Reborn Page 4

  “You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”

  He brings me a tumbler of clear liquid muddled with limes. One sniff, and I identify the local brand of cachaça. The essence of sugarcane fills my mouth, but the lime clears it away, inviting me to another taste. I swallow, welcome the sensation, and exhale a sigh.

  I close my eyes and think about her taste. The way it consumed me when I had it on my tongue. Then doubt and rational thought wash it away.

  When I open my eyes, Mateus is sitting on the adjacent couch watching me. Tan leather cracked with wear and use slides under his palm as he rests it on the arm.

  “She is very beautiful,” he says.

  I nod. Isabel’s beauty is indisputable. I just wish it was the only thing drawing me to her.

  “She looks at you like you are precious to her. I had no idea such a creature could exist in your world.”

  I take another swallow and weigh my next words. Everything about this situation is uncomfortable for me. My past is foreign soil, a battleground I’ve never seen before. I’m unarmed and completely unready for it.

  “I knew her once,” I finally admit.

  “And now you are protecting her?”

  “The opposite, actually.”

  I don’t need to say any more. Mateus can put the pieces together. He frowns, and his lips form a wrinkled line.

  “I see. So why have you brought her here?”

  “I need time. She knows things…” I pinch the bridge of my nose, still uncertain how long it’ll take for me to explore this newfound curiosity about my past. “Someone will notice she’s gone soon enough. Probably her boyfriend or her coworkers. Then her family back in the States will know something’s gone wrong. I don’t have much time. You don’t have to worry. We won’t be here long.”

  He sweeps his hand in a gesture between us. “You can stay as long as you need to.”

  “I won’t make this your mess. Not in your home.”

  He lifts an eyebrow and cocks his head. “If you must, you know I will oblige. Even if it costs me this refuge. My debt has not been paid.”

  “I’m in no rush for you to pay it.” Calling Mateus’s debt over this would be foolish. I may have left Rio in a rush, but I still have time and space to maneuver.

  Mateus sighs heavily. “Perhaps one day, if the devil doesn’t take us too soon, you’ll tell me your story.”

  I muster a laugh. “Perhaps if I knew it, I’d tell you.”

  Mateus’s eyes soften with understanding. We’ve hardly bared our souls to one another, but he knows my past is beyond reach. Oddly I think he counts my anonymity as an asset to our friendship.

  “If your past is dark, how do you know who she is?”

  I pause and relive that moment of recognition as she sat in the café this afternoon. Life had been different seconds before.

  “She recognizes me. She knows me.” I frown hard. “We were lovers. She hasn’t forgotten, and I have no way of remembering.”

  “Meu Deus, Tristan! How can you let her go?” Mateus’s cool calm breaks as he leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.

  I shrug. “It’s her or me.”

  He cusses under his breath and rises to his feet. He crosses the long room, opens a drawer at his desk, and returns.

  “Here,” he says, pushing a blackened silver frame into my hands.

  I open it like a book, and it parts stiffly. Inside, two ornately trimmed ovals reveal faded photographs. On each side, a woman and a man are dressed in clothing from a couple generations past.

  I lift my gaze to him. “Your parents?”

  He nods. “My sister raised me. My father opposed the regime, so they burned down our home. My parents were tied down, brutalized while my sister and I sneaked away. We couldn’t save them. Days later, we found this in the rubble. A miracle.” He’s silent a moment, his gaze on the frame. “Their enemies wanted them to disappear. No body, no voice, no grave beyond the ashes of our home. But this…” He leans in and drops his thick fingertip onto the center of his mother’s photograph. “This is a memory they could not destroy.”

  When he pulls back, I close the frame gently and hand it back to him. “You’re lucky to have found it.”

  He whips it from my grasp. “And you, idiota, are lucky to have her. She is your memory. She is your living and breathing miracle.” He shakes the frame at me once more before returning it back to his desk, slamming the drawer firmly shut.

  He returns and drops on the couch. I marvel at Mateus’s break in composure. I’ve only seen him beyond reason one other time. Those were memories neither of us wished to relive. But this is different. He’s emotional over memories he holds. I have nothing like that.

  “She’s going to get me killed,” I finally say. Suddenly, despite everything I’ve told myself, I know this to be true. Isabel is difficult and impulsive. No reasonable person would leave her life behind on a whim to come with me—a stranger. She’s unpredictable and far too attached to the person I once was. And already I can feel her reaching for more.

  Mateus rests his empty glass on the table beside him and spins it rhythmically.

  “People are always wishing away their bad memories. Meu Deus, I wish I could forget. Make it go away. Ah!” He flicks his hand. “They only wish away the pain it brings them. Me? I would rather die than live as you have, Tristan. Nothing but death to drive you forward. If hers will keep you on this path, you have nothing to live for.”

  I hold my teeth together, bearing down against the impact of his words. “And what do you live for? Vengeance? How is that life better?”

  Mateus’s expression relaxes a fraction. “Tristan… You are vengeance for hire, for those who don’t have the heart or the colhões to pull the trigger themselves.”

  I down the rest of my drink and rise to my feet. I pace around the room, chasing the flurry of thoughts that accuse and contradict and provide no true answers. Mateus is perhaps my only friend, and he could be right. If Isabel dies, by my hand or any other, her memories of my life die with her.

  I shove my hands through my hair with a pained sound. Why do I fucking care? Living with darkness might not be a life worth living, but it was vastly simpler. Nothing is simple now.

  “Tristan.”

  I turn as Mateus speaks. His eyes are soft with understanding, but everything else—his posture, the tension that lines his shoulders—speaks of his newfound determination to guide me through this.

  “Go to her. She has the answers.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TRISTAN

  A small click and the pelt of rain against the windows are the only sounds as I enter the room. Isabel is asleep. Her body lies diagonally on the bare bed. The satin bedspread and sheets have been kicked to the floor. Suspended by the restraints, her arms are stretched above her, obscuring her face.

  I switch on the lamp beside the couch. The tray of dishes remains untouched, and I’m momentarily grateful Karina didn’t return for them while I was gone. Isabel would have begged to be freed, unknowing that Karina is also Mateus’s lover and would never betray him.

  I circle the bed without a sound, gaining a better view of Isabel’s face. Dried tears streak her cheeks. Her lips and eyes are puffy. I don’t enjoy the misery that’s only just begun for her. She’s trapped here, but so am I.

  Every hour that passes with her in my world awakens compassion I didn’t know I possessed. I resent her for it, even if I can’t deny it.

  I retrieve a knife from my pocket and cut through the plastic bonds. Her eyes open wide. She scrambles away from me the second she’s free enough to move. She glances around the room and then down at her wrists, which are red and will likely bruise by morning. She rubs them but says nothing.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally say.

  She laughs roughly. “You’re sorry?”

  “If you understood the danger we’re in, you’d know leaving here without me is impossible.”

  She swallows but doesn’t meet m
y eyes. “If you explained why we’re in danger, maybe I wouldn’t have wanted to leave.”

  I reach for her, but she flinches back. She slides her stormy gaze to mine. Slowly, I take her hand, tracing the grooves at her wrist with my thumb.

  I slide my hand into hers. I don’t know why I do it. But the contact, palm to palm, sends a shockwave over my nerves. It’s not the vague familiarity I’ve experienced before with her. It’s something more…something primal…deeper.

  Her gaze settles there. Her lips part, as if she feels it too.

  “You have something valuable of mine,” I say. “I have to protect you, even if that means protecting you from yourself sometimes. You’ll have to forgive me because I’m not in the business of protecting anyone. You’ll just have to learn to trust me.”

  She doesn’t show acceptance in any way. She only stares at me. The mix of concern and devotion passing over her features is troubling, making me feel like a stranger in my own skin.

  Exhaustion tugs at my body. Knowing she could run, or worse, will make it difficult to drift off, but the thought of lying down beside her promises something soothing.

  “Come on. Let’s get some sleep.”

  I get up and replace the blankets on the bed. I kick off my shoes and untuck my gun, placing it on the bedside table nearest to me. I hear Isabel’s sharp intake of breath before I catch the fear in her eyes.

  “For protection,” I say, reassuring her. And myself.

  I take life day by day, hour by hour. Everything could change tomorrow. But right now, she’s safe with me.

  I move around the tiny kitchen. She’ll be home soon, and I’ll have food ready for her before I head to school. She’s been working all night.

  That’s when I hear it. Gunshots. The familiar sound freezes me in place. My heart stops beating. They’re too close.

  I fly to the door. Her car is parked in her usual spot, a few spaces down from the entrance to the house. The driver’s-side door is wide open, but she’s not getting out.

  The distant sound of shoes scuffing swiftly on pavement tears my attention from the car. Gray sweatpants and hoodie… Running down the street. He’s too far away, going too fast. There’s no time if…

  I run to the driver’s side of the car.

  I can no longer feel my body. I’m dead inside, because in that instant, I know she is too.

  No hope. No praying. Her body is punctured with wounds. All I can see is red. Her neck is twisted awkwardly, no longer able to support the weight of her head.

  Her purse hangs from her lifeless arm. The possessions of her purse are scattered on the street.

  She wouldn’t let it go.

  I reach for her and pull her into my arms. Her weight is too much. I fall to the ground with her. She’s gone, but she’s still warm. The last of her life weeps from the holes he shot through her body. For the contents of her purse.

  I hold her. I can’t let her go. I can’t leave her when this is all we have. Seconds…

  Our silence gives way to sirens in the distance. Shouts and cries of people who mean nothing to me. Because she was everything. The beginning and the end.

  Then all I can hear are screams. The screams are mine, and even as they pierce the air, I know they’re not enough to bring her back.

  “Mom! Mom!”

  ISABEL

  Tristan’s low, painful moans cut through the night.

  The lamp is off, so the faint moonlight through the window reveals just the basic outline of his still-clothed body. We’re only inches apart on the bed.

  I’m afraid to move or touch him. The past several hours in Tristan’s presence has taught me at least one thing. He’s unpredictable. Even though he’s asked for my trust, I’m not sure I can give it. Not until he proves to me that he’s capable of being the Tristan I once knew. With his memory gone, I fear that’s an impossible dream.

  I toyed with the prospect of escape as we fell silent in the darkness hours earlier. But I thought better of a renewed attempt, and eventually sleep overtook me once more. Now, no matter what logic and self-preservation shout at me, my heart is breaking at Tristan’s nightmare.

  His voice belongs to the old Tristan. The boy who shared his tears and racking sobs only with me in the days after his mother’s tragic death. I know the source of his pain. The thought that in consciousness he may not tugs at my growing pity for him and his situation.

  To the point where I can’t stay away.

  I roll slowly toward him so my front is barely pressed to his side. His breathing catches, and then he stills. Unsure if he’s awake and aware of me, I don’t dare speak. I press my nose against the collar of his shirt. I couldn’t forget that smell in a million years. The smell of Tristan in my arms, in my bed.

  As his breathing evens out, I ease my arm across his torso. As soon as I’m there, his hand is wrapped over mine, tucking me tight against him. I tense at the sudden contact and then relax, melting into his warmth and unexpected affection.

  “Sleep, Isabel.” The command is almost tender in his sleepy rasp.

  “You were dreaming.”

  He’s silent for several seconds. “I’m awake now. Get some rest.”

  I lift my head from his shoulder and take in his shadowed features. Indeed, he appears fully awake now. Any vulnerability from the dream has fallen away.

  I inch my palm up, resting it over his heart. Its rapid beats don’t match his measured breaths or guarded expression. If only I could reach into this man and find the lover I once knew. What would it be like to escape into the deep, haunting bliss of our bodies finding perfect harmony?

  His shadowed gaze offers no consolation, no promise that he’ll ever be more than the kind of man who can tie me to a bed and leave me screaming for help without a second thought. Yet having him near—blood and heat and his inexplicable intensity humming against my skin, searing me despite our clothes—is both the answer to a prayer and the beginning of what I fear could become a nightmare worse than his disappearance.

  I withdraw my touch and turn from him. Far enough so I can no longer feel his heat. I close my eyes and hug my pillow. Wanting anything more from him is dangerous. In less than twenty-four hours, he’s simultaneously turned my world upside down and ripped me from it. I need answers. I need rest. God knows what tomorrow will bring.

  The sound of the shower running wakes me. I blink against the late morning sunrays blasting through the barred window. This isn’t a dream. I’m still in Mateus’s home, which means Tristan is in the adjoining bathroom.

  I’m furious to find that he’s bound one of my wrists to the bed. I survey the room, wondering where he keeps his stash of zip ties. I kick the sheets and prepare to start screaming my head off again, when my foot touches something cool and hard on the side where Tristan slept. I grasp it with my toes enough to draw it into view. It’s the pocket knife he used to release me from the ties last night. He must have forgotten about it in the moments after.

  I nudge it up the bed a few inches at a time.

  Water crashes in the shower, competing with the loud drumming of my heart in my ears. Every second that passes seems perilous, knowing Tristan could return before I have a chance to cut myself free.

  I twist and maneuver until I can reach it. Finally I’m able to unlatch the blade. The simple act releases a shot of adrenaline to my system. The hit is so strong, I can hardly think through what I need to do next.

  I’m trembling but manage to cut the thick plastic zip tie. I roll off the bed swiftly, my muscles charged and my head buzzing. With the weapon in my hand, I have options I never had before.

  Tristan is only a few steps away. The man I never stopped loving. The stranger he’s become.

  I’m at war with his contradicting interactions with me. His unexpected tenderness mixed with his unforgiving tones and domineering behavior. But this could be my only chance to break free during daylight.

  All I can do is act. Run.

  I put on my shoes and grab my bac
kpack. I quietly exit the bedroom. My heart hammers in my chest anticipating Tristan’s reaction when he finds out I’m gone. Will he try to find me? Somehow I already know he will. But for how long?

  The more pressing question is how the hell I’ll get out of Mateus’s compound. I reach the front door and remember the armed guards who manned the gates down the path. I know nothing about this place or Tristan’s so-called friend, but I’m guessing leaving undetected may not be as straightforward as waltzing out the front door.

  All too aware of the dwindling moments before Tristan discovers I’m missing, I venture into other rooms of the house. The foyer opens into a sitting room with several accent chairs around a coffee table. I walk along a wall of bookshelves without making a sound. I peek through a doorway into a kitchen decorated with hand-painted tiles. Karina’s back is to me as she chops food facing the farthest wall.

  I step back into the sitting room and consider the double doors that open to the back of the property. Carefully I slide open the door, step onto the patio, and glance around. The gardens behind the house are vast, lush, and mercifully empty of people. I move quickly, eager to reach the perimeter of the property, when a familiar voice stops me.

  “Isabel. It that you?”

  Panic seizes my breath. I turn my head. Mateus is coming toward me from some hidden place in the gardens. He doesn’t rush. His gait is casual and comfortable, as if all of this is perfectly normal. Tristan’s knife is hidden in my fist. I ready myself to use it, an anxious tremble taking over my limbs once more.

  But as Mateus slows before me, his countenance is so easy and warm, I can’t help but relax a little. I exhale shakily. Maybe he can help. Maybe he could be a friend…

  “Isabel. Where are you running to?”

  “I have to leave.” I try to keep my tone even and calm. Like I’m not a prisoner on the run. Like I’m a free woman with the right to come and go as I wish. I fear I’m anything but.

  He assesses me quickly, his eyes lighting on my backpack slung over my shoulder and then my closed fist.