I angle my head the way he’s guiding as he deftly applies some sort of mask along my eyebrows. “My brother got the brains, I think. The street smarts, for certain. Ferdinand was always so quick on his feet, so clever. I wasn’t like that. I felt like I needed to stop and think things through. I didn’t want to react too quickly or say something stupid. My mother would make me pay for every misstep.” I run my fingers along my jaw line where the faint bruise still lingers.
“She was harder on you than him?” He swipes something that smells like fresh cucumbers across the mark.
“Definitely. But I think that’s normal in our households, you know? Ferdinand and my father were always plotting and planning, and my mother was always trying to think of ways to make me a perfected version of herself.”
“Oof.” He frowns. “That sounds hellish.”
I smile, mainly because I’ve been thinking that this is hell right here, not the house I came from. If nothing else, the devil lives at this address, but Lito is right. My parents’ home was horrible for me. Body issues, control issues, panic, and anxiety—I’m surprised I haven’t completely cracked in half under the pressure. The only release valve I had was Ferdinand, but when he was killed, I lost everything.
“Have you been happy here at all?” He steps back and examines his work on my face. “You’ve only been here a few days, but at least your mother—” He glances at my bruised jaw “—isn’t here to dump her issues on you. And Mateo can’t be that bad, right?”
“He’s plenty bad.” I scoff. “I don’t know. I mean, he’s gorgeous, and I swear I see so much in him when I look into his eyes sometimes. But, then again, maybe I’m just seeing a psychopath who’s good at fooling me.”
“Eyes up.” He places a cool mask on my face, pressing it into shape. “A psychopath, hmm? Do you really believe that?” He gives me an exaggerated side eye then pulls me from the vanity chair and guides me to the bed. He squeaks with glee when he sees the rolling cart beside the door, two large pink margaritas sitting on it. “Carter, my man, you’ve outdone yourself.” He does a chef’s kiss on his fingers before grabbing them and handing me one while he takes a big swig of his, getting a little on the edge of his sheet mask. “Drink first, then answer my question.” He tips the bottom of my glass so I swallow more margarita than I intended, but it goes down sweetly with no alcohol-flavored bite.
“Are these virgin?” I take another big swig.
“They’re top shelf.” He walks around to the other side of the bed. “Now, do you truly think my brother is nutso, or do you think there might be some shades of gray in there?”
“I don’t know.” I let all my frustration leak into my words as I turn down the sheet and the blanket, Mateo’s scent wafting off the linens and turning my feelings into a thorn-filled tangle. “Even if there was something there, I don’t know if I can just get over the trauma of what he did. He bought me. He killed without the slightest hint of remorse. He gave me a damn maid uniform, and he … he’s done things to me.”
“Did you hate the things he did to you?” he asks. “But don’t go into details or I might vomit.”
“Yes and no. It’s complicated.”
“Okay.” He sighs. “Go into a little bit more detail so I can understand, but not so much detail that I have to retch violently just to get the images of you and my brother out of my mind.”
“He’s so rough, and he takes things I haven’t given him.” I chew on my bottom lip then take another big drink of my margarita as I try to think through it all. “He’s a bully. Isn’t he? I think you know he is. He’s so blunt and mean and, and, and infuriating. I mean, I’ve never been with a guy, but I can’t imagine this is a normal way for, you know, sex stuff to happen.” Oh, god, I need to stop drinking. Even so, I barrel on, “But he makes me feel like … like I want him to take those things, to do those things to me. But then I feel ashamed to want that from him, because he doesn’t see me as anything other than a toy. He calls me ‘princess’ to humiliate me. He hates me, and I don’t really understand why. But … But he hasn’t pushed me to the point of breaking. He’s gotten really, really close. But he hasn’t …”
“He hasn’t fucked you?” His tone drips with incredulity. “Seriously?”
My cheeks burn, and I would press my palms to them to cool them if my face wasn’t covered in a sheet mask. “No. I mean, he tried, but I said no.”