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He doesn't say a word.
Doesn't try to defend himself. Doesn't offer excuses or apologies.
Doesn't revel or rejoice.
Doesn't mock her.
His veneer is polished and cold. Nothing like the man who's held her hand, wrapped her in his arms, kissed her scars, cracked his heart open and filled her own with unexpected affection and hope.
He moves at the point of her gun. The gun she's holding with shaking hands and steady fury. Or maybe it's this fury that's holding her together when everything around her seems to be falling apart.
The taste is bitter. Ash in her mouth. The truth of who he is turning everything he touched to cinders.
Raquel cuffs him to the car's grab handle and when she holds the steering wheel, her hands are cold and aching.
She doesn't say a word either. The truth is, she's just not sure what will come out once she starts. She wants to scream until her throat feels raw. To rage. She wants to grab him by the collar of his shirt and rip that polished composure right off him.
She doesn't see red. Doesn't see colors or shapes or forms.
She doesn't see anything at all.
She just drives, reckless and simmering.
If Sal—she winces.
If he is surprised when they take the road to the house in Toledo, it doesn't show.
She maneuvers him out of the car with brutal efficiency, anger flaring every time his ribs brush the barrel of her gun, her finger twitching on the trigger. Then she marches him up the stairs into the attic, its walls still swaddled in plastic and dust.
There's a beam low enough to chain him by the handcuffs. As she does it, Raquel sneers at the memory of those same hands gliding over her skin, tentative at first, then eager, making her ache for more.
She steps away as soon as she's sure he won't get out, desperate for some distance.
Then she starts pacing, back and forth, until the words she managed to keep in begin to spill out.
She's not even sure what she's saying at first. Something about what guilty people do when they are taken back to the crime scene. Her voice is even, almost casual. It echoes off the walls.
She talks about nerves. About people who can't stand silence.
The irony is not lost on her. She can't stand his silence either. Not for a second longer.
When she turns to him, the look on his face is the same. Serious. Blank. He looks almost… penitent, and though his head is still held high, his gaze falters before it reaches hers.
"What do you want me to talk about, Raquel?"
Her name on his lips is a spark too close to a trail of gasoline.
Her jaw clenches and she rests her hands on her hips to hide the shaking.
"Who are you?"
"Sergio Marquina," he says. Plain and steady.
"Sergio?" she asks, her voice brittle. It's the name Silene Oliveira gave her earlier, a confession and a confirmation, not that she needs either one at this point.
It also drives the final nail into whatever fragile hopes she had let herself build around the two of them.
"Salva?" she hears herself say, and at once she is thinking of all the other times she called him that. On the phone. Sitting across from him at their table at Hanoi. On her bed, with his head between her legs and her fingers buried in his hair.
She tries to bury the memories under the weight of the facts, but they keep clawing their way back.
"The Professor?" She keeps going, and little by little the pieces start to sink in, every stab of truth biting at what little dignity she has left.
Her voice rises fueled by betrayal, as she demands, "Which one are you?"
Silence.
She keeps digging, the cost of it visible in the dirt under her nails and the ache in her bruised fingers, as she drags his lies into the light one by one.
She asks for details, her mind seizing on every scrap, relentless in its search for answers.
Raquel isn't sure what she expected, but the moment he admits he hasn't renewed his ID in the last twenty years, it hits her.
Twenty years.
Every move she made, he countered. Every advance, undone almost as soon as she made it.
He really did have everything planned. Which means—
She scoffs, and the sound comes out jagged with disbelief.
She smiles, but it hurts, pulling at the wrong edges, stiff and plastic.
Then she forces herself to look away, a cold surge of anger running through her.
This—this man.
Sergio. Salva. Professor. Whoever he is.
She doesn't want to just kill him.
She wants him to suffer.
To watch him burn, bleed, break. Slowly and right in front of her eyes.
And the worst part, the part that makes her recoil from herself, is knowing what lies beneath it.
Betrayal has sharp fangs. It sinks its teeth easily into the soft, fragile pieces of her she trusted him with.
The same heart he held so gently, marred by stitches and scars, only to rip it out of her chest, leaving behind nothing but a gaping hole.
She can see it then, how easy it would be to make him disappear, wrap his lifeless body in plastic (conveniently, there's more than enough around) after dispensing justice with her own bare hands.
"Is that what you want?" he asks, and for the first time she notices a slight, barely perceptible quiver in his voice. "To kill and burn me?"
YES. YES. YES, the hushed voices in her head whisper back, insidious and slick.
Did she say that out loud?
"Yes," she repeats, eyes brimming with contempt. "I sure do."
She knows better. Knows it wouldn't be right. Knows how unhinged the admission alone makes her sound.
She can't help it.
She can't help herself.
"Look." She takes a step closer. And another. The thrum of possibility almost as loud as the beating of her heart. "Perhaps, as an inspector, I shouldn't say this to the person who organized the heist at the Royal Mint."
His eyes have stopped darting.
Now he looks straight into hers, dark and inscrutable. Nothing in him moves except his chest, slow and steady with each breath.
For now.
"But as a woman—" her voice breaks, her expression twisting into something ugly and wounded. "As a woman who has spent years being afraid of everything—everything—and who trusted someone. Someone who knew how fragile and vulnerable she was, who's been fooling her from the beginning…From the fucking beginning—"
She hates it. Hates the tears she can't hold back, the hurt seeping into her words, hates that he can see it.
But there's nothing she can do to stop it. "Then it wouldn't be that far-fetched, don't you think?"
He swallows, and she's far too close not to notice. There's a flicker beneath the surface, just enough to put a crack through the armor.
Is it annoyance? Discomfort? Guilt?
It can't be. He's a sociopath, a degenerate. He's a liar and a thief.
She sees that crack, and part of her just wants to pry it open with a sharp blade.
Let me break something of yours.
Let me be the one who does the damage for once.
"You could have—" The feeling in her chest burns bright and hot. Blinding. She can feel her grip slipping. "You could have approached me, gotten information out of me. Planted a bug on me. Un puto micro, joder!"
He looks away, a crease forming between his eyes, and she keeps pressing. "But no. No, you couldn't."
She inhales slowly, haggardly, and even the air feels hot in her lungs.
"Yesterday we were dreaming together," she hears herself say, and the sound that leaves her is closer to a laugh than anything else, hollow and burnt through. "Joder. Talking about the future. The future!"
"Who the hell are you?" She all but spits the words. "What are you, un puto perturbado?"
"It was all planned, Raquel," he says, voice low. There is something in his eyes she might have caught if her own vision were not blurred with unadulterated wrath. "Everything. It was all—I'm sorry. It was all planned out…Except what happened between us."
"I don't know, I broke my own rules."
Raquel inhales sharply. His words, whatever she expected him to say, this was not it. "¿Qué?"
"I-I didn't consider that variable," he stammers, and it drives the knife deeper.
She frowns. Wasn't she the one holding the blade?
"W-what the hell are you saying?" she snaps. "What variable?"
His eyes find hers again and do not waver. "Falling in love with you."
She hears the slap, feels the sting in her hand before she fully realizes what she’s done.
It's not enough.
"You really think I'll let you go on with this fucking crap? Son of a bitch," she says, sick with revulsion. "That I'll sit back and do nothing while you keep lying to my fucking face as if I were a 15-year-old girl?"
"I'm not lying, Raquel," he insists, lifting his eyes to hers again. "I fell in love with you."
The words slash straight through her. She hits him again. Harder.
"Say it again," she demands. "Say it again! I dare you to say it again!"
And he does.
"Raquel…" Brown eyes. The same eyes that reached her from across a table in that stupid café and offered to protect her. The ones that danced with mirth over drinks and roamed over every curve of her body that first night. The ones that looked straight into her soul as she let him in, feeling the weight of his body over her, his heartbeat pounding hard enough to echo inside her. "I fell in love with you."
Another slap. Hard enough to draw blood. Her hand is shaking. Her whole body, really.
A rush of emotion tears through her, something too powerful and barely contained with nowhere to go.
When their eyes meet again, something shifts.
His pupils are blown, his eyes dark with something wild and stripped bare.
They hold each other's gaze, both breathing hard, his last words still hanging in the space between them.
Then she's kissing him.
All teeth and momentum, a kiss that shouldn't be, tasting of salt tears and the metallic tang of blood.
A kiss that robs her of breath and what remains of her dignity, leaving on its trail a whimper and the realization of what she's done.
It chafes. In all the raw places and wounds still open, and he doesn't respond at first. He looks as shocked as she feels, still and stunned. She pulls back, only for a second, just enough to drag air into her lungs. It's the perfect opening for reason or regret to come rushing in, but all she hears is her own heartbeat, and all she sees are his eyes on her, searching her face like he might find a missing piece to a puzzle.
Raquel knows, or at least imagines, what she must look like. Eyes bright, wounded and accusing, horror and heartbreak laid bare.
Then she hears, a soft groan as he pulls forward, catching her lips between his own, desperate and hungry.
She should stop it.
Her ignorance had been humiliating, but useful. The perfect alibi for her mistake.
Not that anyone, least of all herself, will forgive her for it. A lesson she learned, still fresh and carved deep enough to last a lifetime.
There's no excuse for whatever this is.
For what takes over her when she pulls him closer, letting her teeth sink into the soft flesh of his lower lip, inviting, no—demanding his tongue.
There's nothing she can say or do that could possibly preserve any sense of pride or self-worth as her stomach flutters and the familiar pulse of desire hits her all at once.
He kisses her back with equal desperation, heedless of pain, heedless of every line they seem to be crossing once again. This time at least they both know it. Even so, she is not sure 'willingness' is the word for it, not when her body has decided to act on its own, moving on want alone. She cannot deny that want any more than she can deny how good it feels to sink her fingers into his hair, the sound he makes when she pulls him closer, or the way he seems hungry for more.
They break the kiss only for a second, just long enough to catch their breath, chests rising and falling in rough sync, like they've been running up a hill carrying the heavy load of her fears and his secrets.
"Raquel," he pleads, the half-whisper thick with agony and surrender. She looks at him with storm in her eyes, seeing him under a different light, seeing all that was ensconced and hidden, now exposed like a nerve.
She feels the heat of his body, flushed and solid against hers, the hard strain of him through his trousers, and the intoxicating effect it has on her own body, leaving her dizzy and reckless with what remains of her heart.
She steps back, and he tries to follow, the chain jerks taut between the handcuffs and the beam, loud in the silence that grows like vines around them.
"Raquel," he says, his voice frayed, like he would be on his knees if the chains were not holding him in upright.
"Por favor," he begs as she circles him like a predator closing in on its prey.
What does he even want? To be heard? To be freed? To have her believe in whatever filthy lies he means to spin with that clever mouth of his?
A snarl pulls at the corner of her lips, and she bears her teeth like a wounded animal. "Cállate!"
Then she grabs the chain that's been holding him and hauls him forward like a dog. He doesn't fight it. Doesn't argue. Just follows the pull, obedient and pliant, as she drags him to the nearest chair and secures him there.
A soft grunt leaves him as she makes sure he can't get free, and she catches sight of his wrists, the skin there rubbed raw and already bruising.
It gives her a flicker of satisfaction. He should be the one hurting. She can give him that.
His eyes track her every movement as she steps in front of him, one hand running through her hair, too wired to feel the exertion of her actions just yet.
He looks at her, and his eyes are filled with something she doesn't want to see, least of all acknowledge.
"What are you doing?" he asks, as if he has any right to demand anything from her.
She doesn't bother with a reply. Instead, she steps closer, moving right between his legs. A perfect fit. Close enough that he has to tip his head back to keep looking at her, close enough that she can't ignore the hard outline in his trousers or the heat of his breath against her shirt.
There's blood smeared in the corner of his mouth. She lifts her hand toward it, and he flinches the moment her fingers brush his skin.
Is he afraid of her? Of what she will do?
Is that what you want? To kill and burn me?
The answer is still yes.
But there's something else she wants more.
She undoes her belt. Slowly this time, and with far more ease than her shaking hands should allow. She doesn't look at him, but can feel his eyes on her, like standing too close to an open flame.
Her belt and badge hit the floor with a heavy thud. Her fingers find the button and the zipper without hesitation. He wets his lips, eyes dark and bewildered, tracking her every move, as if trying to memorize every strip of skin the light touches. The way he did the first time she undressed in front of him.
This close, she can feel the flames licking at her skin.
It should hurt. And it's bound to leave a mark, this much she knows.
But by the time her trousers drop to the floor, she's already far past caring.
Bumping his legs with her own, Raquel forces his knees inward just enough to straddle him. She feels the soft gasp he lets out more than she hears it as she settles onto him, the hard drag of his erection against her soaked underwear, the last scraps of her dignity going with it.
His hips buck in response and she hears herself moan, low and shaky, the air catching on its way out before she can stop it.
Her fingers sink into the hair at the nape of his neck, her nails grazing the skin there, and he leans into the touch with his eyes closed. Then her hands slide down his shoulders and find the knot of his tie.
Part of her thinks about choking the life out of him. When she looks up, she realizes he can see it too.
This could be it. She could put an end to this whole thing, feel the fight go out of him, his pulse go still, feel his body go slack under hers.
But no.
That's not how it happens and for a moment, Raquel wonders who's in charge here. Certainly not him, all tied up and at her mercy. But not her either, with her pride in pieces and her treacherous heart already quickening at nothing more than his nearness.
Her hips move of their own accord, rolling slowly until his length throbs against her cunt.
He grunts and drops his head to the curve of her shoulder. Then she feels his nose brush the bare skin of her neck, his mouth already searching, hungry for a taste.
The hand still tangled in a fistful of his hair keeps his open mouth from latching onto her skin.
She means to scold him. To put him in his place.
But the sight of him, mouth parted, chest heaving, and that glimmer of wretchedness in his eyes, undoes all her plans.
Her mouth crashes into his, open and ravenous, all tongue and teeth and not enough room for air or second guessing.
Her hands work in tandem, stripping off his tie, opening his shirt, searching for bare skin and old bruises to press on.
He whimpers against her, and she swallows every last drop of it.
Her hands slide lower, and the muscles of his abdomen contract beneath her touch. She can feel him fighting his restraints, desperate to grab her like he did that first night. To pull her up and closer still, dominant in a way she had not expected from a man with such gentle voice and shy smiles. And yet she had felt it then, in the way those pianist fingers had mapped every curve of her body, exploring every mound and dip, memorizing the paths of her pleasure.
He will not touch her now. She will not give him the satisfaction, though she understands she's giving him something else.
One last memory, at least.
It's the price that needs to be paid, and there's no way around it. She can't have him and not give a little of herself in return.
That does not mean she will do it gracefully.
Her movements are brusque, impatient. She undoes his belt, opens his trousers, breaks the kiss.
He's gasping now. For air, for more.
Her breath catches high in her chest. A trail of sweat slips down her back as Raquel yanks off her shirt. Her nipples ache against the thin lace of her bra. Before she can even look at him again, his mouth is on her, sucking at her through the damp fabric.
She pulls back just enough to escape his reach, and he follows on instinct, only to flinch when the cuffs bite into his skin. She sweeps her hair over one shoulder and slides the strap of her bra down, slow as provocation.
He yanks at the cuffs again. Satisfaction curls at the edge of her mouth. Then she grips his head and lifts herself just enough to give him access.
She doesn't do it for him.
She does it for herself.
For the jolt that shoots right through her center. For the throb between her legs. For her pleasure and her pleasure alone.
Though judging by how hard he is, this is far from one-sided.
His tongue drags over her, wet and warm, mouth working with greedy focus, and Raquel closes her eye for a moment, remembering all the other places his mouth has tended to with the same dedication.
She can't have that now. But there's something else, just within her reach.
Her hand, the one not gripping the nape of his neck, slides down his trousers and wraps around his cock.
That alone is enough to make him jerk beneath her, his mouth breaking away from her bruised nipple.
She pulls him free, her hand moving over his length, slow and firm, and he bucks again, unable to hold still.
"R-Raquel," he says her name low and strained, in what might become a warning if he can force the words out properly. Or focus enough to make it into a full sentence.
She does not give a fuck.
She repeats the motion, slower this time, more deliberate, making the point clear. He lets out a broken sound, and she feels her hand grow slick with pre-cum.
Then she presses herself closer, close enough to feel the rapid beat of his heart once again, aligning herself just enough to grind against him, dragging her soaked panties over his length.
A deep, thunderous moan rips through the room, and it takes her a second to realize it came from her.
When she opens her eyes, it is to find him looking at her with something akin to inebriation, his gaze naked and dazzled.
She can't bear to look at it. At him.
Whatever she sees there, she refuses to believe any of it. It is all lies.
Her rational mind already understands. It is her heart that still needs to catch up.
Stupid, foolish heart.
The same one that stumbles the moment she pulls the fabric of her panties aside and feels the smooth length of him slide through her slit, the head of his cock pressing at her entrance, unbound.
Joder.
She shouldn't want him this badly.
He looks like he's about to say something. She sees it in the way his throat moves, in the plea already gathering in his eyes, as if he is asking for a ceasefire.
Raquel feels tears prick at her eyes. She can't give him that either. Not here, not in the wreckage of everything between them.
So she closes her eyes, sinks onto his length, and loses herself in the feeling.
It's all she can afford at this point.
And it is already costing her far too much.
They move together with the slow build of something inevitable, each motion measured, each breath feeding the next.
There's a drumming sound too. But that's just her heart. Raquel pushes through, determined to ignore it.
The climb is steady and with every motion, every gasp, she feels the edges of the world around her blurring beyond recognition.
This. This is what she wanted.
What she needed.
The very least he could give her.
She looks down and sees herself reflected in his eyes. No—in the wet shine of his tears.
She pulls him closer so he can't see her own.
(She won't give him that either).
There's an increase in their pace. A rhythm settles between them without the need for words, their bodies so attuned they seem made for each other, and Raquel, not for the first time, can’t reconcile the fact that she’s only known this man for five days.
But then it hits her.
She hasn't.
In fact, she doesn't know him at all.
His mouth finds her neck again, nibbling and sucking, murmuring words too low and broken for her to understand.
She shifts, and the angle turns perfect, sending a flutter through her that spreads like wildfire beneath her flushed skin. Then she is moving on it, up and down, nails biting into his shoulder, hips chasing the friction while he matches her thrust for thrust, sweat running from his hairline, his neck flushed dark, his brow tight with focus.
When the climax breaks over her, it is sudden and brutal, locking every muscle in her body, curling her toes, wiping the world down to white noise.
She does not see the way Sergio is watching her, eyes wide, pupils blown, as if the sight of her alone has hollowed him out too.
Then she opens her eyes, looks right into his, and he parts his mouth on a soundless oh, jerking once, then again, then once more, something guttural tearing out of him and sending a shiver through her. He does not blink. Not even once.
As her body begins to relax, Raquel lets her head fall to his shoulder, her nose grazing his skin, her eyes following the scatter of moles and freckles along a path she will never trace again.
He turns toward her, his cheek brushing hers, and for a moment they stay still, wrapped in the false comfort of being close, inside a pause so complete it almost lets the rest of the world fall away.
There's nothing but them.
No heists, no lies, not even words.
Sergio closes his eyes, and exhales, long and deep, and Raquel hears her name resting on the tip of his tongue, whatever lies he thinks he can tell her, paper thin and see-through.
She won't hear it.
Whatever he has to say, it's nothing but a siren song, one her heart aches to hear even as her mind knows better.
She can't trust him. It's as simple as that.
Every day since they met, this man looked right into her eyes and pretended to be someone he was not. As far as she's concerned, there is not a single word she's ever heard him utter that holds an ounce of truth.
And even if there were, she would not know how to tell it apart from the rest.
Unless—
"Raquel," he rasps, voice filled with a torn emotion she doesn't care to decipher.
She blinks at him, mind miles away. He tips his head again, and it is only when his lips brush hers that she jolts back to herself and pulls away.
"Don't."
He frowns, the sharpness of her tone enough to burst the fragile bubble around them.
She can see the calculation behind his eyes. The pieces moving as he tries to make sense of what she's saying and what she's not. Then, it sinks: "You don't believe me."
A bitter laugh almost rises in her throat, but she swallows it. Instead, she pushes him back into the chair, tucks him back into his trousers, ignoring the mess they made.
He sees her retreating even before she steps away, feels the distance opening again as her anger goes numb and resignation takes its place.
Slowly, she dresses. Pulls up her trousers. Reaches for her belt, her badge, whatever control she has left.
Sergio watches her, and there is a turbulence in his eyes that was not there before, when she was still putting up a fight. Now that her anger has subsided, he looks unsure, almost adrift. Desperate to make it right. But for someone so used to predicting every fucking scenario, always with a backup plan or a dirty trick up his sleeve, he now looks like a man left grasping at straws.
"W-what can I do?" he asks, and Raquel doesn't look at him. She runs a hand through her hair, then down her neck, where a bruise is already beginning to form, a love bite she will not notice until much later. “What can I say to make you believe me?”
She has the answer to that, but she won’t give it to him. Not yet.
Leaving right now is not really the best option, but there is nothing else she can do.
There is only one thing left that might give her the answers she is after. The answers she needs.
"Raquel," he tries again, and she can hear the plea in his voice without ever looking at him. The embers of her fury flare back to life. That's good. Useful. Rage and contempt she can work with. It's all the other feelings that keep getting in the way, clouding her judgment, making her an easy target for his web of lies.
She chooses to ignore him, circling his chair and inspecting her work. Despite the haste, the chain looks strong enough to hold. He's not going anywhere.
Not unless he is both a thief and fucking Houdini.
She'll just have to take her chances.
Without another word, Raquel turns toward the door, snatches up her purse and phone, and walks out.
Raquel needs facts now. Something cold and solid enough to cut through whatever bullshit the Professor might try to feed her.
Something she can hold in her hands. Something real.
And if the answers she finds end up destroying whatever is left of her heart, then so be it.
At least they will be answers. And by then there will be nothing left in her for him or any other man to break.
The end.