8
NIALL
Despite my best efforts, I woke up the next morning in the Santiago mansion anyway, feeling as if I’d been run over by a semi-truck—make that several semis, actually.
It’s a markedly nicer room than my hotel, I have to admit. The sheets are linen so soft they could make an angel weep, the down pillows like sleeping on clouds, and the duvet a perfect weight against the slight chill in the room from the morning air. The furniture is all polished to a high shine, the room smelling of eucalyptus and roses, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that my entire body feels as if I’ve bruised every inch both inside and out, it would have been one of the more pleasant wake-ups I’ve had.
I peel the duvet and sheets back, looking down at the gash in my side where one of Diego’s assassins knifed me. Someone stitched it up while I was out cold, nice and neat, and got all the blood off me to boot. Black and purple bruises are blooming over most of the visible skin around it, but at least I’m able to move, and I didn’t bleed out. Thinking back, it’s nothing short of a miracle that I managed to ride all the way here.
There’s a soft knock at the door, and then it opens to reveal a pretty girl in a simple black dress, her hair braided back. “I’m Mia, one of the maids,” she says softly, and I’m suddenly very aware from how her eyes slide over me and her cheeks turn pink that I’m in nothing but my boxers. I yank the covers back over me quickly, and she blushes deeper.
“Sorry, sir. I brought you breakfast. Mr. Santiago says he wants to see you straight away. He’s quite upset.”
Well, he would be. The man he tasked with getting his daughter back passed out in his courtyard last night from blood loss.
“I see. And breakfast is—”
“Oh! Right here, sir!” I’m not sure her cheeks could get any redder, as the girl scampers to bring in a rolling room-service type cart with covered plates. “Here it is. I—I’ll be going, then—”
She leaves so quickly that I’d have almost thought she wasn’t there at all, like a sight of one of the fairy-folk my grandmother talked about before she passed, if not for the food she left behind. I stifle a grin and then a groan of pain as I sit up and reach for the plate, feeling my gut rumble with hunger.
Well, at least you’ve still got it, even as banged up as you are.If not for the bruises and my recent experiences, the maid was just the kind of girl I would have liked to shut the door behind and tumble into bed, just to find out what kind of squeaks she might make when I licked her in the right places. But Saoirse had gone a long way towards curdling my desires for a quick roll in the sheets with an intriguing woman, and Isabella finished the job.
What makes it worse is that I still want Isabella. I dreamed of her last night while I was out, fitful, painful dreams that started out with her in my bed like she used to be and devolved quickly into my discovery of exactly how she’d lied to me. Dreams in which we shouted and fought, and she cried, begging me to forgive her. Dreams in which I couldn’t, and now in the light of day, I’m not sure how true to life they were.
I want to get her back from Diego. Aside from it simply being the right thing to do, there’s a protectiveness in me towards her that I can’t shake. I’d felt it that first night when I’d asked her repeatedly if she was sure that she wanted it, giving her space to say no, she was too drunk, she’d made a mistake. Even as my cock ached with the need to be inside of her, I’d told her I’d stop if she needed me to. I’d known from the start I could never do anything to hurt her.
Bloody shame she didn’t feel the same way about me.I muscle down as much of the breakfast as I can—it’s good, but I still feel a bit woozy, and my stomach isn’t sure if it can keep it all down. My clothes are gone, but there’s a fresh set next to the bet—dark brown chinos and a chambray shirt. Not my usual style, but I pull them on anyway, rolling the pants that are a bit too long above the ankles of my motorcycle boots and buttoning the shirt as quickly as I can with all my injuries, reaching for my jacket. My gun and knife aren’t there, and I have a feeling I’ll have to get them back from Ricardo.
I intend to go straight to his office, collect my things, and come up with a plan of attack. But as I make my way painfully down the hall, feeling every bruise and wound tighten and contract with my steps, I hear the sound of soft crying from one of the bedrooms, the door partially open.
It’s not my business, I tell myself, but I stop anyway. The cries sound like the owner is trying to muffle them, like someone who is grieving deeply, and something about it tugs at what softness is left in me. It’s not much, but there’s still something there.
I push open the door to see a girl who can’t be much more than eighteen sitting on the bed, her hands clasped between her knees, bowed forward. Her hair is braided around her head in a halo, and if it weren’t for the fact that her face is slightly rounder and her figure more petite, I would have thought the girl was Isabella.
It doesn’t take much to figure out that she must be the little sister Isabella spoke about. Elena.
“Are you alright?” I ask gruffly, standing at the door. I don’t want to frighten her, and the last thing I need is to be caught alone in a bedroom with another of the Santiago daughters. “Elena?”
She looks up with a small gasp. “How do you know my name?” she manages through tears, and I shrug, leaning against the doorjamb.
“You look like your sister. She mentioned you.”
“She—” Elena frowns. “Whoareyou?”
So she never mentioned me.I remember Ángel saying something about it in the office, that Isabella would never have made her little sister keep such a secret. She knows now what Isabella did—her sister announced it in front of the entire gala—but Elena must not have seen who Isabella pointed to, and been hustled upstairs before she could piece the rest of it together as the party turned violent.
“A friend.” I press my lips together.
Understanding dawns in Elena’s eyes despite my circumspection. “Oh,” she says softly. “Isabella’s—friend.” She bites her lower lip, tears welling in her eyes. “You must care for her, right? Are you going to get her back?”
You must care for her.Something about those words, the innocence of them, cuts me to the bone, said as if it’s a given that any man who took her sister’s virginity would care for her. The absolute inaccuracy of that, the fact that there are so very many men in the world who wouldn’t give a shit, makes my soul hurt for the petite, sweet girl sitting in front of me.
Ricardo kept his daughters too innocent. They’re not prepared for the world we all live in.
“I’m going to try to get her back,” I tell Elena firmly. “I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep. I try not to be that sort of man. But I’m going to do my best for your sister.”
Elena nods, sniffing back tears as she stands up. “Thank you,” she says softly, walking towards me and stopping a few steps away. She’s a younger version of Isabella—a little shorter, more petite, with a softness that Isabella doesn’t have—but there’s no question that they’re sisters. I can’t bear to tell her at that moment what I’m fairly sure no one else has said—that even if I can get Isabella back, I won’t really be bringing her home. Elena may never see her sister again.