Page 62 of Faithless
His eyebrows lifted, and a pleased grin spread over his face. “A white girl that speaks Spanish? I’m half in love with you already.”
Heat burned my face like I’d just stuck my head in an oven. No man that I wasn’t related to had ever told me they loved me, even as a joke.
“My mom’s Latina,” I told him, awkwardly ignoring that last thing he said. “So’s one of my dads. I grew up speaking both languages.”
Santos’ eyebrows went higher. “Oneof your dads?”
“Yeah. I have four.” I covered my eyes with a soft laugh, only somewhat pretending to be embarrassed. People had all kinds of reactions to my family’s dynamic, and while I usually didn’t care, I found myself anxiously wondering what Santos thought.
“Like, all at the same time? I don’t mean any disrespect, I’m just curious.”
“Yeah. They’ve all been together almost thirty years. Well, none of my dads are together-together. They’re just with my mom.”
“They don’t get jealous?”
“Not that I’ve seen. They’re all best friends with each other.” I straightened my spine, feeling a little defensive of my family. “It’s worked out great for us. Me and my siblings are all so close, and we’re supported and loved by all our parents. I wouldn’t change my family for anything.”
“That sounds amazing.” I was relieved that Santos’ tone sounded genuine. “I’m a little envious, honestly. I had it pretty rough growing up.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. We don’t have to talk about family if it’s a sore spot.”
He shrugged, his expression and body completely at ease. With his arms draped over the couch like that, he really did look like a jaguar—all powerful, dark muscle forming sweeping, graceful lines that I couldn’t stop looking at. A predator at rest.
“There’s just not much to tell. I was an orphan. Been a little street punk for as long as I could remember. I was a small kid, so getting by was tough when I had to fight for food and shelter. I was a crafty little shit though. I learned how to get by and just took it day by day.” Santos rubbed his chin, his eyes lighting up with amusement. “Kinda like how it is now.”
“You’re a survivor,” I said. “That’s how you got through it all. The fights, everything.”
“Yeah. It surprises me sometimes that I’m still here when I’ve known a lot of people, either smarter or stronger than me, that didn’t make it.”
“You need some of both, I think. Sounds like you have a good balance of smarts and muscle.” His story reminded me of Torr’s, and the thought of the two of them trading war stories, maybe even becoming friends, was oddly pleasing to my brain.
“I dunno, maybe.” Santos drank me in with those warm, beautiful eyes again. The look he passed over me made me want to burrow into his chest to find out if that big, powerful body of his was as huggable as he looked. “I think luck plays into it too.”
“Luck or gods, you think?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” His smile was slow and just as warm as the gaze he fixed on me. “Maybe that’s what luck is, an extra little nudge from the gods.”
“You think they’re up there, content to just watch us most of the time?” I went to take a sip from my glass but found it empty. “But when they feel like it, they’ll give us a little poke in one direction or another?”
“I mean, if they can inhabit animals and speak directly to our minds, what’s off the table?” Santos ran a palm over his buzzed hair, and I remembered his offer to lie in my lap for head scratches. “But what I want to know is,” his hand fell to his lap, “why did the gods bring together a beautiful girl from a good family and a street punk turned gladiator?”
There he went, making my face hot again and probably as red as a tomato. I didn’t know how to respond to compliments and flattery. The guys I had dated back home were punks too, wannabe bikers usually, but none of them had talked to me like this. So my only natural reaction was to ignore and deflect.
“Do you want more to drink?” I got up from the couch abruptly, circling around the back of it on my way to the minibar.
Santos was up in a flash, prowling around the other side of the couch to cut me off. My breath stuttered as he towered over me, not as tall as Torr but enough for my head to tilt back. Still a good kissing height though.Now where did that thought come from?
Not to mention he was also a broad, muscular wall, his hands and feet widened out slightly as if anticipating my going around him.
“What are you doing?” The question almost sounded playful, his eyes alert and a wry smile pulling at his lips. A jaguar ready to pounce.
“Getting another drink?” I hated that my answer came out like question. Why the fuck did my spine turn all noodley when it came to him? “I’ll get you one too.” I held my palm out, thankfully sounding much more sure of myself.
“No.” The single word rumbled from a low place in his throat, a growl. “You don’t do that. I’ll get us drinks.” He held his palm out, mimicking my gesture. “Give me your glass.”
Part of me wanted to cave, to melt under the firm weight of his words, but another side was dying to see how far I could push this.
“I’m perfectly capable of pouring drinks for us,” I said, standing my ground.
