Page 21 of Game of Revenge

But at the same time, he was being nice, and this was exactly what I needed him to be. When our fingers touched as I slowly slid my hands into his, I had to clench my teeth to remain in control of my confusing emotions. Alejandro pulled me toward him in the most tender embrace, putting one hand behind my back while still holding my right hand tightly. He slowly pulled me a bit closer to him.

I closed my eyes as every single one of my senses was on high alert, feeling every inch of his body against mine, breathing him in, getting high on the mix of his cologne and his intoxicating body scent, while fearing what I was getting myself into, or how my body felt. But seduction was all part of my plan, if it was needed, so I let go a bit.

“You play chess?” I asked, looking at the board game.

“I do.” He answered in a low tone that made goose bumps travel down my arms.

“Do you know how to play?”

“No” I admitted. “I would like to though.” Richard knew but had refused to teach me when I had asked.

“I could teach you” he offered; his gaze locked on mine.

I nodded, as we swayed in silence. How long did he plan to keep me captive for exactly, if he thought he would have time to teach me how to play? I closed my eyes for a few seconds, to block the fear that was threatening to rise inside of me.

“You like this song?” he whispered in my ear.

“’Debajo de la mesa,’” I said. A classic and one of my favorites.

He leaned a little away from me to stare into my eyes. He was frowning and looked disconcerted.

“You are full of surprises, muñeca. Every time I think I am teaching you something, you show me that I am the one who has so much to learn about you.”

The depth in his voice shook me to my core, shattering some of my restraints.

“How is it that your Spanish is so good?”

“I spent the first eleven years of my life here, in Mexico.”

I saw something flash behind his eyes. I had admitted to knowing where we were, but he didn’t make any comment on it. I wondered if I should continue sharing more of my life with this man. But the way he looked at me, almost like he was hanging on my every word, made me feel heard, so I continued.

“When we moved to California, I made sure to keep my mother tongue, to continue learning. It was all I had left of my life here, of my mother. I wasn’t going to lose that because Richard decided to move to America.”

“You didn’t want to move?”

“Why would I? I was a kid. My mother was dead, but despite that, I loved my life here. Maybe he thought a new place would do me good. I don’t know, but at first, I hated it. I didn’t even speak a lick of English, and kids at that age weren’t very nice. No patience, no tolerance, they made fun of my language, of my accent at the time, of my clothes. Things got better, though. I learned English easily, thankfully. I made friends, and I started loving life there. I started fitting in somewhat.”

“I felt the same,” he confessed. “I hated leaving my home behind.”

“And now?”

“Now it’s my home as well.”

“Do you ever feel lost? Like you don’t belong here or there? Sorry.”

I looked down at his shirt, his gaze making me feel like I was naked, like he was looking straight through me. Perhaps it was the wine, but those were words I had never uttered out loud—not even to my closest friends. I wasn’t sure they would get it.

“I do. All the time.”

I looked back up. He did; I could tell he did. His intense eyes were searching mine, but I could no longer hold it in. He made me want to share that part of me with him, and it felt good.

“Really?”

“Yes. When I moved to Texas, at least I spoke a bit of English already. But it was hard. I felt like a traitor at times, leaving my family, my friends behind. I knew I was doing the right thing—for all of us, really—but I couldn’t help feeling like a coward for leaving.”

“You weren’t a coward. You were pursuing certain opportunities. I am sure they get it. At least you came back, even if you don’t spend all your life here.”

“You don’t come back?”