two soldiers holding him immobile, Cristiano centered his gaze on the force of nature across the room. “And yours are red. And blue and red make purple, which, incidentally, is the color of Harcourt’s face. Care to discuss the other sixty-one colors in the crayon box?”

I shook my head.

Dumbass.

Antagonizing the man who held his life in his hands wasn’t a smart move.

Val had Cristiano hauled in bleeding, bruised, and barely able to see out of two swollen eyes. To be honest, I had no idea how he could tell the guy had eyes, much less what color they were.

“Adriana,” I muttered. Not that anyone heard me. Those two idiots were too busy playing some fucked up alpha dick chess game we didn’t have time for.

However, it was Val’s move, and he played to win. “You’re only half Latino.”

Cristiano smirked. “And yet, you’re one hundred percent asshole.”

“Motherfucker,” Val growled, his monotone voice low and clipped. Even soaked in alcohol, it was there, stretched to its limits.

Snap threat.

Cristiano glanced my way while licking blood off his teeth. “Is he always this pleasant?”

“Shut up!” Tilting my head back, I stared at the ceiling, trying to rein in my temper.

I swore, once he helped us get Adriana and Santi back, I was breaking that asshole’s nose.

Inhaling hard, I settled my eyes on a pissed-off, half-drunk, guilt-ridden Val. “Where did you find him?” My teeth gnashed as I scanned my eyes across Cristiano’s beaten face. “And why didn’t you let me at him first?”

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