He doesn’t look convinced, but Wyatt’s hand on his arm stops him from following. I’m grateful. I need to think without their protective warmth clouding my head.
The fire pit is quieter when I sink into one of the cushioned chairs. I’m calmed by the flicker of gas flames, the distant murmur of conversation from the main table, the city glittering below us in the darkness. I close my eyes and focus on slowing my breath.
The clinical part of my brain won’t stop cataloging. Vicente’s micro-expressions when he looked at Chris. Chris’s deliberate non-looking back. The way Vicente asked about him. Not curious, not casual. Proprietary. Like checking on an investment.
I’ve treated survivors of coercive control before. I know the patterns. The way abusers create dependency through intermittent reinforcement. How they blur boundaries until victims can’t tell the difference between love and manipulation, care and captivity.
He made me into something. Someone who craved the control he had over me.
Chris’s words keep circling back. I’d assumed—what? That Vicente controlled Chris through fear? Through operational necessity? The cartel hierarchy, the constant threat of exposure, the violence that must have surrounded that life?
But “craved” isn’t a word you use for fear. “Craved” suggests something else entirely.
What if I’ve been reading this wrong? What if the control wasn’t just psychological?
I don’t want to follow that thought to its logical conclusion. Not here, in Vicente’s house, with Chris somewhere in the courtyard trying to survive a meal with the man who?—
Who what?
A few minutes. That’s all I need. Then I’ll go back over there and finish pretending I didn’t just watch a predator track his prey across a dinner table.
“Thought I saw you sneak off.”
Sadie drops into the love seat across from me. Marco settles beside her, two glasses of wine in hand.
“We’re not interrupting?” he asks.
“No. Please.”
Sadie accepts a glass from Marco, takes a long sip.
“Hell of a gathering,” she says. “You’d never know half these people have tried to kill each other at some point.”
“That’s family,” Marco says mildly.
Sadie snorts. “Speaking of complicated—how’s your boy handling being back in Vicente’s orbit?”
I blink. “My...?”
“Chris. Your—” She waves her hand. “Whatever he is. Third point of your triangle.”
“Sadie.” Marco’s voice carries a warning.
“What? It’s obvious.” She takes another sip of wine, her expression going distant. “We had our own history with Vicente. Just a few months ago, actually. He’s not easy to shake. Gets inside your head and makes a home there.” She glances at Marco, then back at me. “But you know all this. You’re with the man who spent five years in Vicente’s bed.”
The words hit like ice water.
Everything stops. The crackle of the fire. The distant murmur of conversation from the main table. My own heartbeat.
“I—what?”
Sadie’s eyebrows rise. “He hasn’t told you?” She looks at Marco, then back at me, eyes widening. “Shit. I assumed—I mean, the three of you are clearly together, and Chris lived through it, so I figured?—”
“Sadie.” Marco’s voice is sharp. “Stop.”
“Fuck.” She drags a hand through her short hair. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew. When you walked in together, I assumed he’d already?—”
“It’s not our story to tell,” Marco cuts in, that protective streak surfacing hard. “That’s Chris’s. When he’s ready.”
