by Julia Sykes
He shot me a rueful smile. “Not eager for a repeat of breakfast?”
I met him with a wide, genuine smile of my own. The beast who’d claimed me in the jungle had set my body on fire, but this surprisingly human side of my stony captor fascinated me.
“I thought maybe we could cook together,” I said diplomatically.
He chuckled and went to the sink to wash his hands. “If you want to cook, please go ahead. Save us both from my burned eggs and hot sauce. Other than sandwiches, it’s pretty much all I know how to make.”
My brows lifted, and I found a cloth to wipe down the eggy mess on the counter. “I’m not sure if I would exactly call that a meal.” I eyed his bulky, muscular form. “Surely, you don’t usually eat like this.”
He straightened, growing a bit taller at my inspection of his impressive physique. “No, I have a personal chef. He comes in a few times a week to do meal prep for me, but I’ve given him some time off.”
I offered an approving smile. “That’s nice of you to offer him vacation time.”
He shook his head, but his tone remained light. “It’s not vacation time. I don’t want him seeing you here. Until I know things have cooled off with Stefano and Carmen, I’m not letting anyone step foot in this house. I won’t risk anyone snitching on me.” He shot me a sharp glance, warning me not to bring up the topic of leaving again. “Believe me, things would get very messy if Carmen found out you’re here with me. No one wants that to happen.”
I dropped my gaze and managed a wooden nod. There was nothing to say.
The matter is no longer open for discussion. His edict rang clear in my mind, and my tender flesh that’d endured his spanking tingled in reminder of what would happen if I defied him.
“Come take a look in the fridge,” he prompted. “I got some fresh ingredients delivered this morning, even if I don’t really know what to do with them.”
Compliantly, I joined him at the fridge and made a quick assessment of the contents. There wasn’t a lot for me to work with, but I could make do.
“Do you have any bell peppers in your garden?” I asked. “And maybe one jalapeno. One, and nothing hotter.”
He chuckled. “I think I can do that.”
I speared him with a stern stare. “You have to try at least three bites of my fajitas before you drown them in your hot sauce.”
“Of course,” he agreed easily. “I’ll be right back with your order.”
My brain stalled out when he dropped a quick kiss on my forehead before strolling away from me, heading to his garden to get the peppers I’d requested.
He’d already stepped outside by the time I managed to move. Lifting my hand as though in a daze, I touched my fingers to the tingling spot where his lips had brushed my skin. The gesture had been so casual. It was as though we were a couple, and he was accustomed to showering me with affection, even for the most banal tasks.
No one had ever kissed me like that before, not even Gehovany.
Especially not Gehovany.
We’d lived together for nearly a year, and he’d never doted on me around our home. It’d been expected that I’d cook and clean for him, no matter if I was exhausted from working a long shift at the florist.
Of course, when we’d been in public, he’d lavished attention on me, often to an excessive degree that made me uncomfortable. He’d wanted people to see him treating me like a princess, when he treated me like trash at home. I didn’t understand his true nature until I moved in with him. Even then, I’d been convinced that the loving Gehovany was the real man, and the cruel, drunk monster was the lie.
I’d endured his abuse, hiding my shame from my family and friends. Until he joined the gang. I’d run, and my loving family had taken me back into the shelter of our home without hesitation, welcoming me with open arms.
They’d paid for their love in blood.
My eyes stung, and I hastily wiped away the wetness on my cheeks when I heard Raúl close the door. I busied myself with gathering spices from his cupboard, and by the time he joined me in the kitchen, I’d mostly managed to collect myself.
He breezed by me, pausing to squeeze my hip on his way to the sink. The brief flex of his thick fingers into my flesh awoke an answering throb between my legs, and I barely stifled a gasp.
I peeked over at him out of the corner of my eye, my hands preparing the chicken by muscle memory. He washed the vegetables, letting out one of his deep, satisfied hums as he worked. He seemed utterly at ease, as though we’d done this hundreds of times.
He grabbed a wooden cutting board and waved it in my direction. “You cook, I’ll chop.” When I didn’t answer right away, one corner of his lips quirked up in a lopsided smile. “I am capable of chopping vegetables. I promise I won’t fuck it up. Not too badly. They won’t look pretty, but they’ll taste the same.”
He shrugged and returned to his task, content that the matter was settled.
The surreal sense that I’d stepped into an alternate reality permeated my mind in a pleasant buzz, and I allowed myself to fall into the strange casualness that seemed to come to him so naturally. It felt nice, even if it was nearly incomprehensible that my surly captor was acting as my assistant and freely touching me at every opportunity. Each time my body was within his easy reach, his hand would find my lower back, or his fingers would brush my shoulder. There was nothing sexual or predatory about his attention, and he didn’t seem to even notice that he was doing it.
After a while, his caresses began to feel natural to me, too. I paused to turn my cheek into his hand when he tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear, and I briefly leaned into him when his palm skimmed over the curve of my hip.
When the rich aroma of spiced chicken began to fill the kitchen, his hands bracketed my waist. He held me in place, pressing his chest to my back as he dropped a kiss on my neck. His stubble rasped over my cheek, and his low hum vibrated through my core.
“Smells amazing.”
He pressed one more kiss against my neck and stepped away, leaving me frozen in place while fire danced through my veins.
The light clack of porcelain plates and soft clicks of silverware told me that he was putting out place settings on the kitchen island, simply going through the motions of everyday life.
I sighed and settled into the weirdness with a smile on my face. Why not?
“Ready?” Raúl’s single-word question broadened my smile to a silly grin. I’d become fascinated with our strangely easy conversations and unexpected, light banter, but it seemed that my surly captor naturally tended to express himself in few words. Oftentimes, he didn’t bother with words at all.
During my time as his hostage, I’d thought his nonverbal, caveman communication had been his way of keeping distance between us. Now, I was starting to understand that Raúl was satisfied by more basic means of expressing himself—his casual, tender touches spoke volumes, and I doubted he was the type to offer lengthy professions of his feelings.
With Gehovany, I’d learned that romantic speeches were simply alluring lies; lies that he’d used to trap me. Raúl’s primal demonstrations of affection touched me far more deeply than any poetry could’ve managed.
The sharp differences between the two men were becoming more apparent than ever, and my worries over Raúl’s criminal lifestyle faded into the back of my mind. Surely, he wasn’t a bad man. He couldn’t be evil.
I didn’t want him to be evil.
Because sharing space with him like this—going through the day-to-day motions of domestic life as though this was our normal routine—felt more comfortable than anything I’d ever experienced. Even when I’d lived with my family, our house had been a little chaotic; too many strong personalities packed under one roof. I loved them fiercely, but this unfamiliar, quiet calm between Raúl and me held its own gentle warmth.
Plates full, I joined him at the counter that served as his usual spot for meals. He didn’t own a dining table, but that made sense for a man who never had guests. Who wanted t
o sit alone at a huge table when there was no reason for pretense?
I slid into the seat beside him, feeling cozy despite the austere aesthetic of his enormous kitchen. A bubble of quiet calm seemed to surround him, and I tucked myself close, seeking shelter inside.
Trying not to be too obvious, I waited to start eating, so I could watch his reaction to my cooking. Anticipatory excitement fluttered in my belly, a sensation I hadn’t experienced in longer than I could remember.
Until this moment, I hadn’t realized just how much I missed cooking for someone else. Since I’d begun my awful, lonely journey, food had become nothing more than a necessity for survival. But the act of preparing a meal for someone else, not just for their nourishment but for their enjoyment, fulfilled an essential need in the foundations of my nature.
The pleasure that flooded my chest at his low, appreciative hum would’ve been shocking in its intensity if it weren’t for the blissful peace that settled over me. Raúl’s eyes closed as he savored his first bite, and his deep, nonverbal rumble of appreciation filled the protective bubble that surrounded us. The sound of his simple pleasure in what I’d prepared for him enfolded me like a fuzzy blanket, swaddling me in contentment.
He savored two more bites before turning his attention on me. He blinked, surprised to find me watching him. His glowing green gaze dropped to my mouth, and his lips quirked up at the corners. I realized my cheeks nearly ached from my wide, almost punch-drunk smile.
“That’s three bites,” he announced, his tone dipping in a teasing lilt.
He cocked his head at me, waiting for my reply. It took three full seconds for my brain to start working again, and I realized he was referring to my demand that he try at least three bites of my fajitas before drowning them in his nuclear hot sauce.
“Okay, you’re off the hook. Go ahead with your masochist sauce.” A bubbly laugh filled the kitchen. I was shocked to realize that the lighthearted sound had issued from my own throat.
His grin widened, and he reached out to briefly to brush his thumb just beneath the curve of my lower lip, tracing my smile. Then, he returned to his dinner and began shoveling the food into his mouth like he was a starving man at a feast.
No hot sauce was added.
I let out a satisfied hum of my own and tucked into my meal, utterly content. The flavors of my mother’s cooking suffused my mind with memories of home, but they only nestled me deeper in my quiet joy rather than stirring grief.
To my amazement, Raúl carried our empty plates to the kitchen and started washing dishes. Even in my family home, washing up had been the women’s task. Gehovany would’ve laughed in my face if I’d asked him to help with such a chore. And given me a slap for good measure, reminding me of my place.
Judging by the way Raúl simply took charge and started washing, the idea that this arrangement was unconventional never seemed to cross his mind. In my experience with men’s behavior in the home, his participation in such a mundane chore directly contradicted the hypermasculinity he exuded in all other aspects of life.
But as I watched him methodically carry out the task, his relaxed posture made me reconsider this knee-jerk assumption. Because although he’d demonstrated that he was all about machismo, those tendencies were rooted in his pride that he could provide.
Underneath all that testosterone was a good core; a man whose nature was rooted in nurturing rather than callously dominating.
My cheeks heated at the memory of how thoroughly he’d dominated me in the woods, punishing me with pain and forced pleasure until I surrendered everything to him.
The contradictions of this strong man confused me, but the temptation to believe the goodness in him was so keen that it tugged at my chest. It felt as though he’d looped rope around my heart, and the other end was wrapped around his massive fist; that huge, powerful hand that cradled my face so tenderly.
Lost in my muddled thoughts, I automatically found a towel to start drying dishes. He offered me a grunt that indicated gratitude, adding to my puzzlement.
When the chore was finished, he reached into his pocket and drew out a watch. He must’ve stored it there to protect it while we were cooking.
As he buckled it securely around his wrist, a sizzling lightning bolt lanced my gut. I recognized the scuffed band and dully gleaming white stones around the scratched glass face. This was the watch I’d stolen from him when I’d fled from Stefano’s fortress; the one I’d pawned for a paltry sum to cover my bus ticket to Juárez.
“You found it.” The surprised remark left my lips without thought, little more than a breathless whisper. A gaping hole seemed to have been burned through my stomach, spreading slowly as guilt ate away at my insides.
His eyes glinted like hard, polished jade when they met mine, devoid of the warm light that I’d been basking in only minutes ago.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured, dropping my gaze. I was apologizing for so much more than theft. He’d said he forgave me for my betrayal, but his sudden iciness indicated that he hadn’t forgotten.
How could I expect anything different? I’d put his life at risk and left him for dead. No matter how my worry for him had tormented me, that didn’t negate what I’d done.
He sucked in a deep breath, and when he finally spoke, his tone was calm, if a bit brusque. “I said the topic of your escape is closed. That includes discussions of what happened in the past. I got my watch back, and you’re safely here with me. That’s what matters.” His lowered cadence on the last indicated that he was speaking as much to himself as he was to me.
I peek up at him. His face was fixed in hard, stony planes, but his scowl had eased.
“I’m glad you got it back.” My voice was small, but I meant every word. “It must be very important to you.”
His softening gaze remained fixed on me, but his fingers traced the scratches scored into the watch face before rubbing the tiny cavity where the fourth stone should’ve been set at nine o’clock.
“Yes,” he agreed in a monotone. “It was my stepfather’s.”
My shoulders slumped, and I shrank beneath the weight of my regret. “Oh. I’m sorry,” I repeated. “You must’ve been very close.”
His scowl returned, twisting his harsh features into an unnerving mask. The only thing that prevented me from shrinking away was the fact that his gaze focused inward rather than piercing my skull.
“We weren’t.” His rebuttal dripped acid. “This isn’t a remembrance of him. It’s a reminder of what I am.”
Dread churned my stomach, but a shaky question left my lips of its own accord. “What does that mean? What are you?”
“Ruthless. Powerful. Untouchable.” His fists furled at his sides, and this time, I did step back. He didn’t seem to notice, still focused on something I couldn’t see.
After several seconds of tense silence, my thundering heartbeat slowed. His huge body practically vibrated with unspent aggression, but his unfocused eyes blazed, as though he was speaking his most fervent, deeply held belief aloud. As though by putting his truth out into the universe, he made it real.
A pang lanced my heart. Despite his ferocity, I sensed his pain.
Could the goodness I saw in him be the real man, and the evil was simply a protective mask?
I’d been wrong about Gehovany. I’d been burned by my naivete before.
But I found myself reaching for Raúl, my fingers tentatively brushing over his corded forearm. His muscles danced beneath my touch before a small shudder rolled through his body.
He blinked, and his gaze found mine. His luminous eyes widened with something like awe, and he lifted his hand to my cheek. Just before his palm made contact, he hesitated. His brows drew together, and I knew he was doubting his ability to be careful with me. This afternoon in the woods, I’d experienced how harsh he could become when volatile emotions overtook him.
Drawn to soothe him, I turned my face into his palm and rested my hand atop his, holding it against my cheek.
; He drew in a deep, shaky breath, and the last of the tension drained from his rough-hewn features.
“Marisol.” He rasped my name, and his free hand cupped my nape.
He stared down at me as though I was the most precious treasure in the world, and I melted into him, utterly intoxicated by the tenderness of this fierce, ruthless man. When he lowered his lips to mine, I welcomed him on a sigh, marveling at the complete contentment I found in his strong arms.
Chapter 15
Marisol
“Stay inside the bedroom!” My father’s voice cracked on the panicked command. His weather-beaten cheeks were pale, and the warm, molten chocolate tone of his eyes had been swallowed by the blackness of his dilated pupils.
Boom! The front door rattled on its hinges, and the wooden barrier that separated us seemed far too flimsy to withstand Gehovany’s assault.
“Marisol!” My abuser roared my name. “You think you can leave me? You belong to me!” His shoulder rammed into the door again, adding terrifying punctuation to his slurred declaration of ownership.
I’d seen him in drunken rages before, but nothing like this. I’d thought I could escape from his possessive cruelty, but he’d come for me. He wouldn’t let me go.
My little sister’s high-pitched squeal ripped my thundering heart in two. Despite the fact that I’d brought this monster to our door, Gabriela clung to me, her slight body shaking hard enough to make her teeth rattle.
A long, distressed wail exploded from my baby brother’s crib, and I cringed at the horrific cacophony. My mother lifted Mario in her arms, but her usual comforting crooning hitched on a sob.
I caught one final glimpse of my father grabbing his shotgun before he slammed the bedroom door, as though the extra impediment would keep be enough to Gehovany at bay.
“Leave my house!” Papá roared. Even through the door, the warning pump of the shotgun punched my gut harder than my abuser’s fist. “Leave my daughter alone!”
My pounding heart slammed against my ribcage hard enough to bruise.