Page 47 of King of Hearts

“Do you eat?” the taller woman asked, glaring at me from her perch at the counter, dicing and chopping items and tossing them aggressively in the skillet.

“Uh…yes,” I replied, a little confused by her question. Of course I ate.

“So skinny—doesn’t look like you eat anything.”

My mouth opened as Maria made a clicking sound with her tongue. I eyed her disapproving look for her family relation then swung my head toward said woman at the counter.

“I eat…not as well when Juan isn’t cooking for me, but I do eat.” I nervously moved toward the corner of the kitchen, grabbing three coffee mugs. “Would either of you like coffee?” My face burned, but I wasn’t sure why. I supposed it was because I’d never played hostess before or met anyone’s aunts or family…not that Juan was a someone to me, but he was the closest I’d ever had.

The women began whispering to each other, Maria sounding more angry with the taller woman with each passing second.

“Yes, I’d love some,” Maria finally replied sweetly.

“You move around my son’s house like you own it,” the other woman chided, letting out a scoffing sound.

I looked down at the mugs in my hand, feeling a strange sensation open inside my chest. It was cold but also searing hot, as if rage was burning me from the inside out. This was Juan’s mother, and she sounded as if she hated me. She had just met me; how did she already hate me?

“You’re Juan’s mother?” I whispered, turning away from the counter.

She didn’t turn, just kept chopping with her lips drawn into a thin line.

“I am, and you’re not good for him,” she snapped right as Juan walked in.

“Mama, no sabes nada.” He said it coldly enough to force his mother’s head to snap up, her hands freezing in place.

“Ella es una perra,” his mother yelled, throwing her hands out passionately.

The skylight accented her tan face, her whiskey eyes, and her dark hair. She was as beautiful as Juan. All it did was make me think of what I’d heard the night prior about Juan’s father. Juan was called the little ghost because he used to kill people…

Juan’s loud slap against the counter had my thoughts scrambling and forcing me to jump.

“You will not call her a whore while in my house. You haven’t even met her, haven’t even given her a chance.” He seethed.

My spine snapped straight, unfamiliar with the sensation of being defended. It had never happened before.

Juan walked over, shoving his hands into his pockets. He was already dressed in a nice suit, sans the jacket, the sleeves of his white button-down rolled up to his elbows. It was only nine in the morning and he already looked like sin.

He wrapped a hand around my waist, drawing me closer to him until his lips pressed against my hairline.

“If you can’t understand this or respect it…then leave,” Juan explained, softening his voice only a small amount. I watched his face, his lips drawing down while his eyes stayed firmly on hers.

“You’re already changing. You don’t want this. You have never wanted this, and now she’s forcing you into it,” his mother yelled again, slamming her hands on the counter, shoving the cutting board forward.

I nearly jumped again, but not because of her. It was her choice of words. They might as well have been as sharp as the knife she’d used.

“Get out of my house.”

“It’s his house, their house…El Peligro’s house. She’s the daughter of the man who killed yourfather, and she’s living in your home like nothing is wrong. She should be traded back to that monster.” His mother spat the words, her face twisting with rage.

A few men filtered into the room, immediately looking to Juan, watching for him to tell them what to do. I recognized the look in their eyes; it was how my father’s men used to look at him when they were prepared to dispose of a problem. Lethally.

I wanted to say something, but Juan squeezed my hand, encouraging me to tuck my chin and wait it out.

My chest heaved as I waited for him to respond, as I waited for him to seal any fate we might have. I couldn’t be with a man as cruel as my father. I wouldn’t be, not even to keep up pretenses. If Juan was physical with his mother or killed her, I’d leave and never come back.

“Mama, I know you’re worried about me. I know you love me, but taking your fear out on Taylor is the wrong move. She hasn’t done anything. She’s innocent in this.”

My eyes snapped up, desperate to see the tenderness in Juan’s face that might match his velvet voice. His mother crumbled; Juan left me to hug her. She cried into his shoulder, speaking in Spanish as she sobbed. After a few minutes, he ushered her out of the kitchen.

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