The Taste of Revenge (War of Sins Book 1)

‘Is there not one goddamn doctor who can tell me what’s going on?’ I pace around, my anger getting the best of me.

A few nurses scurry out of my way, while another tells me to wait patiently.

‘We’ve been here for an hour already. What if she’s dying? What if there’s something wrong with her and she’s dying?’ I demand, my voice harsh.

She just purses her lips at me, shaking her head and moving out of my warpath.

I know I’m not making any sense. But since they admitted her to the emergency room, they only gave her something for the pain. They didn’t fucking try to find the cause.

Something could be seriously wrong with her. She could be having an internal hemorrhage and no one would be wiser—until it’s too late.

‘Fuck,’ I curse out loud, bringing my hands to my face and rubbing at my eyes.

When I’d noted her absence at breakfast, I thought she was doing it to spite me. Especially after our conversation last night when I’d had the cards turned on me—literally.

I don’t think I’ve felt greater shame than when I’d looked at her naked body, and the many marks that mar it. I was ashamed because the truth was staring me right in the face. And I was ashamed for desiring her anyway.

I’d seen hints of her naked flesh before, but that was the first time I had an unobstructed view of everything—of every blemish and every scar. All staring me in the face and making me feel like the worst type of bounder.

I’ve always prided myself on being a fair man. But with her? I’ve been anything but fair. From the beginning I let my distorted yet limited view of her shape my entire perception of her.

But that’s not all, is it?

As much as it pains me to admit, it hadn’t only been my preconceived notions of her that had shaped my behavior towards her. It had also been the way I reacted to her—the primal feelings she awoke in me, unlike anything I’d ever felt before.

Unlike her…

Lucero’s memory and her stories had spurred me forward, the very idea of being attracted to her tormentor screwing with my head and making me more likely to see her in a negative light. Admitting she made me feel would have been akin to betraying Lucero—a betrayal to everything I’d promised and held dear.

Subconsciously, I knew how forbidden she was to me. That acting soft towards her would mean dishonoring both Lucero and myself—because I’d be disrespecting her memory and the hardships I went through to get to where I am.

Yet how am I to reconcile everything I thought I knew of her with the marks on her flesh?

Because those hadn’t been simple scars. No, they had been deliberate wounds to hurt and to humiliate. Her entire stomach had been covered in scars—scratches, cuts, and cigarette burns—all forming a mosaic that spoke of her history.

A history I’d mocked.

The differently formed scars spoke of continued abuse—of healed wounds that were open again and again.

I’d been so struck by the sight of her that I’d felt my entire reality shift.

What could be worse than being so convinced about one thing, shaping your entire reality around it, only to find out it was an illusion?

I let my biases shape my opinion of her and I refused to see what was right in front of me.

She was a victim.

And it had only taken for her to turn around and show me her lower back for me to feel even sicker to my stomach. Those marks hadn’t been from the fire. No, I’d seen those before, the badly healed pink skin I’d made fun of.

My lip twitches in disgust as I recall that particular moment, how I’d ridiculed her and called her scars ugly when they were anything but—they are her marks of courage.

The wounds on her lower back, though…

Those had been horrible and gnarly, and I can only imagine the pain she must have gone through to get them—repeated, agonizing pain.

A pained sigh escapes me as I realize the extent of the abuse—of the invisible abuse. Because had anyone known?

To everyone’s knowledge, she was the untouchable mistress, the spoiled, apple of Sergio’s eye doña. Even daring to look her in the eye could warrant death.

She was special. Everyone knew that.

But it wasn’t quite like that, was it?

In public, she’d looked like a mighty doña. In private, however…

My hands ball into fists at the thought, and I can’t help but be mad at myself for not looking closer into her claims—for branding her a liar before I knew the full story.

I’d had the entire night to ponder over that realization, and I’d begun to feel increasingly like a bastard as it dawned on me I was no better than anyone else in her life.

Under a magnifying glass, suddenly her behavior started to make sense.

Everything started to make sense.

I’d just been too fucking blind to consider the possibility that she might be telling the truth. So hell bent I’d been on my so-called revenge, that I’d ignored every little sign.

I’m a fucking idiot.

I’d stayed up until dawn going over every single interaction and cataloging her responses, coming up with a rather dire conclusion.

I was wrong. I’ve been wrong all along.

And like every other fucking person in her life, I continued to abuse her, mocking her claims and making a liar out of her when she was anything but.

What had she said? That I had no right to deny her trauma?

She was fucking right.

How could I have been so obtuse when I experienced similar things on my own skin? When I still bear both the physical and mental wounds from my time with Armand though I always do my best to bury them beneath the surface? How the hell could I have been so judgmental as to discount her trauma just because of my narrow view of it?

With a new clarity, I can finally question everything, including the box of matches I’d found in her hand. How could someone as small as her—as dainty as her—set fire to the entire hacienda with just a few matches? The smell of gasoline had been strong that night and coming from all directions. Anyone could have set that fire. But not anyone could have doused the entire place in gasoline.

She’s just a collateral victim.

For the first time, I have to admit that my ego got the best of me. It had been infinitely easier to vilify her in my mind, because then, I didn’t have to look deeper into the things she made me feel.

And that is on me.

I’ve been so disgusted with myself for desiring her that I preferred to believe the worst of her in order to feel better about myself.

To justify this intense yearning I feel for her.

And for that alone, I feel like the worst fucking scum.

When the morning had come, I’d outlined a plan on how to approach her and mend the fences—or at least some.

But as the hours had trickled by with no sign of her, I’d gotten worried.

Worried enough that I’d broken down the door to her room.

And when I’d seen her…

She’d looked so small and helpless huddled in her sheets, her face contorted in pain as she released soft whimpers. Her skin had been so hot to the touch, I’d immediately gotten concerned. Even more so when I’d realized she was unresponsive.

Mad with worry, I’d acted on the spur of the moment. I’d swooped her into my arms, and I’d taken the car to the nearest hospital.

Not that they’ve helped much.

Certainly, they administered her an IV to help with the pain and gave her something to bring down her fever. But other than that? They can’t even fucking tell me what’s wrong with her.

‘Sir, please calm down,’ a nurse tries to pacify me, but I’m already out of control.

‘Not until someone can tell me what the hell is wrong with her,’ I point towards her salon, aggression rolling off me at the thought that something could happen to her.

‘She’s in good hands. Please…’

I don’t get to tell her off again as a doctor finally decides to come to my side.

‘I’m sorry for the delay, but we had to pull her medical records before we did anything,’ he explains, giving me a stiff smile as he goes over the protocol.

‘Fine. Now can you look at her?’ I bring down my voice a notch, realizing I’m acting out and taking out my frustration on people who have no fault in this.

‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you first,’ he starts, looking a little apprehensive.

‘What is it?’ I bark out.

‘Since she was admitted she’s been complaining about lower stomach pain. We want to do an ultrasound to check the state of her uterus…’ the words drown out as I frown at the doctor.

‘Her uterus?’ I repeat, dumbfounded.

‘In someone with her history it’s not unlikely to see extensive scarring. And that can lead to a whole slew of issues.’

‘Wait,’ I put my hand up. ‘Someone with her history?’ I ask, confused.

The doctor’s brows furrow, and for a moment he seems reluctant to go on. But as I reassure him I am Noelle’s husband and her legal guardian, he finally deigns to tell me.

‘I’m sorry. I was under the impression you knew,’ he mutters. ‘A few years back she was brought in with a uterine infection caused by a retained placenta. She had to be operated on as soon as possible to remove the placenta, but the infection resulted in a lot of internal scarring and likely caused the onset of endometriosis,’ he continues to talk, but my focus is already shaken.

‘Retained placenta?’ I repeat bleakly, my mind going a thousand places at once. ‘You mean she was pregnant?’

He gives me a grim look.

‘I wasn’t her attending physician, so I can only tell you what’s in her medical file. She was brought with severe burns and bruises and she was almost septic. It was a miracle she survived considering the extent of her injuries. If I were to make an educated guess…’ he trails off, looking in the direction of her salon.

‘I’d say she gave birth without any medical assistance. Her file indicated she exhibited untreated second degree vaginal tearing, as well as the retained placenta. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know how she survived.’