Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86768 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
The beacon of the lighthouse pans over the black waters of the Atlantic, and I’m momentarily transfixed. My heart races as I see the great white structure in my periphery. The lighthouse stands tall and menacing on the farthest point of the cliff.
The official name is Avarice Point but what the locals call it is much more accurate.
Suicide Rock.
I go to the windows, equally drawn and terrified, and set the tips of my fingers against the cool glass. A mist is moving in over the water. My gaze is dragged toward that lighthouse, but I catch myself in time, looking down instead—which is a mistake. Not for the height, although it’s quite a distance to fall, but because of the cliffs themselves. They terrify me, and I find myself stumbling backward, suddenly dizzy.
Santos is at my side in an instant. He steadies me. He must have crossed the room when I had my back to him. He’s a good head taller than me, more than that if I take off my heels. This close, I can see the few gray hairs in his permanent five-o’clock shadow and the specks of gold in his green eyes. I can smell the familiar scent of him, too, and it’s a strange, wrong comfort.
He narrows his eyes and tilts his head slightly as if studying me. I wonder—not for the first time—if he can read my mind. More likely, he can read my face. He’s much more aware and pays a lot closer attention than most people.
“Steady?” he asks, drawing me out of my thoughts. It’s a good thing.
“Fine,” I say, purposefully sounding irritated as I remind myself what he is to me.
What I am to him.
He nods, closing off his face to me again. It’s when I realize he was letting me see him momentarily. He releases me and takes my clutch from my hand. Opening it, he pulls the flask out again.
My heels click as I move away from him to plop down on the edge of the sofa, tugging the slit of my dress closed when it slips open. I sit with my back to him as I try to force my vision to steady.
He must open the flask and smell or taste what’s left because he asks, “Whiskey?”
I shrug. “What are we doing up here?”
“Remind me how old you are,” he says, coming to stand in front of me. He’s close enough that the toes of our shoes are almost touching, and I need to crane my head to meet his eyes. I should stand up. He already has the upper hand in every way when it comes to us. But my limbs feel weighed down.
“You ask me that every time we meet,” I answer. “Math not your strong suit?”
“Eighteen. And you’re drunk on whiskey. Not to mention the painkillers, which I’m guessing aren’t aspirin.”
“I’m not drunk.” I don’t address the aspirin comment.
“No?”
“No.”
“Stand up.”
I close my eyes and shake my head as if I’m irritated.
“Do it. Or can’t you?”
I roll my eyes and manage to force myself up. It takes effort.
“You’re going to stop rolling your eyes at me. Now walk a straight line.”
“What are you, the police? I’m not driving. I just had a little whiskey.”
“Not a little if this was full. Was it?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“I’m tired,” I say, walking past him toward the door. “If you’re through interrogating me, I’d like to go home.”
I expect him to stop me but when he doesn’t, I pull the door open. I know why he didn’t bother telling me not to because the same soldier who just let us in blocks my path. He looks to Santos for a signal. He must give it because the man folds his arms and remains where he is. He’s built like a fucking tank. So, I close the door and turn back to Santos and wait, hoping the look on my face tells him how much I dislike this and him right now.
“Come,” he says, holding out his hand.
I shake my head.
“Do you understand, Madelena, what it means to belong to me?”
“Do you hear how that sounds?”
“It means I take care of what’s mine.”
That is not the answer I am expecting, and I’m struck mute.
“Come,” he repeats, gesturing for me to take his hand.
I look at it. I see the scar in his palm, the one that matches mine. It reminds me of the first night I met him. I shift my gaze up to his. “Why? Do you have a knife on you somewhere?” I ask to turn things around. Because he and I cannot be, will not be. I may have no choice in a marriage, but I can choose my emotions. I can choose if I give him more than he takes.
And I’ve already decided that I won’t.
He lets out a short exhale. “I didn’t want to do that to you, but it had to be done.”