Page 1 of Nevermore (A Cruel Love #1)

Santiago

Sixteen Years Old

It’s too hot to be crying.

Even without the unforgiving Texas sun beating down on my back, it’d still be unbearably scorching.

It’s the middle of summer in Central Texas.

I was supposed to be on a trip this week with some of my lacrosse friends from school.

We all just got our licenses and had planned to go into Dallas with some of the girls on the cheerleading team.

This was the trip where I was finally going to gather the nerve to kiss Stacy Davenworth and thinking about that first time has made me a nervous wreck all month.

The guys keep telling me it’s no big deal, but Mami told me a person’s first kiss is supposed to be special. I know I’m too old to believe in things like that but when she describes it so magically, it’s hard to want to settle for anything less.

Now, Stacy stands six feet away from me, and kissing her is the last thing I want to do.

Sweat pools in my pits and I keep dabbing my wet forehead with a handkerchief.

This suit is suffocating. It’s like one of those things ladies used to wear in the old movies.

The ones with the corsets they’d tighten until they couldn’t breathe just so they would look good.

That’s what I feel like right now. A thing being paraded with bells and whistles in front of everyone so they can put all their focus on someone else.

I can’t breathe.

My father stops beside me and takes my arm, the harsh dig of his fingers pulling a wince from me as he leads us back to the car.

We pass by the people who bothered to show up today and I avoid eye contact with those who try to talk to me.

I’m not usually like this but I think if you asked me today, I’d be more than happy to spend the rest of my life hiding under the covers.

The AC blasts across my face as my father and I settle into the back of our luxury SUV, and I shudder at the sudden chill.

I wait for him to tell our driver to take us back home, but he says nothing.

I turn to him, brows wrinkled, and watch as he stares daggers into the back of Mike’s head.

I wait a beat to see if maybe he’s taking a moment but open my mouth when we continue to sit here. “ Papá ?—”

I’m cut off by a sharp slap across my cheek.

The sting of his ring is painful against my skin and I cup my face in shock.

Emiliano Torres, while distant and cold, has never been a violent man.

Not once. I remember him saying once that he thought it was so pedestrian to raise your hand at someone when words could accomplish the same goal.

The mind can’t recover as easily as the body can.

Well, unless you’re dead.

I’m so shocked, I don’t even speak. I just stare at him with my jaw dropped, head shaking slightly as I try to reason with myself why he did that. He glares at me with disgust and his hand balls into a fist as if he wants to do it again.

“ Mirarte ,” he snarls, gesturing at my face. “ Esas son lágrimas .”

I raise my fingers to the tears he’s pointing out and can’t believe what he’s saying. Why wouldn’t I be crying today? The very mention of it makes even more pour from my eyes that I believed had run dry at this point. “Yes, they’re tears. Papá, cómo piensas que hoy ?—”

But I don’t get to finish telling him that today is an exception to his rule. He backhands me again and sends me flying against the seat with the force of it. Once again, I’m too stunned to do anything but stare at him.

According to Mami , he and I are the spitting image of each other.

From our darker than brown eyes to our high cheekbones.

She jokingly said the only thing I inherited from her are my unruly curls when my hair is wet and my slightly larger than average ears.

But Emi —as she fondly nicknamed her husband—is more handsome than Zeus and she was happy I didn’t get any more of her imperfections.

Which is ridiculous because my mother has always been the most perfect woman—no, person —in the world.

Always kind, always happy, always generous.

She married someone who had nothing and stood by his side while he built himself up to the man he is now.

Even with our wealth, she never let go of that humbleness and gratitude from where we started.

My father, however, has never been anything but a robotic shell of a person.

Growing up, it was maids that accompanied Mami to my games and recitals.

At dinners, our chef would join us at the table in place of him.

She would always say that Papá was busy at work trying to provide for us.

Working long hours and being away from home are his way of showing his love.

I wonder if she ever thought he’d show his love like this.

There’s anger in his eyes I’ve never seen before.

He bites at his fist, practically seething as he breathes through his nose to calm himself.

After a moment, any semblance of emotion is replaced with the iciness I’m accustomed to.

He sits up straight, shakes out his hand, and then runs it through his hair. “You have no idea what those tears do.”

I cock my head. “What do they do?”

“Do you realize what that looks like?” he sneers, scoffing when I continue to give him a blank stare. “You’re an idiot to think that everyone out there isn’t rooting for us to fail.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, confused. “They’re our friends. They?—”

“They’re snakes in the grass. They’re sheep in wolf's clothing. All of them want nothing more than to see us crumble.”

“I—”

“How many of them actually visited us?” he questions angrily. “How many cared enough to send their condolences?”

I blink at him. “But they showed up.”

He scoffs again, a look of almost disbelieving disgust on his face. “For appearances.”

I try to reason with myself that he’s wrong, but I can’t deny there’s been radio silence in the week since Mami died. Everyone showed up… but no one’s actually said anything to us. No kind words. Even my friends haven’t said anything.

Could he be right?

“You are the only one you can trust,” he tells me stoically. “You and no one else. From now on, think of that before you do something as ridiculous as cry.”

I nod dumbly, still trying to wrap my head around what he’s said. Again, denial lingers, but I can’t turn away from the evidence. “What now?” I ask breathlessly.

“ Solo los débiles lloran, Santiago, ” is all he says.

Only the weak cry.

With those words, the rest of what my life will be flashes before me.

One of frigid contentment and isolating loneliness.

Everything beautiful and pure in life snuffed out, plucked straight from the barren ground like the last flower of autumn.

A life of debutants and drinking and doing everything possible to never feel… this again.

One could even say that survival mode finally kicks in. If I’m going to make it in life, I have to be like my father. I need to live seeing the world as it really is, not with the rose-colored lenses Mami shoved on my face the minute I was smart enough to know right from wrong.

Because life isn’t a fairytale. Life is life . It’s brutal, unforgiving, and cruel.

The weak don’t survive.

So, I nod, silently letting my father know that the tears are through. Since my father is smart, he nods back, understanding the revelation I’ve come to. He places his hand on my shoulder in a brief act of tenderness I’ll never see or allow again before telling Mike to take us home.

I turn to look out the window as we drive away and bid goodbye to two things.

The child within me who only wanted to see the good in life, the positive, and the beautiful.

And my mother, buried six feet deep underground.