She takes a seat and then taps the chair to the right of her. I suppress my frown, walking to the seat and sitting. The guard pushes my chair in and I freeze then, giving him a cold look.
“Ease up, sweetie,” Yessica says as food is brought to the table. “They won’t hurt you unless I tell them to. You’re making my evening entertaining so there’s no need to do anything. Unlike Draco, I treat my guests with respect.”
There she goes again, acting like she knows everything about him. I don’t speak and when she realizes I’m playing the silent game again, she says, “Dig in.”
She picks up food for her plate as wine is poured. At first we eat in silence, but I’m sure it’s only because she’s eating. She wasn’t kidding. She is hungry. She cuts into her steak and potatoes, eating rapidly, and then guzzles down her first cup of red wine.
“Mmm.” She clutches her fork and knife in hand. When she’s finished chewing, she says, “You’ll have to forgive me. I haven’t eaten anything but an apple today. Busy, busy day.” She scans me with her bright eyes. “Go on. Eat.”
I stick my fork into the green beans, bringing one up to my mouth. Since it all came from the same bowl and plates, I assume it isn’t poisoned . . . unless she’s just that fucking crazy and has an antidote around somewhere.
As I chew, I feel her watching me. Dropping her knife and fork, she picks up her wine glass and takes a small sip. Then she says, “The scars on your wrists? Where did they come from?”
I blink rapidly at her before focusing on the scars. Insecurity eats me whole, and I shift in my seat, grabbing my wine glass to take a small sip.
“He had you chained or roped up, didn’t he?” she pushes.
Still, I don’t speak.
I breathe unevenly, annoyed by her questions now. Something hard pushes into the back of my skull and I pause on my chewing, looking over at her. Her smile is smug now. Faint, but smug.
“How long?” she asks again.
“Six days.” Anger strikes me, but I remain calm on the outside. The gun is pulled away from my head and I look over at the driver again. He doesn’t look at me. He simply crosses his arms in front of him, staring out of the window across the room.
“Oh, that’s horrible,” she coos. “You know, I’ve heard about you—what happened to you.” She shifts in her seat, trying to get a little more comfortable. “I heard you were here, in Mexico, for a wedding. And not just any wedding, but yours. You were the beautiful bride that was snatched away.” She lowers her wine glass. “How can you live with that? With him? Knowing he’s the man who killed your husband?”
I lower my gaze a little, to the scars on my wrist and then my uneaten steak.
“He ruined your life, Gia, yet you’re still like some lost puppy—loyal to him because he feeds you and bathes you and claims to protect you. And yet,” she murmurs, “here you are. Under my roof. Snatched away again.” She waves a finger at me. “He thinks he’s invincible. Like he can do whatever he wants and get away with it.” Her voice is harsher now. I meet her eyes and she’s frowning. “He has a terrible, selfish mind.”
“Draco isn’t the one who ruined my life. He killed the man that ruined my life,” I say as evenly as possible.
Her gray eyes flash with amusement. “Oh, really?” She leans forward in her seat, picking up her glass again. “Now, that sounds like some juicy gossip. Go on,” she waves an impatient hand. “Tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell. It’s personal.”
She pauses on taking the next sip, side-eyeing me briefly before sighing as if she’s bored. “Listen, sweet girl. En mi casa, nothing is personal. Whatever you consider a delicate matter, forget about it. Either way, I will find out, whether you willingly tell me or I have to beat the answers out of you myself. Doesn’t matter as long as I get down to the truth.” She gloats, like she really can take me on. Let her try me. I’m almost hoping for a one-on-one match. No guns. No weapons. Just us girls.
“I’m not sure what you want to know.” I clasp my fingers in my lap, holding onto my restraint. There are knives in front of me, silver and sharp. They call to me. Whisper—telling me to just kill her and take my chances.
But I’m surrounded. I wouldn’t get far. I’ve counted the number of guards I’ve seen so far. Fourteen, and I’m sure that isn’t even the half. She’s a woman. She requires more protection.
“About the man he killed,” she continues. “How did that man—your husband, correct?—ruin your life?”