"Wouldn't you want to know?" The corner of his mouth pulls up as he jumps up from the bed, prowling towards me.
Backing away, I can't help the way my body starts trembling at his advance. As soon as my back hits the wall, though, he's on me, caging me in and looking down at me with those cold eyes of his that have the power to bring winter into my heart.
"Let go," I whisper, looking away.
I don't know how much longer I can keep my bravado up. Not with the news I just received, and certainly not with his intoxicating presence demanding a piece of my soul.
"Aren't you curious?" He smirks down at me. "I can tell you. After all, I chose him myself," he brags, and a newfound terror envelops me at his confirmation.
"What is he, a women beater? A rapist?" I ask in a hopeless tone.
"Do you want him to be?"
"What…" I shake my head at him, trying to push at his shoulders. "You're sick," I mutter, tears threatening to make their way down my cheeks. "When will you leave me alone?" I cry out. "I told you Aurora was my friend. I told you I would have never…" my voice wanes as I choke on a sob. "Haven't I suffered enough? Why…"
"You haven't, little liar," he says in a smooth voice, his thumb coming under my jaw and tipping me up so I'm looking at him. "You haven't suffered at all yet. But I'll make sure to remedy that. I told you I'll make you rue the day we met, and I aim to keep my promise."
"How many times do I have to tell you I didn't do what you're accusing me of? You think I was happy at the hacienda? You think I was fine being Danilo's fiancée?" My voice goes up a notch, all the frustration inside of me coming to the surface. "You have no idea what I went through," I tell him, banging my fist to his chest. "You have no idea what it was like living there, yet you judge me for what? For one glimpse into my life?"
"Ah, little liar," he chuckles. "Don't tell me you're the victim now?"
"And if I am?" I counter. "You knew Danilo. You knew what type of man he was—how awful and violent he was. Did you think he was any better than his fiancée?"
For the first time there's a flicker of emotion in his eyes. But as soon as it appears it's gone.
"Is that what you're going to go with now? That you were somehow a victim in the entire thing?" he gives a dry laugh. "Your brother warned me, you know. He told me you have this idea that everyone is against you—that everyone is out to harm you."
I shake my head, unable to believe what I'm hearing.
How many times have I tried to explain what had happened to me only to be met with disapproving and unyielding stares? How many times had I been told my perception must have been altered by my trauma? How many times have I been branded crazy just for speaking out?
Why is it so hard to believe that a man would raise his hand against his fiancée? That he would beat her again and again until there's barely anything left of her—until she might still draw breath, but her soul is long dead?
"You're all the same," I whisper, a feeling of loneliness unlike any I've ever felt taking root deep inside of me. "You only accept as truth that which serves your purpose. Never more, never less."
"Fine. If you were a victim, then explain to me what I saw, how you'd delight in making everyone miserable. Tell me why Aurora would tell me all the awful things you'd do to her and the people around you; how you would exploit and punish every slave that dared to look your way. Tell me why everyone called you la diabla." He raises a brow at my bewildered expression.
"Explain to me how that makes you a victim," he demands with a sick smile on his face.
I'm speechless as I turn my tear-streaked eyes to look at him. Because I have no answer for that. I don't remember any of that…
"You can't, can you?" He snides.
"I don't remember," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
"How convenient," he tsks at me, his fingers coming up to brush the tears from my face. "Just like your tears. Too bad they don't work on me, Y/n. Not when I know what you're really like."
"But you don't," I retort in a small protest. "Not really. You only know what you've heard of me."
"Don't forget I have first-hand experience with your wonderful temper, too," he sneers at me, his hand closing over my jaw in a painful grip. "Say, hypothetically, that you didn't kill Aurora with your own hands. But you certainly had everything to do with the bruises on her skin. The way she could barely talk sometimes because her entire body would be too swollen from your lovely punishments," he says ironically.
"I didn't…"
"Save the excuses for someone who'll believe you, little liar. But make no mistake, from now on…" he trails off, his mouth spreading into a twisted smile. "I'll make sure you get what you deserve."
He's off me, taking a step back and assessing me with disinterest in his gaze—as if I were a no one. And that somehow makes my heart bleed. The fact that I'm little more than dirt on his shoe.