He knows.
It explains dozens of moments of his strange behavior and words over the past few weeks. It explains why he was convinced only minutes ago that someone was responsible for my injuries—although that could be because I had to come up with a totally lame excuse on the fly when he barged in on me.
Never mind.
I know it, Ifeelit, in my bones.
He figured it out, and he knows, and he started drugging me while I slept to keep me from sneaking around whileheslept, and then stopped letting me out of his sight other than for the one outing with his family this afternoon.
It seems a littleshitty, drugging a person without their knowledge. But then again, I did the same thing to him the first night we met, and I did so for far more sinister reasons. If he knows, he likely did it to control and prevent what I was sent here to do.
Despite all that, the realization does soften the sting of having to secretly leave. But it doesn’t do anything to dampen my feelings, and it actually underscores my resolve and sharpens my focus.
Joaquin marches back into the bedroom with a glass of water in one hand and holds out a pill in front of me with the other. “Here ya go, baby doll. Take this. You’ll sleep for a good, solid eight hours, and then we’ll have an easy morning, and then in the afternoon, we’ll go get the X-ray. Sound good?”
I offer him a convincing, appreciative smile and take the pill. Slipping it into my mouth, I hold it under my tongue and drink the whole glass of water. He leans down to press a kiss to my lips and then strokes my cheek before taking the glass and setting it down. While he crosses around to his side of the bed, I quickly and discreetly swipe the pill out of my mouth and hide it in my closed palm as I lie down. As he’s climbing between the sheets, I casually hang my hand over the edge of the bed and drop the pill onto the rug before attempting to shift onto my side, and then he’s distracted by me flinching at the soreness of my injuries.
“Just try to lie on your back,querida,” he says, holding my forearm to stop me, and then leans over my face to kiss me again. I have a feeling the tangle of his tongue with mine is less aboutkissingthan it is about him checking to make sure I swallowed the pill.
This situation borders oncomical.
But there’s nothing funny about what’s lurking in the darkness for both of us, and I have to focus. I have to pretend to fall asleep. I have to wait long enough forhimto fall asleep.
And then, I have to leave the only man I’ve ever loved in order to save his life.
SEVENTEEN
JOAQUIN
THE ALARM ON MY phone starts blaring promptly at eight a.m., and I blindly reach to silence it. Rubbing my eyes, I’m reminded by my foggy brain of the one major item on my to-do list today, and my gut does an anxiety-driven twist. I suck in a breath before opening my eyes and turning to Natalia, and…
Her side of the bed isempty.
I sit bolt upright, and my eyes fruitlessly search the room for her.
“Natalia?”
Throwing off the sheet, I leap out of bed and dart into the en suite.
“Natalia? Baby doll?”
Empty.
The bandage and bags of melted ice are sitting tidily on her vanity, but other than that, there’s no evidence of her having been in here.
My heart does an arrhythmic tap-dance.
Darting back out of the room, my mind is going through all kinds of scenarios that range fromthis-isn’t-a-problem-she’s-probably-just-downstairstoholy-mother-fucking-fuck-she’s-gone.I search the room a second time, andthis time, I notice some paper folded up on her night stand.
On top of that, looking like an obscenely overpriced paperweight, is herring.
I’m not fucking stupid. Even though this is the only time I’ve ever been married, I know what it means when your wife leaves a fucking note and herring.
Natalia’s gone.
The fact that she left two such items indicates she left on her own accord and wasn’t kidnapped by Xavier, which is a silver lining—I guess.
But given all the things I gleaned from both the secret phone and her behavior, the unknowns I have about her choice to leave far outweigh the things I know. I really don’t know exactly who she is or exactly what she’s been trying to do with me, and now I don’t even have a clue where she is, unless that note is a fucking confession—which I highly fuckingdoubt.
