My eyes flick to the sketchbook splayed open on the table. The pages are opened to an image I sketched of my mother from the funeral. I hadn’t been able to attend because I was still in the hospital, but Mercedes ensured it was videotaped for me, and I watched it more than once. That haunting image of my mother so broken burned itself into my mind. It’s a memory that was never intended to be seen by anyone. Least of all a fucking Moreno.

Heat rises in my throat as I stalk toward my wife. She's already trembling, shrinking into herself as she tries to move back. But there's nowhere for her to go. Doesn't she realize it yet? She'll never escape me.

My icy fingers latch around her jaw and force her gaze up to mine. "What do you think you are doing?"

"I... I..." She stammers over the words, trying to shake her head. Wide, terrified eyes peer back at me, but it's the scent of my scotch on her breath that fuels my ire.

"Snooping through my things. Drinking my scotch. Are there any other sins you'll need to atone for this evening?"

"Santi, please."

"Don't call me that." My fingers bite into her skin, and she flinches at the menace in my tone.

I don’t know what she thinks she’s doing, acting so familiar to me. Trying to make me forget who I am. Who she is. As if she has a right to touch my things or stare into my darkest memories. Does she take pleasure in perfuming the halls of the manor with her scent, an ever-present reminder that the enemy is living under my roof? Even now, in my clutches, she’s staring up at me with so much false innocence, it grates on my last nerve. As if she could ever make me forget why she’s here. As if just by fluttering her lashes and speaking so sweetly, she could make me forget the traitorous blood running through her veins. I will never forget.

"You think I don’t know what you’re trying to do?" I growl.

She blinks up at me, confusion clear in her eyes. Maybe I'm a little drunk too. My visit with Judge ran longer than expected this evening, and the scotch flowed freely for the duration of it. Perhaps that's the reason the words come so uninhibited.

"I know what you are." I stare down into her strange eyes, forcing her to look at me as the monster I am. "A fucking temptress, trying to lure me in with that sweet voice and those innocent eyes. But you're a goddamned liar."

"No, I'm not." Her lip trembles.

"Shut your eyes," I command.

She doesn't obey. Her arms come up to grip mine, pleading with me as she clings to me. "Please don't be angry."