“Our session,” I say, vaguely remembering an appointment.
“It’s actually why I happened to be here at the right time. I don’t think we’ll have our session today, Ivy, but I’ll be back next week.”
“Thank you, Doctor. I’ll see you out,” Santiago says.
“No need. You stay with your wife. I think Antonia is nearby anyway.”
“Let her know Ivy’s fine. She’s probably worried.”
“Will do.”
They shake hands, and I watch the doctor leave. The moment he does, Santiago turns to me. He sits on the edge of the bed and pushes hair behind my ear. He studies my face in a way he hasn’t before and touches the spot where the tattoo gun left a tiny dot of ink.
“Christ,” he says, wrapping his big hand around the back of my head, gentle with the bump as he weaves his fingers into my hair and draws me against his chest. He holds me like that for the longest moment.
I breathe him in and can’t help the tears of relief as I wrap my arms around his middle, feeling his strength and the power of his protection.
“What I almost did to you,” he says, the words barely audible as if they weren’t meant to be spoken at all as he brings his lips to the top of my head.
I draw back, and he cups my face, his hands on either side, thumbs wiping away old or new tears. I can’t tell anymore. The look in his eyes, though, is pure torture.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I am exactly the monster you prayed I wouldn’t be the night of the wedding.”
I shake my head, touch his cheek, and lean up to kiss his mouth. It’s a chaste kiss, salty with tears. He doesn’t kiss me back, but he lets me kiss him.
“No. You’re not a monster. Not even close.”
He draws in a deep breath close to my head as if he’ll draw my scent into his lungs, inside himself.
“The foundation of my own home is cracked,” he says, and I try to understand what he’s thinking. The dress and the sandals, Mercedes was supposed to bring them to my room? She never did. I didn’t realize he’d somehow gotten hold of them after my days in that cellar. But that alone has led to this? It seems a bit far.
“No, Santiago. It’s not right. I know it. She—”
“Enemies inside my own home. Inside my own heart.”
“Mercedes wouldn’t…” He starts to pull away, but I grab his face with both hands, getting up on my knees so we’re at eye level. “She loves you fiercely.”
“She sent you knowingly to The Tribunal. She would have you bear the consequences. She would see you executed—” His voice cracks on that last word. “And you would defend her?”
I swallow hard.
He stands and turns away, running one hand through his hair while the other rests on his waist.
“I don’t know your sister at all, apart from the fact she’s a bitch. But I know one thing. She would kill for you, Santiago.”
He turns to me, face hard, that mask firmly in place. “Then where the fuck is she?”
I just watch him, see the threads he’s tying in his head, putting things together, putting things in place. Maybe in the wrong places.
“There’s an explanation. I’m sure. You can’t think based on just the clothes missing that she’s somehow responsible.”
“I have cause,” he says vaguely.
Just then, I hear the clicking of heels in the hallway. Santiago hears it too and turns to the door where Mercedes, her face red, steps inside.
“What the hell did you do to my room?”
I hurry out of the bed, ignoring my aching head when Santiago moves toward her, and Mercedes, seeing his face, jumps back.
“Stop, Santiago! Think!” I yell.
He pauses, drawing in a deep breath. “Ivy. I don’t want to hurt you again. Get away from me.”
“No. I won’t.”
Mercedes looks from me to Santiago. I realize her makeup is faded, eyeliner smeared. She looks like she’s had a very long night. “What’s going on?” she asks.
“Where are the clothes I asked you to put in Ivy’s room? The clothes from the night of the gala.”
There’s a shift in her stance. It’s a tiny change, a stiffening, and I wonder if Santiago catches it.
“I threw them away,” she says.
Santiago’s eyebrows rise high on his forehead. “You threw them away? When I told you to put them in Ivy’s room?”
“I didn’t want a reminder of that night. Is that what this is about? Is that why you tore apart my bedroom? What the fuck, Santi?”
I don’t know if it’s the nickname that has him softening or the fact that what she’s saying makes sense.
“You almost died,” she says, her voice passionate as tears spring to her eyes. “Can you blame me for wanting to erase that night?”
Santiago turns away, wraps his hand around the back of his neck, takes two steps, and then faces her again.