Page 28 of No Sweeter Poison

Something isn’t right here. I know I should fear the edge in his voice when he says my name but I don’t. Not when my survival instincts start kicking in. Maybe if I was smarter, I’d keep my mouth shut. What is it that we say when the main character in a movie is doing something stupid? You keep screaming at the television that they need to shut up, be wiser, play their cards right, because they’re going head-to-head with someone who can hurt them. All that caution, all those red flags, go right out the window.

“Where are my things? I want my phone and my purse.”

His eyes narrow like he’s examining a wild animal from behind the safety of a tall glass wall. “You should eat something first and then we’ll talk. You had a nasty fall and Lettie used a bit of chloroform to keep you asleep while she sewed up that gash on your head.”

Oh my God.

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!

“Chloroform? I…no…” I press the heels of my palms into my eyes. “Did you kidnap me?”

Alejandro levels his gaze. “I did not kidnap you.”

Only one way to find out.

I make my way toward the door he just came in from. With astounding speed, he’s across the room in seconds and grabs hold of my arm. A struggle ensues and I dig my fingers into the injury on his shoulder. He grunts in pain and I manage to free myself from his iron grip but don’t get far. He catches my wrist and yanks me around, causing me to lose my footing. We both stumble backward and land on the couch, him on top and me on the bottom. Even injured he’s bigger and stronger despite having took a bullet the night before. Which means he’s someone dangerous enough to justify a volatile reaction. Who did he piss off? Or worse.

Who’s so afraid of him that they decided he was better off dead than alive?

“Dahlia—”

I push against him. “Don’t touch me. Don’t ever touch me!”

At that, he has the audacity to look smug. “Well…that’s certainly a departure from your behavior last night.”

I’m not sure what comes over me. Maybe it’s nerves, anxiety, madness, or a dangerous cocktail of all three. But when he tries to pin my arms above my head, I yank my right hand back and strike the side of his face so hard he flies backward. Whether it be from the force or the shock, I don’t know. I refuse to wait around and find out.

A few years ago, when Karina and I first started traveling together, we took self-defense classes designed for women. Everything I learned comes rushing back the instant he’s on me again and I feel trapped.

I force the heel of my hand up under the sensitive patch of skin beneath his chin. He doesn’t expect it and his head juts backward. Without giving it a second thought, I knee him in the groin with everything I have then kick him in the chest to push him off of me.

Then I run.

THE VILLA

Dahlia

F or obvious reasons, I don’t make it far.

Diego spots me before I turn the corner down the hall, tosses me over his shoulder like an old rag doll, and then deposits me into a love seat in the bedroom. I’ve been glaring holes into the back of his head ever since but he’s too busy talking to Alejandro to notice.

Contrary to what Karina thinks, my Spanish skills aren’t completely hopeless. I’m a delightful example of receptive bilingualism which means I can understand most of what they’re saying. Unlike other Spaniards I’ve encountered thus far, whose accents are almost impossible for me to understand, Alejandro and his family aren’t originally from here so they speak like Latin Americans.

An older woman enters the room with a pile of clean linens in her hands. She must not expect to see us here because she startles and a small hand towel at the top of her pile falls. She rushes to pick it up.

“Disculpe,” she barely speaks above a whisper. “Pensé que todos ya se habían ido.”

Alejandro merely sighs as he drags his hand down the length of his face. He gives a slight bow of his head, a show of respect likely because she’s his elder, and asks her for something I don’t catch. I think he says Lettie and something about it being cold but I pay very little attention. A few minutes later she’s gone and while Diego and Alejandro are still arguing, Lettie walks in.

Unlike the other times I’ve seen her, her hair is now platinum blonde, almost white, and pin straight with a clean part down the middle. Against her tan complexion, the colors should clash, but it suits her so well she practically looks like a different person. In fact, I almost don’t recognize her at first.

Diego swings around and does a double take as he looks her up and down. “Are you fucking kidding me.”

She looks at him.

“We’re in the middle of a crisis and you went to get your hair done?”

She offers an indifferent shrug in response. “I wasn’t going to cancel my appointment just because Alejandro went and got himself shot at.” She walks toward her brother. “Here.”