Page 23 of Vow of Silence

Benito turns his head slightly, peering at me over his shoulder.

His raw profile strikes me speechless. I noticed the changes in him last night, but my brain was firmly in survival mode—not in the right frame to dissect the details. The soft lips are all that remain of the boyishly handsome face that cut my heart in two all those years ago. His high cheekbones have hardened, cutting a fine indentation to his firm mouth. Innocence has long left the piercing blue of his shadowed eyes, replaced by the clouded darkness of a man forced to grow up faster than most.

I step carefully to his offside, arms folded across my chest. “Is it true?”

He lifts his eyebrows as though to ask,“Is what?”

“You don’t speak.” I state the words more than answer his silent question.

A sardonic smile pulls at his lips, and he huffs while staring at the dark lake beyond.

“Why not?” I take a step closer, angered by the shadows that hide his masculine beauty from me.

His firm gaze locks with mine, and he rolls his lips together. Benito’s nostrils flare, almost as though he’s frustrated at being unable to explain. Or, perhaps he doesn’t want to?

“I thought maybe the silence was only for me when you didn’t say anything.” I duck my head to hide my shame at the memories. “You cut me off so fast, all those years ago, and I always assumed I’d done something to deserve the change of heart.” A cold breeze whips off the water’s placid surface, causing me to shiver.

Benito exhales heavily, his hands sliding free of his slacks pockets. Thick fingers fist tight and then relax repeatedly. He exhales long and loud, his gaze fixed on the ground between our feet. Wherever he is, it’s not with me, and it’s not a good place.

“Our parents will force us to marry, even if we protest.” I tilt my head to meet his reticent eye. “The choice is out of our hands as long as our fathers lead our families. You’ll need to explain why you refuse to speak to me sooner rather than later.”

His cheek twitches, eye flinching as he does. Benito fists his hands—hard—and takes a quick step toward me. I lean back instinctually yet manage to grind my heel to the ground; he won’t intimidate me. No man deserves to make me cower. The woodsy notes of his cologne wash over me, mingling with the soft perfume of the flowers overhead. He exhales heavily and sets his lips in a firm line as he slowly reaches toward me.

I watch his hand turn, the gesture softening the closer he gets. Stiff fingers graze my face in a delicate caress, a sigh shuddering from deep within his chest. He would touch me like this often when we were younger. The muscle memory hits me surprisingly hard as I lean into his affection.

I jerk free of the spell and back up a step. “You can’t pretend nothing happened, Benito.” I grip my upper arms, shieldingmyself from his influence. “You owe me an explanation of why you cut me off; if not, why you won’t talk to me now.”

He lifts his index finger, closing his eyes briefly as though to indicate we should tackle one thing at a time. I’m inclined to agree. Brilliant blue intensity holds my gaze captive as he ducks his chin slightly and places a hand on his heart.

“Do I trust you?” I frown.

He nods, impassive as always.

I have no answer. My head tells me he’s no threat, but my heart still carries the scars of the wounds he inflicted.

Slowly, as though not to spook me again, Benito extends his hand. He holds mine, guiding our joined touch to his chest. My palm grazes the hard planes of his chest before he settles it over his breastbone, trapping my fingers against him. Our gaze is locked, softness seeping into his harsh stare as he slowly draws in a breath and then exhales.

My frown deepens; I don’t understand.

He shakes his head and then places his free hand on my chest in the same spot as his. Naturally, my intake increases; the intimacy of a simple touch overwhelms parts of me that have longed for this for too long. Again, Benito draws a deep breath, pressing a little harder against my chest as he does.

He wants me to do the same as I feel him doing.

I try to match his pace, slowing my inhale and exhale until our breathing balances. I feel it everywhere, the sense of calm that washes through me as I continue to draw deep, fortifying breaths.

He pats me gently on the breastbone as though to tell me to maintain the pace. I struggle, the anticipation of the moment creating unease when he draws his hands together in a prayer position and places them in front of his face. Benito’s eyes close, his brow furrowed as though unsure what will happen next.

As though he begs for guidance.

I press my palm to his chest, the same as he did me, and urge him to breathe deeply. “What worries you like this?”

He again rolls his lips as though the words long to break free, but something traps him from voicing his thoughts. With a flurry of hands, Benito tugs his phone from his jacket pocket and then taps out a brief message in the notes app. He spins the screen to face me, fingertips pressed white against the sides of the device.

Let me show you why I can’t speak. Why I can never tell you I’m sorry for the things I did, no matter how much I wish I could.

I lift my gaze to his, brow furrowed and a flurry of questions vying for occupancy inside my mind. He lifts a finger and then adds another line.

Please don’t get upset. I don’t want to scare you.

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