Cartel

by Lili St. Germain

  He assumed she was going to hide it, use it as a weapon for when he re-entered the room, but what she did next surprised the hell out of him. She took the piece of mirrored glass in her hand, sat on the narrow bed that took up one corner of the room, and held out her wrist.

  Is she going to …?

  She was. She dragged the sharp tip of the glass down the inside of her wrist, and fresh blood sprang forth. The sight excited him — yeah, he was a sick motherfucker. He enjoyed the sight of blood. He wanted to burst into the room, kneel in front of her, and lick the deep cut in her arm from end to end.

  As long as she didn’t stab him in the neck while he did it.

  Make sure she isn’t marked.

  His father’s words came back to taunt him, and it gave him the perfect excuse to interrupt her psychotic attempt at self-mutilation.

  Make sure she is untouched.

  Well, that one was a little more difficult, but he’d do his best to make sure he at least didn’t leave bruises on her if he found himself unable to resist. He’d never raped a woman, but he’d never needed to — they usually found his enthusiasm a turn-on more than anything. He might have coerced or blackmailed, but he’d never straight-up held a woman down and driven himself inside her against her will.

  Yet.

  He liked to think he never would, but he was his father’s son. The darkness that flowed through his veins disgusted him, but trying to resist it had only ever made things worse. When he tried to control the darkness inside him it didn’t abate, but stored up in increments, until it inevitably bubbled up like poison, rendering his violence uncontrollable. He’d killed people over trivial matters when he let things get too pent up, so he figured it was better to destroy the people who were the source of his rage in the first place. Even as he justified the blood on his hands to himself, he knew that he was a bad man. Hopefully, though, he wasn’t the worst.

  Make sure she isn’t marked.

  Dornan groaned as he opened the door and saw Ana sitting on the bed, sobbing incoherently as she bled all over herself.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked her as he closed the door behind him. He expected her to try and hide the glass, or run from him, or attack him. He expected something. What he didn’t expect was for her to continue what she was doing, dragging the sharp glass down her arm as if he wasn’t there, as she muttered and shook and wept.

  ‘Hey!’ he said, a little louder this time. He crossed the room in two quick steps and grabbed hold of the hand that held the offending weapon, squeezing hard until she was forced to drop it. The glass fell to the ground, breaking into two bloodied, uneven shards.

  ‘Seven years bad luck,’ he said flippantly, looking from the glass to her glazed eyes. He felt relief when she glared at him, the daze seemingly broken.

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ she growled. ‘I think I’ve got a lifetime of bad luck ahead of me, don’t you?’

  He kicked the glass away and sat beside her on the bed, close enough that his jeans brushed her blood-smeared thigh. ‘What did you do that for?’ he asked, genuinely curious.

  She shot him a look so scathing, it made him want to shrink back — only, he was Dornan fucking Ross, and he shrank back from nobody, not even his own father.

  ‘I know you were watching me,’ she replied, and it made him smile.

  ‘I like watching you,’ he said, shocked by his own honesty. ‘Does that bother you?’

  She continued to stare boldly at him. ‘Your father’s men killed my boyfriend last night,’ she said, making a choking noise at the back of her throat.

  There it was. Her anguish. Her struggle. Her why.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, noticing how the blood was still pouring from her wrist. She’d cut deeper than he’d first thought. ‘May I?’ he gestured towards her wrist and she shrugged, which he took as an invitation. He gathered his grip around the underside of her wrist and cradled it up to the light, gently inspecting the cut.

  ‘Are you trying to kill yourself?’ he asked, probing at the wound with his fingers to determine its depth, all the while biting down on the tip of his tongue to stop it from darting out and licking up her blood.

  ‘Of course not,’ she retorted, pulling her hand away. But Dornan didn’t release his grip on her, and they stared each other down in a silent battle of eyes and wills.

  ‘Don’t you ever want to hurt yourself because you can’t hurt the person who fucked everything up?’

  Her words were frank and revealing, making him ponder them. Every time he smashed his own fists into a boxing bag, or a whore, or another Gypsy Brother, he relished the pain, and welcomed the relief that spilling his own blood offered.

  ‘Let me guess,’ Dornan said, rubbing his thumb along her cut as she watched in silence. ‘My father?’

  She snapped her gaze back to him, a sadness bursting forth from her that made him drop her wrist and stand up, lest that sadness infect him in some way.

  ‘Yes,’ she said brokenly. ‘Your father. And mine.’

  He didn’t take his eyes from her until he remembered the blood, and looked down to see it coating his palms.

  ‘You like blood, don’t you?’ she asked suddenly. ‘Other people would recoil at the sight of it, but not you. You wear it like an old outfit. It suits you.’

  Anyone else would have been embarrassed to admit it, but not Dornan. He traded in lives and in blood, so why shouldn’t he like it? And in this case, she had spilled it of her own volition, which made him all the more excited.

  ‘I like your blood,’ he replied, smiling wolfishly. ‘I like it very much.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Mariana

  To say I was embarrassed would be an understatement.

  I was mortified.

  When Dornan didn’t come back, I’d assumed I was on my own for the night. And, truth be told, I was terrified. I eyed the bed at first, thinking that I could maybe get a little sleep, but the thought of being woken with a knife at my neck or a gun in my mouth made me determined to stay awake.

  So I paced. I always paced when I was nervous, or impatient. This time, however, I was pacing almost entirely to keep myself from passing out and waking up to an even worse situation.

  My stomach cramped into a twisted, painful knot, and for some reason it made me think of Luis.

  I will never see him again.

  The thought stabbed at my insides with such ferocity, it doubled me over with grief. I clung to the limestone wall, bits flaking off and coating my palms with a powdery chalk.

  Was I dying? It felt like I was dying. As far as my sweet boy would know, his mother would have vanished.

  He would never know all the nights I had cried for him, clung to him while he was still in my womb, wishing for us both that he could just stay in there forever so he didn’t have to leave me.

  And now I had left him. Because my father had fucked up again.

  I had paid for his sins with my life. And it sickened me.

  I didn’t even realise I had struck the wall at first. There was a burst of pain in my fist that lanced through my arm, the shock registering in my neck and head. My ears rang. It hurt. It felt good.

  So I did it again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Until my hands were covered in blood and my knuckles were a pulp of red, broken skin.

  The blood calmed me a little, I’m not sure why. It was the same reason I’d hidden a razor blade in my mattress at boarding school and traced thin cuts into my thighs while my roommates slept, blissfully unaware. Back then, the blood that sprang from my skin had made my sadness tangible. It had distracted me from the fact that my baby was thousands of miles away, on another continent, and everybody was acting like he didn’t exist. It had soothed the tears that dripped silently from my face onto my thighs, mixing with my blood. It had made me strong.

  I suddenly craved that feeling again. Punching the wall had brought a temporary relief, but it waned quickly, and I wanted more.
I knew Murphy had packed a small round mirror in with the cosmetics he’d bought for me — I had been forced to sit still while he painted my face with blush and lip gloss before we boarded our first flight. I knew there was glass in there that I could break and drag along my flesh; glass that would bring me some of that sweet relief I was craving.

  So when Dornan had walked in, I didn’t even see him at first. Honestly, I was so hysterical by that point, I’d kind of forgotten where I was or what was happening. Hence the self-mutilation. I needed to come back down to earth.

  And come back to earth I did when I finally saw him.

  My own father had caught me cutting myself in the bathroom once. I was on summer vacation, and he wouldn’t let me out of the house to see Este in case I got knocked up again. It hurt my heart to be so close to the boy I loved, yet so far away. I had sobbed and raged, but my father responded by giving me the beating of my life and telling me to fuck off. It was the only time he’d ever hit me when he was sober, and it had hurt all the more because of that fact.

  So I had gotten the razor out. And as the first blood had emerged from my thigh, my father had walked into the bathroom without knocking.

  He never said a word to me. Never asked why. He just looked at me in disgust, turned on his heel, and slammed the door shut.

  So, naturally, I expected Dornan Ross to do the same. But he wasn’t an ordinary man. Somehow I already knew this from our brief interaction earlier. He didn’t avert his eyes or stay away from me.

  He came closer. He touched me where I bled. I watched him lick his lips unconsciously as he studied my handiwork.

  It should have made me afraid of him, but what did I have to lose? I’d already lost everything.

  I couldn’t help myself. When he had got up to leave me, I couldn’t bear the thought of being alone again with my despair. When he told me he liked my blood, and his eyes had gleamed with a hunger unlike anything I’d ever seen, I knew.

  He was a dangerous man. And he liked me. Liked my blood. If I could get him on my side — maybe, just maybe, I could get myself out of this mess.

  He said he liked my blood, but he left me anyway. I thought he wasn’t coming back, until he returned a few moments later with a first-aid kit.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and let him play doctor. It was jarring, the way he picked my hand up like it was made of glass and examined it, the skin on his fingers rough but his touch gentle. For a six-foot tall, muscled, tattooed biker in leathers, his touch was surprisingly tender.

  ‘You’ve done this before,’ he said, glancing at the faint lines that marred my thighs. I didn’t answer him, tugging my dress down again to cover the scars.

  ‘I’m not suicidal,’ I said suddenly. And why should it matter if I was? But for some reason I wanted him to know. I needed him to understand.

  ‘Darlin’,’ he said, as he dragged a sterile wipe over my bloody arm. ‘Nobody would blame you if you were suicidal. You’re pretty fucked right now.’

  I diverted my eyes to the floor.

  ‘What’s going to happen to me?’ I blurted out suddenly. His hands stilled, but he didn’t speak. I raised my eyes to his in question, and what I saw there made my stomach lurch.

  ‘Do you want me to lie to you,’ he asked, continuing to wrap the bandage around my arm, ‘or do you want me to tell the truth?’

  I pondered that.

  ‘Lie,’ I said softly. I would ask him for the truth in a moment, but I was curious to see what he came up with.

  ‘Lie,’ he repeated, studying the wall behind me as he appeared deep in thought. ‘Well, I’d say you’re going to be taken upstairs and given a reprieve. You’ll be allowed to walk out of those front gates, and go on your merry way home. And this is all just temporary.’

  Temporary. Huh.

  ‘And the truth?’

  He smiled. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’ He finished with the bandage and let my arm drop softly in my lap. The smile left his face and that glimmer in his eyes faded.

  ‘You’ll be stuck down here until Emilio decides what he wants to do with you. And you’ll do it. Or he’ll put a bullet in that pretty little head of yours, and bury you where nobody will ever find you.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, that sinking feeling in my stomach coming back.

  ‘What do you think he’ll want me to do?’ I asked.

  He paused and my heart leapt into my throat as I anticipated what he might say. You’ll have to fuck strange men. You’ll have to suck their dicks. You’ll have to let them hurt you. You’ll be punished if you do, and punished more if you don’t. Or even the simple, Welcome to hell.

  But he didn’t say any of that. Instead, he picked up the first-aid kit and stood, gazing down at me.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You know what’s going to happen. You’re a smart girl. You don’t need me to spell it out for you.’

  My heart broke. He was right. I knew exactly what was going to happen. I was going to be used and abused, until there was nothing left.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Mariana

  When Dornan left, promising to return with something for me to eat, I didn’t anticipate him returning ten seconds later with his father in tow.

  I could tell that Emilio was annoyed, but I had no idea why. I’d done as I was told. Flown thousands of miles with his psychotic employee. Ridden on the back of his son’s bike, effectively blindfolded. Gone to my dungeon like a good little girl.

  And then I remembered the blood.

  ‘What the fuck is this?’ Emilio asked, after he’d burst past his son. Dornan said nothing as Emilio snatched up my arm, tearing at the bandage. He glared at his son. ‘I specifically said not to mark her. Did you do this?’

  Dornan remained blank. ‘No,’ he said. As soon as Emilio turned back to me that glint of amusement sprang forth in Dornan’s eye.

  ‘Who did this to you, girl?’ Emilio demanded. ‘I’ll skin their fucking hide.’

  His concern was odd and I was terrified of telling him that I had cut myself.

  ‘She fell off the bike,’ Dornan broke in unexpectedly. ‘Fainted. It’s lucky she didn’t hurt herself any worse. I don’t think that fucker gave her anything to eat the whole time he had her.’

  Emilio ground his teeth around the toothpick that was jammed between his lips, muttering obscenities in Italian. ‘Fucking Murphy,’ he said.

  He shook his head, hands on his hips. He looked like the damn Godfather in his tailored suit. ‘Have you checked her out yet?’ he asked Dornan, with such a casual tone it made my skin crawl.

  ‘Checked me out?’ I repeated.

  Emilio threw me a look of derision before looking back to his son.

  Dornan shook his head. ‘I was busy cleaning her up. I know you hate mess.’ His jaw clenched as he spoke, and it was obvious to me that he didn’t like the power his father wielded over him.

  Interesting.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, louder this time. ‘What does he mean?’

  ‘Shut up, bitch,’ Emilio said, clearly annoyed that I was speaking.

  ‘Whatever, old man,’ I replied.

  He paused, turning slowly.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said, whatever,’ I repeated. ‘I might have offered myself up as a trade for my family’s lives. Doesn’t mean I need to enjoy it.’

  He chuckled, the rage still evident in the way his neck tensed. ‘You’d be a sick little whore if you did enjoy it here.’

  ‘You’re an asshole,’ I answered.

  I was rewarded with a punch to the jaw. Seemed his rage overrode his desire not to mark me. It fucking hurt, too, propelling me backwards. I fell against the bed in a pile of limbs, covering my face with my hands.

  ‘Wait,’ I said, panting a little. ‘So you get to call me bitch and whore, but I don’t get to call you what I want? That’s hardly fair.’

  His smile vanished and he spat the toothpick out, stalking towards me.

  ‘Life isn’t fair
,’ he said emphatically. ‘If life were fair, your stupid father wouldn’t have LOST MY FUCKING COCAINE!’

  His tone terrified me, and I couldn’t help but close my eyes as Emilio’s spittle landed on my cheek.

  My reaction seemed to calm the beast, to satisfy him. He sucked in a breath and let his shoulders drop, as if composing himself.

  ‘My name is Emilio,’ he breathed, his gold tooth glinting in the harsh light of the bare bulb above us. ‘But you will call me Master.’

  Before I could protest or cry or make some smartass joke, before I could even decide how to react, he reached around and grabbed the back of my neck, pulling me from the bed and slamming me forcefully to the ground. The damp concrete knocked the air from my lungs, and I gasped.

  Crack!

  He kicked me in the ribs, forcefully enough for me to hear a snap as something broke. White-hot pain sang in my bones, reaching a brutal climax when my nerves relayed the searing message to my brain.

  I thought I’d be braver. I thought I’d be able to take his torment, his violence, and smile at him with blood-smeared teeth. But I wasn’t brave. I was scared.

  I broke.

  I opened my mouth, and screamed.

  He left the room after that. I curled into an awkward ball, not too tight, because my ribs were screaming in agony, but as tight as I could, because it was freezing in the room.

  Time stretched out, as my stomach rumbled and my ribs protested their pain.

  Hunger. Pain. Sadness. Despair. They all threw a party inside me, and all I wanted was for them to go away, to give me some peace for a few brief moments. All I wanted was for the pain to go away.

  I recoiled as I saw a boot appear in my vision.