Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91847 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 459(@200wpm)___ 367(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
The devil who stole Santos’s soul.
I close the book and get up to throw it into the fire because it’s disgusting. The fire hisses when I drop the book in as it displaces the log that’s still a little damp. The book lands on its spine and falls open to that page with the Commander smiling a wide, evil smile.
Something has me snatching the photo out just as the rest of the book catches fire. I don’t know what it is, but as I kneel on the floor and study it, it’s familiar in a way. He’s familiar. Is it Thiago I’m remembering? No, Thiago doesn’t look like him. He looks like his mother. It’s not his face exactly. It’s something else, something I can’t quite put my finger on.
A loud thud comes from downstairs, and I startle, my gaze snapping to the door. Someone mutters a curse and I wonder if it’s the second soldier or even Val. It’s pretty dark down there and cramped with furniture. I guess one of them walked into something.
Footsteps begin to come up the stairs, and I get to my feet, picking up that photo and setting it on the nightstand. I pull my sweater closer and count the footsteps. Thirteen to get to the second floor. A soft knock comes. Assuming it’s Val coming to check on me, I am about to walk over to open it, but he opens it from the outside. It squeaks on its hinges as the top of his head comes into view.
Except that’s not Val’s head. It’s not either of the soldiers either. Neither of them has blond hair.
A chill creeps along my spine making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. When he peers all the way around and our eyes meet, I realize what was familiar about the photo of the Commander. No, that’s not right. It’s not then. It’s when he walks inside and shoves one hand into his pocket and cocks his head in the opposite direction. It’s exactly how the Commander is standing in that photo. Otherwise, there’s no physical similarity. Until he smiles and that dimple forms on his cheek.
I glance at the photo and see it then, clear as day. How has Santos not noticed it? I blink and shift my gaze from the photo to Caius and feel the blood drain from my face, feel my mouth drop open and my throat go dry as I stare in shock at what’s been right before my eyes all along.
“Hope I didn’t wake you,” Caius says in a fake attempt to be quiet. “They’re out cold downstairs. Some guards, huh?”
“Wh… What are you doing here?” I ask, stepping in front of the nightstand and turning the photo upside down behind me.
He comes into the room, looks around it, nods. “Cute, I guess. Not my style, but cute. Didn’t think it was my brother’s style either but goes to show you never really know anyone.”
He’s drunk. I can hear it in his voice, see it in his movements. He turns to me, and I see how bloodshot his eyes are when he steps closer. It is almost morning. He hasn’t slept. Like me.
“You know what I wish, Madelena?” he asks, coming toward me. I have nowhere to go. I’m trapped by the bed and nightstand, and to flee I’d have to leap across the bed.
“What?” I ask, standing where I am, trying to appear normal.
“I wish,” he starts, coming close enough to push a finger into my belly. “I wish you’d never gotten pregnant. That’s what.”
I find myself pushing his hand away and setting mine over my stomach to protect the tiny being inside. Santos’s baby. My baby.
“Did Santos send you to bring me back?” I ask, knowing he didn’t—knowing the fact that Caius is here and Santos is not is a very, very bad thing.
He smiles at me, shifts his gaze over my shoulder and reaches around me to pick up that photograph. He holds it between us, looks at it. I watch his face, his expression, and I see how it darkens. When he meets my eyes again, I swallow hard.
“Where did you get this?”
“Your sister.”
One corner of his mouth lifts, and my blood turns to ice.
He studies me, looking more than anything else, sad. Miserable even. He shakes his head. “No, he didn’t,” he says, and I’m momentarily confused. “Santos didn’t send me,” he clarifies, setting the photo down, ignoring the comment about his sister altogether. “Where are your clothes?” he asks, looking around. He finds the duffel bag without me having to point it out and goes to take out some clothes, jeans, another sweater, although when he sees I’m wearing a sweater, he shoves it back into the bag and returns to me.