Page 12

I stare at him, waiting for an answer.

He looks nervous, or maybe I’m misreading it and he’s just stressed from what happened.

But that wasn’t an accident. Two cars don’t smash into you by accident. And he was very quick in his reaction to get us as far away from the attack as possible. Because that’s what it was—an attack.

My entire body is rigid with tension. I’m shaking, overwhelmed, confused, and now, because I don’t understand anything that’s going on, I’m starting to get angry as well.

I think the anger is a defense mechanism for the fact that I feel like I’m being pushed into a corner in a dark room.

I’m done with these secrets.

He never gave me a clear explanation for why the debt collector backed off so quickly, as though he recognized him. Since when does Charlie ever call anyone sir except for his boss when I overheard him on the phone—that creepy asshole I only met once.

Yet he was quick to call Nestor ‘sir.’

It’s been bothering me, but I tried to ignore it.

But he can’t ask me to ignore this, too.

Nestor sighs heavily and looks away from me for a long while, obviously trying to pull his thoughts together.

“Nestor—I heard you say on the phone that you know who did it. You didn’t even sound surprised by any of it. As though this kind of thing is perfectly normal to you.“ I pull his attention back to me with the insistence of my tone.

Nestor nods, he brushes his fingers through his short, dark blonde hair, and says.

“It was my stepbrother and his father.”

My blood runs cold. His stepbrother really wants him dead? Like dead -dead?

“Why?” I snap, my tone harsh.

“I told you why.” He knits his brows as he looks at me. “Lara, it’s because they want the businesses.” He takes a step towards me, and I step back.

“Don’t give me the same bullshit answer as before, Nestor. I’m tired of this. All the secrets, the half-truths. It’s not normal for your family to be trying to kill you over a business. What kind of business is it? Why is murder an acceptable solution? Why did I almost die tonight? ”

My throat goes tight around my words, and I choke back the tears threatening, stinging against my eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” he sighs.

“No, I don’t care about sorries or regrets—all I want is the truth. You married me. You got me to move in with you. And now my life is in danger because of choices that have nothing to do with me. I demand the truth.”

His shoulders slump down as his defenses drop.

“Okay.” Nestor closes his eyes, his face looking pale. “I’ll tell—I’ll tell you.” He sways slightly and grunts in pain as he clutches his side, slipping his hand beneath his jacket. We both look down at his hand, and it’s coated in blood from where he touched his ribs.

“Nestor?” I squeal in horror. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

“Uh.” He groans, swaying to the side. “I think, maybe—"

I rush forward and wrap my arm around his waist and pull his arm over my shoulders. He’s so much taller than I, but at least I can provide a little bit of support as I lead him to the sofa.

“Take me upstairs. I have a first aid kit in my bathroom.” His words are strained.

“I think the adrenaline wore off,” I huff, trying to hold his weight as we climb the stairs.

“You don’t have to hold me up, Lara, I can lean on the railing. Maybe I should’ve gone easier on those cakes after dinner,” he chuckles, but as soon as he laughs, his whole body goes rigid with pain.

“Stop making jokes,” I snap at him, guiding him into his bathroom. He sits on the edge of the bath, holding on to the vanity to steady himself as he lowers himself down while I fuss around him in panic.

“Are you going to pass out?” I ask.

“No, I don’t think so,” he groans.

Without asking, I start gently tugging off his jacket. He doesn’t say a word, letting me do whatever I’m doing. I have no idea what I’m doing.

I slide the suspenders off his shoulders, letting them hang from his pants, then I unbutton his shirt, each loosened button revealing more of his perfectly formed body.

Clenching my jaw, I ignore the way my skin heats and my heart beats faster. The way my breath catches as I let my eyes wander over him.

Nestor is sitting on the edge of the bath in his black pants, slightly bent forward from the pain. Shirtless, his muscles taut.

“Sit up, I need to see what’s going on. You might need stitches.”

He sits up straighter. My eyes trace over his chest, and for a moment, I’m distracted by the number of scars I see drawn across his skin. I reach out and touch one, then realize what I’m doing, and my cheeks flush bright pink with embarrassment.

He notices and smirks at me.

“What happened?” I ask, distracting myself and him.

“Uh—that one was from a blade.”

“A knife?” I say in horror. “Why?”

“It was just a disagreement,” he says casually, avoiding answering me in any specific detail. It annoys me, but I need to focus on helping him right now.

I sit on my knees between his legs. He lifts his arm up, holding it behind his head so that I can look at the wound running over the front of his ribs. It’s deep. A gash. And there is a small piece of glass still stuck in there.

“Oh no. I need to get that out,” I say, feeling a bit queasy.

“It’s okay. It’s just a small piece. It’s not the one that did all the damage.

I think it’s from when I kicked the door open.

The kit is under the basin; you’ll find everything you need in there,” he explains, gesturing towards the vanity.

“There are painkillers in there, too. You can hand me a couple of them.”

Still on my knees, I lean towards it and open the door, finding the big red medical bag easily.

I pull it towards us, opening it so that he can see inside as well.

“There. The tweezers. And that brown bottle, that’s disinfectant.” He talks me through the items I need, and I pull them out, one by one, setting them in a row on the edge of the bath.

My eyes trace over his scars again, and I wonder how many times he’s done this before.

“What’s that one from?” I ask, touching a round scar, slightly raised, just above the line of his belt.

“A bullet,” he says. Nothing more.

“You got shot?” I snap in horror.

“They missed all the risky parts,” he grins.

I want to push him for more information. I still want an answer about what’s going on, but right now, the wound is the only thing that matters.

My hands are shaking slightly when I pick up the long-nosed tweezers.

“Move slowly,” he reassures me. “Get a strong grip on the glass.”

I grip the piece of glass, hesitate, flinch when he flinches, apologize, and try again.

This time, I hold my right hand steady with my left hand and grip the glass with more confidence.

“Good, now pull it out,” he says tightly.

It was a bigger piece than I thought, and I gag as it slides out of his skin, causing fresh blood to flow from the wound.

I splash disinfectant onto a piece of clean gauze and press it against the gash.

He grunts, holding his breath as the disinfectant seeps into his skin.

After disinfecting, I have to pour white powder over it to stop the bleeding. Then I clean everything around the wound, wiping the blood away. Nestor is very quiet, and his fingers are gripping the edge of the bath so tightly his knuckles have turned white.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Mm.” He nods, his teeth clenched together.

“It’s really bad. I think you need stitches.”

“No, there is a special tape in the bag. It mimics stitches. It’ll be fine. Find the one that’s called Second Skin Sutures.”

He talks to me through it.

It’s two pieces of tape with additional threads on the sides. A piece gets put on either side of the wound, then I have to pull the sides together using the threads, which interlock over each other. I’m surprised by how well it works to pull the wound closed.

I place a fresh white bandage over everything and tape that down, too.

“Done?” I ask, looking up at him.

He has his eyes closed.

“I think I need to lie down,” he grumbles.

“Come on, I’ll help you.” I stand up, slipping his arm over my shoulder again. His aftershave washes over me, his shirtless, gorgeous body wrapped around me. I clear my throat, trying to focus on helping him and nothing else.

I get Nestor to the side of the bed, and he sits down. Kicking his shoes off, he lets me pull the blankets back as he slips his legs beneath them, not caring to change. I think the less he moves right now, the better, anyway.

“Will you call me if you need anything?” I ask, standing awkwardly next to his bed.

“Actually, do you mind keeping an eye on me for a bit? I’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“Okay,” I say nervously.

“You can lie in bed, I’m sure you’re tired too.” He taps the bed next to himself.

I swallow hard, but nod.

To my surprise, as I lie down, Nestor wraps his arm around my back, pulling me towards him.

I roll onto my side and snuggle against his chest without a moment’s hesitation.

Nestor takes a slow, deep breath. “The painkillers are working,” he says with relief in his voice. “I’m already feeling better now that I’m relaxed.”

“That’s good.” My eyes are roaming his body again. The thick muscles of his biceps, the well-defined shape of his shoulders.

I reach out and touch a scar running from his collarbone down across his chest.

“What is this one?” I ask, almost a whisper.

“That one was a piece of shrapnel,” he says, his eyes closed but his brows raised for a moment.

“As in—shrapnel from a bomb ?” Every scar I ask about seems to get a worse answer than the one before.

“Mmhmm,” he nods sleepily.

I stare at the profile of his face. The perfect shape of his nose and jaw line, the shadow of stubble over his cheeks and chin, the thickness of his long lashes. I have a million questions on the tip of my tongue, but he looks exhausted. Sighing softly, I brush my hand over his cheek.

“Get some rest, Nestor. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

He smiles, just a flicker across his face, because he’s already drifting off to sleep.

His breathing gets deeper, slower, and his chest moves smooth and even as it rises and falls.

I lift the blanket to peek at the bandages. There is no fresh blood seeping through them. I did a pretty good job with that whole thing. I’ve never done anything like that before, and clearly the bleeding has stopped, so that’s great.

Nestor is fast asleep, and suddenly there is no conversation to distract me from his arm wrapped around me and the smell of his skin, misted with cologne. The heat of his body soaks into me and I shift even closer to him, resting my cheek on his pec.

The accident flashes in my mind when I close my eyes and I wince.

Except, I remember what he did.

How he reached his arm out to protect me. How even as the car rolled he was more worried about me than himself. He was thinking of me in that terrifying moment when I could hardly think about anything.

My heart constricts.

What does it mean?

Does it mean he cares about me?

No. It was probably just instinct. He would have reached out to protect anyone.

But it wasn’t instinct when he gently pulled me from the wreckage and carried me in his arms to safety.

He was so calm with me, so patient and gentle.

He took care of me the entire time, even in the car ride on the way home.

My body is alive, blood flowing, heating my skin as I lie next to him.

I brush my hand slowly over his chest muscles, along the solid curves, listening to his breathing.

Oh my word. I can’t stay here in his bed. This is wrong.

Letting out a soft sigh of regret, I wiggle carefully away from him. I slip out from beneath the blankets and tiptoe from his room towards my own.

I sit on the edge of my bed for a long time, filled with confusion and a heavy sense of regret.

What is he hiding from me?

Does he care about me?

How do I feel about him?

Finally, I stand up, and with some effort, I manage to pull the zipper down on the back of my dress and slide it off my body.

I climb into my comfortable oversized T-shirt and then into the blankets of my bed. The sheets are cold, and they don’t smell like him.

I close my eyes, and instead of being haunted by the accident like I thought I would be, I am haunted by him. By the lack of his body next to mine. I grab one of the spare pillows and wrap my arms around it, snuggling against it and telling myself to stop being silly.

I can’t be getting feelings for a man I don’t even know.

A man who is hiding secrets.