“Are you so unaccustomed to being wanted?”
Shame burns inside me, and I am grateful to be alone. Santos sees me. He sees me like no one has ever seen me. It undoes me. I don’t know what to make of last night, of the strange moment we shared. When we made love. All I wanted was for him to see me, to want me, and to make me feel safe like only he can. But at the same time, I’m so angry.
Angry at him for making me feel so vulnerable. Angry at myself for allowing it.
I push off the chair and stare out of the window at the shadow the lighthouse always seems to cast. We flew back to Avarice earlier, and in a way, I am glad to be back. Familiarity, I suppose. Not home. This isn’t home, this luxurious apartment. I’m not sure the house I grew up in is home either, though.
Being away at school for those two years was in a way a blessing. Santos had no idea, of course, but not having the lighthouse hulking in the backdrop of my life provided a relief. Room to breathe. Yes, I missed Odin, but that space made it bearable.
The sun is setting. It will be time to go downstairs soon. Santos went to see his family. I’m dressed in another beautiful gown, this one a purple so deep it looks black. My hair is curled and flowing loose down my back. I didn’t want to have it up tonight. I was getting a headache from all the pins. At least, that’s what I told the hairdresser. The headache was from something else, though.
There’s a knock on my door.
“Come in.”
Val enters, carrying my suitcase. “Where should I put it?”
I point to the bed. “Here’s fine. Thanks.”
He sets it down and leaves. I open it immediately. I hurried to pack but didn’t have too many things. The dresses and shoes I wore to the events had been sent ahead and would be sent back separately.
I unpack the personal things I’d brought and carry my makeup bag into the bathroom. I open it, because I need to take my pill. That’s another thing. I feel like after last night, I trust him to keep his promise to give me the other two months’ worth.
But a quick search through the makeup bag where I know I’d left the little plastic compact has me coming up short.
“Madelena?” Santos calls from the bedroom.
I look through the bag again, taking things out. I know I put it in here. I have always kept it in here.
There’s a knock on the bathroom door, and Santos calls my name again.
“Just a second.”
It’s not here. Had Ana taken them when she’d gone through my things? Why would she, though? The last time I took it was the night before last. Maybe it’s in the suitcase.
Santos’s knuckles rap against the door and despite my best efforts, I feel a pull in my chest, the racing of my heart in anticipation. I open the door, and just as he seems taken aback by the sight of me, so am I with him. He’s dressed in a designer suit, the barely contained muscles of his arms and shoulders making my stomach flutter. His hair is casually slicked back, permanent five o’clock shadow trimmed to accentuate the steel cut of his jaw.
Time slows. I find myself biting my lower lip on a smile, feeling like a teenager with a crush. No. It’s so much more than that. I’m drawn to this man with an intensity that goes far beyond simple physical attraction.
“Are you so unaccustomed to being wanted?”
He wants me.
His eyes widen, then darken, as his gaze skims over me. “You look beautiful,” he says, holding out his hand.
“Did you take anything out of my bag?” I ask.
His gaze shifts away momentarily. “Why?”
“I’m missing my pills.”
“They’re probably in the suitcase. Come with me. We should talk for a minute before we go down.”
“I’m sure I left them in my makeup bag.”
“I’ll help you look for them later.” He smiles. “Come, sit with me for a minute. Don’t worry. I’ll help you.”
I nod, but the look on his face is serious, and it has me even more worried. “What is it?”
“The Avery family will likely be here tonight.”
The room seems to tilt. “Why?”
“I found out from Thiago that they have bought some property in Avarice.”
“Here?”
“It doesn’t matter. They don’t matter. I just wanted you to be prepared.”
“Can I ask you something? About Camilla?”
He nods.
“Were you together once?”
His eyebrows furrow. “Why?”
“Caius mentioned—”
“Caius?”
“He said you two were supposed to get married.”
Santos’s face shuts down, eyes losing that sheen of moments ago and the line of his mouth tightening. “Did he?”
“Is it true?”
“You have no reason to be jealous.”
“I’m not. I just want to know the truth.”
He studies me. “There was a moment in time that Camilla may have thought she wanted that, but I can assure you I did not, and she was far too young to make that sort of decision.”
“So were you engaged?” I push because I want a straight answer.
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Have you slept with her?”
“Fuck no.” He pauses, seeming to consider something. “I’ve only slept with one other woman in my life, and it wasn’t Camilla Avery,” he says, a sadness lingering along the edges of his words that makes me want to ask him about this woman. “Listen, Madelena, my brother has been known to stir the pot. The cuts,” he says, pausing.
I look away. I can’t hold his gaze.
“I didn’t tell him about those. As far as I’m concerned, it’s no one’s business but ours. Ana told him, and he was fucking with you. With us. That’s all.”
At that last part, I look up at him. I’d guessed it was Ana when Santos told me he hadn’t mentioned it. But the word us? That catches me off guard.
Santos smiles, lines forming around his eyes that have me smiling a small smile too. He wraps one big hand around the back of my head and pulls me toward him.
“You have to learn to trust me, okay? I won’t lie to you. I may leave things out when there is nothing but hurt that can come from my words, but I won’t lie to you. Understand?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, feeling my eyes warm. I nod. I do understand, and there’s a part of me that wants it to be real, that wants him to be honest.
That wants him to want me.
Because he’s right. I am utterly unaccustomed to being wanted. And when you know something like that, when you know it in your bones, it’s hard to un-know.
“Good.” He tilts my head up. “No tears. Not tonight.”
I nod again, still biting my lip, not sure I’ll be able to give him that. He takes my hands in his, does that thing where he weaves his fingers with mine, and God, it feels good. It feels safe and warm and good. Can I trust him? Can I trust this man who entered my life with the words forgive me on his lips just before slitting my palm open?
“Come. Sooner we make an appearance, the sooner we’ll be able to leave.”