Her silent scrutiny lights the fuse to my temper. It seethes of liquefied hostility and is ready to spew. Hissing beneath the surface, eager to unleash havoc. I won’t let her into my head.
Tumbles of wet curls pour over a pale shoulder as her head drifts sideways, and that charming accent I adore dances past colorful lips.
“Does it still hurt?” A silky voice, candor yet timid, rips my wilted spirit to shreds.
Of all the questions to ask, she chooses to find out if I’m in pain. There was no gasp of disgust, whirl of horror, or virtuous interrogation.
Fuck, this woman is breaking me.
My heart claws and burns for an affection I have no right to crave. I’m destruction, she’s rebirth. I resent the sincerity because she’s an illusion of perfection, even with a blemish. It gives her an edge, something we have in common. I've been lured by lust before. That’s all this is: innate sexual magnetism. Nothing more.
I promptly curtail the rankle of awe binding me to her. This woman has unwittingly unearthed hidden emotions inside me, so intense and terrifying. They clamor and scrape the venomous vines twisting around the wreckage of my broken heart.
She bites her lip, no doubt sensing the war holding me hostage.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” I say with a gravelly texture to my voice. A tone sandblasted with false nonchalance. “My palms and wrists suffered the most damage. Surprisingly, the nail bed wasn’t badly damaged, which is why my nails have regrown.” I shift in the seat and slide my hand off the table, suddenly unsure if I like her eyes on the ugliness of despair.
Why the fuck do I care?
Her intrigue drifts from my hands to the feast. She slips a sweet brigadeiro into her mouth, offering a faint mewl as the chocolatey sphere coats her lips. Volts of desire rocket up my thighs and shoot to my groin like unforgiving shrapnel. That glimmer of satisfaction stirs my cock to solid.
Lashes flutter, and her tongue skates between her teeth.
I shouldn’t be here, woven into a woman’s devious net.
“What forced you to take such drastic action?”
Thousands of spiders scamper under my skin. I clench my fist to stop the tremble. “It’s not story time. Bad things happened, and I’ve worked hard to recover the debt.”
Returning the journal was a truce. Giving a little back after taking everything away. The funeral spearheaded my abnormal change of heart. It was the moment I realized how sidetracked I’ve become with a fleeting infatuation. During the lonely chopper ride back to the oasis, I swore to unravel our intricate paths. And to do that, I have to put all this nonsense behind me. Now she can occupy her free time with research, and I can rest in the knowledge she’s content for a while.
My men retrieved various belongings from the campsite. Her passport with a teenage version of Iris, solemn and unsure, stuck beneath a laminated cover. A drenched laptop which I erased immediately and then destroyed. And her journal.
I stored her travel visa and notebook in my private quarters. Why I did that puzzles me even now. But I did, and the fucking journal has plagued me ever since. The weathered pages contain notes and diagrams, measurements, and doodles. Scrawly rushed handwriting. An inner passion scribed amid an exciting tropical expedition. A young woman enjoying life.
And that’s what she deserves––to live. Until she proves herself as unfaithful. Then and only then will I remove every privilege I’ve afforded her.
I’ve had my fair share of women. A lifetime ago when life was simple, and family was everything. I was blessed with looks that my sister referred to as killer. In my eyes, I merely resembled my father. No big deal. Through Gabriela’s teenage years, her friends spent more evenings at our place than she did at theirs. A gaggle of groupies would wait for her big brother to step out of the shower room in nothing but a towel. I played up to the adoring crowd with a wink and sly grin from time to time. It was only flirty fun. The real treat was taking the women who understood direct orders. They worshipped me. They desired a façade. A handsome face. It was superficial.
If only Iris realized how far I've slipped from those days. How my senses work tenfold now that my nerves are firing on all cylinders. That her body is the catalyst for its heightened return. How the cruel world beyond the rainforest ceases to exist when we’re together.
“I’ll leave you to enjoy the rest of your evening.” Chair legs screech as I push into the seat and prepare to stand.
“Before you go, can I ask a question?” Her forehead creases, and she stills, almost bracing for harshness. I pause, my reticence granting her permission to speak. “Do you love the woman you were with earlier?”
How do I answer that conundrum? Carina is the solitary thread of humanity attached to my soul. Her joy and laughter ground me to the earth when all I want to do is wreck and ruin. Do I love her? In my own way. As much as I hate to admit it. That unfortunate tug of love is a weakness. It’s not a connection I sought or wished to develop, but it happened over time.
An unhappy adolescent blossomed into a healthy woman. Every month she visits the oasis, has lunch with Sal, and checks in with her online counselor using my encrypted internet connection. We catch up over coffee and talk about her future.
“The woman you saw this afternoon is Carina. Salvador’s younger sister, and my . . .” What is she to me? A friend? I met the girl when she was a suicidal fourteen-year-old. Hexed by a birthmark on her lip. The wretchedness clouding her eyes spoke to me on a deeper level. Beyond my grief, it drove me to show the young girl how beautiful she was on the inside and out. I guess there was a similarity to the fourteen-year-old girl I raised from the ashes when our parents were killed.
“I arranged for Jackson, the onsite surgeon, to carry out a procedure that removed a growth from her top lip,” I continue. “He did an outstanding job and saved her life in the process.”
“Saved her life?”
“The girl was dying inside. She hid from the world. Sal found her on the bathroom floor with a blade and a sliced arm. I brought her here for a couple of weeks, arranged an operation, and flew in a discrete counselor who owed me a big favor. Jackson worked a miracle. She hasn't stopped smiling since.”
I can’t tell her Carina is like a sister because that admission would be too painful. Too cruel. Gabriela was my family, and now I’m off course, adrift in the universe with so few bonds to care for someone with a normal life. “I’m fond of the girl, in friendly terms.”
The odd whimper escaping her throat bumps the rhythm of my heartbeat. Misted eyes scrunch shut, and a shaky palm rests on her ribcage. She propels herself from seated to standing, fumbling with the corner of the table for support.
A petal-pink flush tints pearly white skin. Energized copper spirals bounce as she whirls around to the terrace. From behind, a moonlit silhouette stencils the loose cotton fabric flapping against her thighs. My pulse pumps faster, perplexed by her sudden glacial mood. “Beija flor?”
“Stop,” she begs, now clutching her stomach with both hands. “I’ve heard enough.” Angling her torso, I witness a droplet of fluid misery glide for freedom. “You can go now.”
My knees lock, securing me to the spot. I shouldn’t console her. That would make me weak. Then I might relent to the effervescent compassion fizzing around my heart. I’m the reason she’s here. She’s the reason I’m unbalanced.