Page 86 of When Lies Unfold
A wave of déjà vu slams into me, threatening to pull me astray, as I stare down at my plate.
Salmon, topped with what appears to be a mango salsa, sits on a bed of jasmine rice with a roasted assortment of vegetables beside it.
My left hand twitches, recalling how it was once dominant and would reach for the elegant silverware during dinners like this. I curl my fingers into a tight fist in my lap and force it to stay there.
Santiago leans close to speak in a hushed tone. “Don’t like salmon?”
“It’s fine.” I have to think fast to excuse my hesitation, so I politely muster, “I was just saying a quick blessing beforehand.”
His shrewd gaze spears me, the barest trace of humor clinging to his words. “Hope you prayed for my ‘girly hair.’” With an uncharacteristically playful wink, he adds softly, “Maybe pray for my soul, too, huh?”
I roll my eyes and lean toward him, my response equally as muted. “We both know it’ll take a hell of a lot more than prayers to help you.”
Lines of amusement fan from the outer edges of his eyes, and it arouses satisfaction within me. I don’t realize my mouth has curved into a smile until his eyes drop to my lips.
My breath catches in my throat, and I avert my attention to my meal, doing my best to ignore that strange sensation.
Casual conversation flows while everyone eats, but I concentrate on each bite, savoring the delicious flavors that hit my tongue.
The man seated at the far end of the table near Keyna has been quiet until now. Assessing coal-black eyes cut to me, drifting from my face and along my upper body that’s not hidden by the table. “It’s not every day somebody new accompanies you, Santy.”
The man’s survey of me feels invasive and scrapes over my skin, but I force myself not to react. When his focus cuts to Santiago, I’m bombarded by relief.
But it’s short-lived, because the man continues with, “Surely, you can understand the curiosity that comes with that.” He sips his wine. “So, how did you two meet?”
Shitshitshit. As casually as possible, I use my fork to gather the small remainder of rice. Panic acts like a serrated blade, slicing through me, and I attempt to suppress it.
How will Santiago answer that? If he tells the truth, word will spread, and a giant spotlight will shine on me. That would increase my risk a million times over—and it’s exactly what I can’t afford.
The weight of Santiago’s attention compels me to look at him. A faint smirk briefly toys at his lips as he answers the man. “Lola and I met through an acquaintance.”
Abruptly, that smirk drops off his face. Santiago leans back in his chair, his steely gaze resting on the other man. “Now, Marcelo, I gotta admit… It’s not like you to take an interest in who I bring to dinner.”
Marcelo’s expression remains placid. “It’s only because I’ve never seen you with someone like Miss Arias before.”
His shrewd gaze scrapes over me, and when it lingers on my hands, I glance down only to have all oxygen leaches from my lungs. My left hand rests on the table beside the unused knife, my fingers tracing the base of my wineglass.
As casually as possible, I remove my hand from the table, returning it to my lap. When my eyes clash with Marcelo’s, my stomach churns at his narrowed gaze.
I startle at the weight of Santiago’s heavy palm settling overtop my left hand in my lap. My head whips around, and I peer at him only to discover he’s staring coolly at Marcelo.
His thumb sweeps over my scarred flesh and it sends a shiver racing down my spine. As discreetly as possible, I draw away from his touch.
“Someone like Miss Arias,” Santiago repeats slowly, each word possessing a lethal warning. “Meanin’ what, exactly?”
“I meant it as a compliment. She seems much less high maintenance.” Marcelo raises his wineglass in a toast, his gaze boring into me in an unnerving challenge. “It’s clear to see she’s unfamiliar with our…world.”
He reverts his attention to Santiago. The two appear to have some sort of silent exchange before they’re interrupted by the waitstaff clearing our dinner plates to deliver our dessert.
A thick slice of maracuya pie sits neatly on each plate, and my heart gives a little lurch in my chest. My abuelita used to gather maracuya—passionfruit—to make pie. As talented as Javier is, I know it won’t surpass my abuelita’s.
I pick up my spoon just as loud male voices sound on the other side of the dining room’s closed doors. Santiago’s entire body immediately stiffens beside me when the doors fling open to reveal a shirtless, disheveled Andro.
He’s barefoot and clad in a pair of low-slung slacks and an unbuttoned shirt, a wide bandage wrapped around his lower torso. He scans the seated guests, and the instant his attention lands on me, a sneer curls at his mouth.
“The fuck is she doin’ here?” Sweat beads along his forehead and upper lip, gleaming in the room’s lighting.
“Andro.” Santiago greets his nephew with extreme calmness. “You should be restin’.”