Between Silences and Barbs

 

Carlos drove as if I didn't exist. His eyes fixed on the road, his expression closed, his fingers on the steering wheel as if gripping some invisible guilt. Not a word. Not a glance. Just the muffled sound of the car and my own breathing trying to fill his silence.

But I already knew that silence. I had already learned to decipher the sudden change in Carlos' mood.

It was like living next to a silent storm that could explode or disappear in the next minute.

So I said nothing.

When we got home, Tiago was fast asleep in the back seat. His little face pressed against the window, a peace that broke me and healed me at the same time. Carlos got out first, walked around the car, and picked him up in his arms. Light, as if the weight of our son was the only thing he still knew how to carry properly.

I was alone for a few minutes. I walked in slowly, took off my shoes, and approached the mirror in the living room. I almost didn't recognize myself. The dress still marked my body. My hair was still loose. The red lipstick—a trace of war that survived, even after the battle.

And then I felt it.

Carlos came up behind me. The heat of his body pressed against my back. His arm around my waist, his heavy breathing touching the curve of my neck. There was no sweetness in his touch. There was frustration.

“What's gotten into you?” he asked in a low, hoarse voice, almost through gritted teeth. “Why are you wearing that?”

I turned to face him, looking him straight in the eye. I wasn't afraid at that moment — just a bitter desire to hurt him with the same blade that was cutting me inside.

“What's wrong? Don't I look pretty?”

Carlos snorted. He moved away from me as if my question had been an insult. He ran his hand through his hair, his jaw clenched.

“You look beautiful, Camila. But I've already told you I don't like it when you dress like this.”

I should have kept quiet. But I couldn't.

“Maura dresses like this.”

The words came out lower than I wanted them to. But they were loud enough to reach him.

Carlos stopped. His gaze was sharp, as if it were piercing my skin.

“It's different.”

“Different how?” I asked.

The question wasn't just curiosity. It was a stifled cry, a plea for confirmation.

I wanted to hear from his mouth that Maura was just the past. That she didn't matter. That it was me. It had always been me.

But what did he say?

“She's single.”

The answer hit me like a slap. Cold. Logical. Cruel.

My chest tightened, but I went all the way.

“Carlos... you marked me, didn't you?”

His body stiffened. His eyes turned to ice.

“What kind of stupid question is that?” he growled. “What are you accusing me of, Camila?”

His tone was so aggressive, so violent, that for a moment I feared I had gone too far.

I backed away. My heart was pounding. My hands were shaking.

“It's not that... it's just that...” I tried to explain, my voice failing. “I blacked out. I don't remember. I... I wish I had felt something. That's all.”

Carlos moved suddenly.

The distance between us disappeared in the blink of an eye. His hands grabbed my waist firmly, pressing me against the cold wall of the room. His eyes burned, hard, dark. The smell of his perfume, of his contained anger, of his frustration... it all hit me at once.

“Do you want to feel the bond?” he growled low, his hot breath on my neck. “I'll make you feel it.”

Before I understood what was happening, he pulled up the hem of my dress, quickly, hungrily. The fabric rose along with the tension that cut through me inside.

“Carlos... someone might see us...” I whispered, trying to hold his arm.

“I don't care.”

His response was curt, spoken through clenched teeth. He turned me around, his body pressed against mine, one hand holding my hip, the other sinking into the side of my thigh, pulling my panties down as if they were just an obstacle.

The cold wall hit my back. His eyes, when they met mine in the reflection of the mirror beside us, were possessed. It wasn't tenderness. It was possession.

His voice came lower. And darker.

“You're mine, Camila. Only mine.”

The entry was slow at first. As if he were savoring what he had just taken. But the pace changed quickly. Each thrust was a demand.

“Are you feeling it now?” he murmured against my neck, between moans. “The bond... this damn connection. This... This is real.”

My fingers slid down the wall, trying to steady myself. My legs were failing, my breath was coming in gasps, and yet I couldn't resist.

His voice came as a dirty whisper between thrusts:

“Say it, Camila... Say you're mine... That no one else can have this.”

My mouth opened, but I couldn't respond. It was all heat, desire, confusion. He knew that. He knew that my body was saying yes even when the rest of me wanted to scream no.

His hand squeezed my waist harder, leaving a mark. It almost hurt. But instead of stopping... it seemed to excite him even more.

“Answer me, Camila,” he demanded in a hoarse voice, his body pressing mine against the wall more brutally. “Say you feel it. Say you're mine.”

At that moment, I no longer knew if it was pain, pleasure, or despair.

But I said it.

Because my body said it before my mouth did.

“I'm yours...”

He groaned. He buried himself deeper. And he came with his forehead resting on my back, panting as if he had won some war.

I stood there, my legs trembling, my body marked, my dress out of place...

But what really hurt was something else.

The mirror didn't lie. And even with him holding me in his arms, even with his body still pressed against mine... the question came back.

Did he mark me?

Or did he just take me?