Page 93 of A Taste like Sin

“Sí. As I mentioned before, I was born in a small village in southern Colombia. My mother was an

American missionary who came to the country on a mission trip, where she met my father. He was a

farmer who seemed kind and respectable, at least at first.”

“And then?” I prompt when he’s fallen silent.

Muscles flex beneath his skin and I wince; he’s holding me even tighter. “She quickly learned that he

was not the man she thought he was. And that was the reality my brothers and I were born into.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He laughs. “Don’t be. In some ways, I had a wonderful childhood. Children, after all, tend to be

oblivious of such things. Violence becomes a rare, fleeting event in a world filled with lazy days

running through the fields or swimming in the rivers. A bit like a thunderstorm, if you don’t mind the

comparison.”

“It fits,” I admit. “So why did you really leave?”

His lips flutter over my shoulder and I arch into the contact. Only now does he give me more.

“We grew up,” he says simply. “And our father…he became worse. His usual methods of tyranny

before then had been the average daily outburst. Striking my mother, or myself, or one of the others.

But as we grew older, something in him changed. One night, he cornered our mother and accused her

of eyeing another man. She hadn’t, of course, but the truth didn’t matter to him. In his madness, he

decided that the only way to punish her was to ensure that her eyes could never stray again.”

“No—” I stiffen, my breath caught in my throat. Admittedly, I haven’t thought too much about his

blindness—just the one snippet of information he’s revealed before now: that he blinded himself.

“Sí,dulce niña,” he murmurs into my skin, once again deploying his uncanny skill for reading my

mind. “I confronted him, and he chose to punish me instead.”

I close my eyes, imagining the horror of it. “And that’s why you left?”

“Part of it,” he admits. “I can tell from the dread in your voice what you’re thinking—but don’t. Do

not pity me. In some ways, my…injury made me stronger. I don’t take the beauty in life for granted. I

capture it. Enhance it—or corrupt.”

More specifically, he hordes it, trapping what entices him in paint and canvas. Even if he can’t see

them, he can relive what he lost in the act of painting. After all, I experienced firsthand how

passionate he can be when it comes to his art.

“What happened next?”