I didn’t have to be lonely anymore. Before I’d been forced to marry Sebastián, I’d dreamed of a life of contentment—not happiness, but contentment. I’d thought that dream had died on our wedding day, but maybe not. I believed that Sebastián truly cared about me. That was more than I’d ever expected from a husband, even if I had managed to find an amicable match.
He would always be a bit taciturn, but he was reliable. Kind. He’d sworn he would never hurt me, and I was starting to believe him. He’d said I didn’t have to be lonely anymore.
I smiled to myself and went back into the kitchen to check on the food. It would be ready soon, and my husband should be home any minute now. I couldn’t wait to show him what I’d done for him.
Sebastián never came home for dinner. It was nearly midnight. The chef had left hours ago. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to eat the food that I’d prepared. Not when I’d done it for him, and he’d let me down.
He was probably off doing something with his criminal friends. And really, it was ridiculous for me to expect a man like him to want to spend time with me. I was half his age. He probably found me tedious.
But still, I’d hoped…
I slapped my hands down on the empty dining table, where I’d been waiting for him like a stupid little girl. My eyes burned. I’d been an idiot to think he’d care. Just because he was kind didn’t mean he actually enjoyed spending time with me. Sure, we had dinner together, but a man had to eat. It didn’t mean anything that we ate at the same time. We lived in the same house. It was probably simply convenient for him.
I threaded my fingers through my hair, tugging in frustration. I shouldn’t have hoped for more. Life was easier when I accepted that I would always be alone. Alone was easier.
Pain knifed through my chest. I’d been so foolish, and now I was paying the emotional price for my stupidity.
“Isabel?” I jolted at the sound of his deep voice. “What are you doing in here?”
I scrubbed the hint of tears from my eyes before pulling my hands away from my face. I didn’t want him to see how torn up I was over his absence. It was beyond embarrassing.
“Nothing,” I said thickly. I pushed up off the dining chair. “I was just about to go to bed.”
I tried to brush past him into the corridor, but he stepped into my path, blocking me. I was too mortified to meet his eyes. I couldn’t bear it if he saw the childish hurt in mine.
“Are you all right?” His big hands bracketed my shoulders, trapping me in a gentle but unbreakable grip.
“I’m fine,” I replied stiffly. His touch set my teeth on edge. The warmth of his hands pulsed deep into my body, awakening traitorous feelings. My eyes stung.
“Tell me what’s wrong.” His voice was stern, commanding my compliance.
I twisted in his hold. “Nothing. Let me go.”
When he didn’t release me immediately, I shoved at his chest, desperate to break the sizzling contact between us.
Shock tore through my mounting desire when he hissed in a sharp breath, and his muscles rippled beneath my hands. Something dark and wet seeped through his charcoal gray shirt, marring it with a streak of black. I jerked my hand away. My palm was smeared with crimson.
“You’re hurt!” My resentment evaporated, and worry gnawed at my heart.
His brows drew together, and he scowled at the red mark on my skin. He carefully grasped my bloodstained hand and wiped it off on the hem of his soft cotton shirt.
“It’s just a graze,” he rumbled. “I’m okay.”
Fear fluttered in my belly. He was bleeding. I knew he was stoic; I couldn’t trust him when he insisted that he was fine.
My hands fisted in his shirt, careful to avoid the hurt area. I started tugging it upward. “Let me see.” The demand hitched with anxiety.
His defined abs flexed beneath my touch, and his dusting of dark hair tickled my fingertips. He gently grasped my wrists and directed my hands to my sides. Finally, I looked up into his eyes. They were dark and deep with some emotion I didn’t understand.
“I’m fine, tesoro,” he promised. “I don’t want you to see. It’s just a graze, and I’ve been patched up.”
“What happened?” If he wouldn’t show me the damage, he could at least explain. I had to know that he wasn’t grievously injured.
His lips pressed together. He didn’t like talking to me about his business with the cartel.
“Tell me,” I insisted. “Tell me, or show me.”
His brow furrowed. “Why?”
“Because I don’t believe that you’re okay,” I said in a rush, slightly accusatory. “You could be bleeding out, and you’d say that you were fine. Convince me.”