I still wince at the memories of how mean the girls had been. At least at first. They’d taunted me about my eye. I’d had to wear my hair pulled back from my face, whereas before I used my bangs to hide it as much as possible, but the nuns had rules, and if you broke them, you were punished.

It’s ironic how cruel nuns can be to the children of Christ whom they’re supposed to protect. To cherish. Or maybe I’m reading too much into the teachings of the Bible.

I’d met Santiago after a particularly ugly day at school. The girls had been taunting me for days, and as much as I tried to act like I didn’t care, the things they said about me, about my family, about my deformity, as they called it, hurt. I was lonely enough without needing to be singled out and it was like they felt that vulnerability, and one, in particular, Maria Chambers, went in for the kill.

That was the day I’d endured both their hate and Sister Mary Anthony’s punishment at my response to the girls, and when I’d gotten home, I’d burst into my dad’s study to tell him I was finished. I didn’t care what he said. I wasn’t ever going back to that place.

I hadn’t realized he’d had company. In fact, I’d been so focused I hadn’t seen Santiago sitting there until my dad pushed me away—something he did in front of others even though when it was just the two of us, he could be warm. I remember the look on his face. Like he’d been embarrassed by me. Ashamed of me.

And I remember how I’d pulled my hair out of its required bun to hide my eye before Santiago saw it.

That was the first time I’d seen the man who had stolen all my dad’s attention and sometimes his affection too. I understood why, even at thirteen. The De La Rosa family could elevate us. And as much as it hurt, I knew even then this was the most important thing to my father, even over his children.

“Why would Santiago De La Rosa choose me? What aren’t you telling me, Abel?”

Abel studies me. “Why would he lower himself, you mean? A high and mighty Sovereign Son taking a peasant for a wife?”

“You know that’s a form of classism, don’t you? This whole caste system you’ve got going. And if I’m a peasant in their eyes, then what does that make y—”

His hand wraps around my throat, and he has my back to the wall before I can finish my sentence. Rage burns inside his eyes as he cuts off my windpipe.

I clutch at his forearm, digging my nails into his flesh.

“Abel!”