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Sleep took me with dreams of Lachlan still kissing me.

A guard stood near the open doors of the veranda with a rifle slung across his chest as I tried to force myself to eat.

At the far end of the table, one of Father’s men complained about a truck that needed a new transmission. A radio crackled from the corridor, followed by a bored answer in Spanish. Plates landed on the table as lunch was served. Silverware scraped against china.

No one mentioned the man chained beneath the house.

I stared at the food in front of me.

Chicken. Rice. Beans. Fresh tortillas.

More than Lachlan had eaten since Father brought him here.

My stomach churned as I forced down one bite of rice and immediately regretted it.

I set down my fork.

“Are you ill?” Doña Teresa asked from across the table.

“A little nauseous.”

Her eyes narrowed as though nausea might be another form of disobedience.

“I think I’ll lie down.”

She gave a dismissive wave. “Go.”

I picked up my plate before a servant could reach for it.

“I’ll just take this to the kitchen.”

No one cared enough to argue.

The kitchen was already busy with preparations for dinner, and I slid my plate onto the counter near the sink.

Marta glanced over while sorting vegetables.

“You barely ate.”

“I know. I’m just not feeling well.”

“You want to take a little snack for later?”

“Maybe.”

She wiped her hands and disappeared into the pantry.

I hated how easily the lie worked when I wasn’t actually lying. My stomach was in knots, but I also needed to start preparing to escape, which meant gathering food and other supplies.

Marta returned with two packets of salted crackers, a bag of peanuts, and a package of butter cookies.

“Take these. Maybe you’ll feel like eating something later.”

“Thank you.”

I took them, then reached for a couple of water bottles sitting near the end of the counter.

A scream tore through the compound, deep, ragged, and full of agony.