“Bella means beautiful, right?” I ask. “Si,” he confirms. Shit, that shouldn’t make me happy. Even with his hatred toward me, he still calls me beautiful. “And ladra?” He’s quiet as he continues to massage the soap into my hair. “You asked me for the truth, and I gave it,” I whisper. “Tell me one of your truths.” After a pause, he says, “It means thief.” My heart withers, though it’s only true. “You ensnare men with your beauty, spin them into your web, and then steal from them. You’re a beautiful thief.”
