Lazaro's Revenge

Half brother, she corrected, but a brother was a brother was a brother.

My God, they had the same dad. They were practically the same age, born just six months apart.

It had all come out, or most of it had come out, and she’d begged him to stop talking but he hadn’t, not until he’d filled her head with words that wouldn’t go away.

Lazaro had left her room and she’d run in here, to crouch at the lavatory and gag on the horrible awful things he’d said.

How could a brother destroy a brother?

The bathroom door opened. Luz stood there, dark eyes narrow and unfriendly. “?La gripe?” she asked, freshly laundered towels in her arms.

Zoe sat back, wiped her nose and eyes on a crumpled tissue. “La gripe?” she repeated dumbly, hating that she couldn’t communicate in the slightest with the housekeeper.

Lazaro appeared behind Luz. “The flu,” he translated. “She wants to know if you’re sick.”

At heart, Zoe thought, swallowing hard. “Tell her I’m fine. Just sad.”

His light eyes narrowed. “There’s no reason for you to be sad. This isn’t your problem.”

Zoe rose. “Of course it’s my problem.” She took a step forward, hands balled at her sides, anger making her head light. “He’s my family now, too, and if you think I’ll stand by while you do whatever it is you intend to do, you’re wrong.”

“You don’t know him.”

She took another step, fury growing by the moment. “Maybe you’re the one that doesn’t know him. Maybe you’re the one that just thinks you do.”

He lifted a hand, gestured Luz away before reaching out and clasping Zoe lightly around the wrist. He brought her toward him despite her obvious reluctance. “How well do you know him, Zoe?”

His voice had dropped lower, huskier, and it shivered down her spine even as the heat of his hand burned through the skin at her wrist. The heat was the main thing, the most pressing thing. She felt warm from the inside out, warm just touching him, warm from standing so close to him.

Her mouth went dry. Her heart was pounding inside her chest. She touched the tip of her tongue to her upper lip, trying to ease the dryness. “Don’t you dare insinuate—”

“Insinuate?” Lazaro softly interrupted, drawing her closer still. “I’m not insinuating anything. I’m telling you. I’m telling you how this is, how this works. You’re here because Dante told me to bring you here. This was his idea, corazоn. His plan.”