Page 56 of Heart of a Devil

“Fucking hell,” he says a few minutes later, his head resting against the small of my back. “I don’t know who won that particular game, babe. I think you might have beat me though. You okay?”

He uses his knife to slice my zip ties free and clambers into bed at my side. When he tugs off his ski mask, he’s grinning at me. “Bloody hot in that thing.”

“I can imagine. And you cut up your own shirt.”

“It was worth it.” Suddenly, I’m cocooned in his arms. “You okay?” He checks on me again, running his giant hands down my body. “You need anything?”

I sigh contentedly, my entire body humming with satisfaction. “Yes. I’m more than okay. And I have everything I need right here. That was amazing, by the way.”

He nuzzles my neck. “You’re amazing, sweetheart.”

I know he means every word of that, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt so content as I do at this moment. “You’re pretty amazing too, Seb. Have you been planning that all night?”

“Yeah. We’re going back to reality tomorrow, and I needed to make tonight special for us, now, didn’t I?”

Special—that’s one word for it. The more time I spend with this man, the less I ever want to be apart from him.

Chapter

Thirty-One

LAUREN

I’m on video call with Alejandro, and I am not enjoying it.

Seb has repeatedly argued that I should come clean with my cousin and my parents about what Carlos did to me when I was young. He’s convinced that I’ll never really move on from it while I keep it secret from them, that I have nothing to be ashamed of, that I will feel the power of the past diminish once I share it with them. For a big thug, he can be remarkably nuanced, and I don’t always appreciate it. In fact, I think the exact words I used were “screw you and your hippy-dippy bullshit. It’s not your choice to make.” Or something equally insightful, anyway.

It might have happened organically at some point or another, but circumstances have forced my hand. It should have occurred to me sooner, but now that Diego Torres is in my cousin’s very capable hands, he’s talking. A lot. And the things he’s been saying have made Alejandro very curious indeed.

His dark eyes pin me down via the screen of my laptop, and even from thousands of miles away, I can feel his commanding presence. There are no cute babies in the room, no family banter, no chitchat about his wife or his daughter, Lucia. Nothing but those serious eyes and an expression that doesn’t seem ableto choose between disappointed and angry. Hell, he’s probably both.

“I think, mi prima, that you need to fill me in on a few things. Like why Diego Torres keeps apologizing for looking at photos of you when you were a girl. Why he keeps telling me he never touched you. Why he keeps saying it was all because of his father and our late and unlamented Uncle Carlos.”

Staring at my hands for a moment, I pull my resolve together before I meet his eyes. “It was all a long time ago, Alejandro, and both men are dead. What does it matter? It’s ancient history.”

“Ancient or not, it’s your history. Which means it’s my history too. You know I love you like a sister, Lauren.”

These simple words move me more than all of his disapproval, and I melt as I realize his expression isn’t disappointed or angry. It’s just sad. “Tell me what happened. What did the sick bastard do to you?”

I tell him everything, starting with that very first day when I found Uncle Carlos torturing someone at our home, how he threatened to hurt my sister and my parents. How he cut me.

“You told everyone you got that scar cooking,” he says, shaking his head.

“I know. That’s what he told me to say. He was always making me lie, making me cover for him—making me culpable, you know? It’s why I seemed so difficult to the rest of the family. You remember that, don’t you?”

He nods and has the good grace not to argue. “Yeah. I remember that. My mamá and yours, chatting away over coffee, talking about how you were going through an awkward stage.”

“A stage that lasted for years. He tortured me for so long, Alejandro, and I hid it from you all. I look back now, older and wiser, and wonder why I didn’t just tell. If I had, my whole life would have been different. Carlos wouldn’t have been allowed to go on and do the things he did.”

He bangs his hand down on his desk, and I jump in surprise. “No. That is not on you. Carlos was a grown man psychologically abusing a young girl. He was always wrong in the head, you must know that—our fathers did, and it was their job to protect you, not the other way around. What Carlos chose to do, kidnapping my wife, that was his call and his alone. Now, hearing all of this from you, I only wish I could go back and kill him all over again.”

I laugh, swiping tears from my eyes. No idea where they came from, the sneaky bastards. “That’s what Sebastian says too.”

“Ah. The famous Sebastian. My friends from Barcelona were impressed. With both of you. Although I’m not surprised that you took out Diego single-handedly—I’ve seen that temper of yours too many times. But I’m glad that Sebastian was with you afterward and that you’ve found someone who cares for you the way you deserve to be cared for. It’s not easy, coming from our family, to open yourself up to love.”

“No, it’s not. And Sebastian really does care about me. He wanted me to tell you about all of this. He thought it would, I don’t know, cleanse my soul or some such bullshit.”

He raises his eyebrow, not fooled by my bravado. “And has it?”

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