by Pam Godwin
He’d shown up in her life out of nowhere, beaten her without purpose, fucked her mouth, then tended to her. He was either pathologically insane or there was something else here at play. Was he putting on an act for someone? For Nico? Or for whoever was on the other side of that camera lens? What was their hold over Matias, and how could she use that to her advantage?
She glanced down at the rows of cuts reddening her thighs. He’d hurt her ruthlessly, callously, but she’d endured the same in Van’s attic. It was the slew of unanswered questions that scared her the most, and her mind raced to dissect the last twenty-four hours. But she narrowed her focus to the topic that mattered.
“I put myself here because I want to help people. Women, just like me. I thought…” Her voice wobbled, and as much as she tried, she couldn’t drag her eyes to his in the mirror. “I thought you cared about me.”
His chest rose and fell heavily behind her, but he said nothing.
“Stop trafficking humans. That’s all I want.” Her chin trembled. “Please.”
“No.” One word, crisp and final.
Her heart sank, but she would keep trying, keep pushing for as long as it took.
The metal tag glinted on the collar, catching her attention. She leaned forward, squinting to unscramble the reversed reflection of text.
Don’t fuck with my property.
Meaningless. Impersonal. Recyclable. Was that how he viewed whatever this was with her?
“Let’s go.” He gripped her hand and pulled her toward the exit.
“Wait.” She tugged at the corset’s bust line, where it rested just above her nipples. “Not like this.
The burnish of his eyes darkened ominously. “Exactly like this.”
MATIAS HAD DONE SOME GODAWFUL shit over the years. Theft, torture, slow agonizing fucking deaths as he brought unfathomable hell upon too many to count. But he’d never deliberately harmed Camila, not the way he had tonight.
With heavy footsteps and a strangling ache in his chest, he led her out of his suite.
Beating the ever-loving shit out of her had not only killed something inside him, it moved him in the opposite direction of his goal. But those marks on her body were necessary.
Forcing himself in her mouth, though? That had been for him.
The sight of her nude body, kneeling, collared, and trembling when he’d opened the door… Fuck! She’d stripped away her fears for him. It was the most seductive thing she could’ve done.
And he’d repaid her by fucking her throat raw.
Clawing branches of guilt stabbed in his gut. Not only was he a selfish fucking prick, he was pushing her too fast, too soon. All that talk about dominance and her willingness to submit had been ill-timed. While he’d passionately meant every word, he needed to earn her consent first.
Her bare feet padded along the marble as he guided her out of the east wing and through the foyer. Arms clutching her body and shoulders hunched, she seemed to be trying to hold herself together. No doubt she was exhausted, wracked with pain, and fuming fucking mad.
He would’ve preferred to leave her in the room, but that wasn’t how things worked around here. If a cartel member stole a new assault rifle, he showed it off to his buddies. If a lieutenant or drug lord acquired a new slave, he brought her to dinner. The last thing Matias wanted was to raise suspicion, not after what had happened in the west wing tonight.
In the States, the war on drugs put crackheads in jail for little baggies and taught grade-schoolers how to sing jingles about the evils of marijuana. But south of the border? The war was real, and narcotics were just a drop in a cartel’s bucket.
Matias covered the gamut of criminal commerce, from trafficking weapons and humans to smuggling immigrants and terrorists—all of which made his wallet fat and his dick hard, proving that he was, without question, a very bad man.
The fucked up part? He didn’t give a rat’s ass, and that made sweeping Camila off her feet one helluva challenge. Figuratively sweeping, of course. He could force her to her knees anytime he wanted. What he couldn’t force her to do was offer her soul in supplication.
He wanted her to love every piece of him, even the most depraved and unworthy pieces. Especially those. In return, he would protect her soul, cherish it, and put it at peace again.
He rested a hand on the rise of her ass and slipped a finger beneath the tight cinch of the corset. As much as he enjoyed her on her knees, he preferred this—the rigidity of her backbone—as her gorgeous legs stretched to match his strides.
She wielded the kind of inner strength that would intimidate an average man. He fucking loved that about her. So much so he’d spent the last four years shifting the world beneath her feet to ensure that when she finally offered him her soul, she would do so with her integrity and backbone fully intact.
“Will you talk about what happened?” She peeked at him through her lashes as they rounded a bend in the hall. “About what upset you before you…” She pressed her lips together. “Before you came back to the room?”
The hallway was empty, and they hadn’t passed another person since exiting his suite. But the walls had ears.
“No.” He studied her huge disappointed eyes and reconsidered. “Maybe later.”
The grooves in her forehead smoothed away, and she nodded.
Dozens of residents had witnessed his gory walk from the west wing. That kind of thing was commonplace since they frequently brought captives to the compound to be tortured. A rival gang member here. A government official there. Seemed there was always someone begging for a bloody send-off to hell.
Tonight’s dismemberment, however, had been one of their own.
His hand clenched against Camila’s ass, and she gasped.
He’d known Gerardo since the beginning and never would’ve suspected their trusted accountant of leaking information to another cartel. Valuable information, such as numbers of bank accounts, names of intermediaries, drug transactions, and payoffs to law enforcement officials. The extent of the damage was still unknown.
He hadn’t felt this kind of betrayal since… His chest tightened. The day he’d learned Jhon had set up Camila’s abduction. The sick son of a bitch. Matias shook with the need to kill his brother all over again.
The drone of voices and laughter filtered in from the veranda at the end of the hall. It would be a full room tonight since most of the operators were in town—forty or so lieutenants and hitmen.
Dinner was held every night on the veranda, and while business wasn’t always conducted at this hour, members needed a damn good excuse to miss it.
It’d been over a decade since he’d walked in there with the slightest twitch of unease, but as the dining area came into view, his insides lit with nervous energy. He glanced down at one of the reasons.
Silken black hair, soulful eyes, and a body that wickedly sinuated the lines of her corset. Camila was the only woman he’d ever loved, and he knew—somewhere beneath her campaign to save the free world—she could love him. Him, not the ghost of the boy he’d been.
But he needed her to hang on to her hatred for just a little while longer.
Gripping her arm, he pushed her back against the wall of the empty corridor. She stiffened then launched into a muscle-tensing, kicking, shoving struggle. He wrenched her hands behind her and pressed his weight against her chest.
Anyone who passed by would simply see him enjoying his new slave before dinner.
He touched his mouth to her ear and kept his voice at a whisper. “I won’t tell you to trust me. You’re not there yet. But I want you to listen.”
Her jaw tensed against his. Then she relaxed in his hold.
“Nico knows our history, as do the small few in the inner circle.”
“Who’s in the inner—?”
“Everyone at my table.” He leaned back and watched her eyes dilate as she absorbed the information. Stifling the overwhelming urge to kiss her, he returned his lips to her ear. “The rest of that room is on a nee
d to know, and they need to know you’re just the slave of the month. A fresh hole to fuck. You mean nothing to me.”
He released her and stepped back.
“I fucking despise you.” Vicious honesty snarled through her voice and hardened her eyes.
He inwardly winced and smoothed his tone to hide the hurt. “Perfect.”
Setting off toward the veranda, he didn’t look back.
The cartel had never had a turncoat among their upper ranks, and that was the other reason his stomach was knotted all to hell. No matter how many body parts he’d severed from Gerardo, the only thing the snake confessed was that he hadn’t been working alone.
There was another mole on the property, and it could be anyone. A maid, an armed guard, a hired whore, or one of the members sitting out there on the veranda. His opponents were many, but this was a rival cartel, gunning to take them out and steal their business.
Where Nico was the face and the name of the organization, Matias was the spine. Their enemies didn’t know this, but a spy among their ranks would know where to hit and how deep to cut. If they realized what Camila meant to him, they would start with her.
Hence the barbaric markings on her legs, the slutty attire, and the hatred in her eyes. They would see an abused slave, a piece of property, and not a cherished pet he would trade all the secrets in the world to keep safe.
A hush fell over the dining room as he stepped onto the veranda. Eyes lifted, beer bottles froze at mouths, forks settled against plates, and heads lowered. Respect. After twelve violent years, he’d fucking earned it.
He gave a general nod to the congregation of men, and they resumed drinking and conversing.
Ten round tables of six filled the spacious, roofed balcony. Of the sixty seats, only a few were empty. Two or three girls knelt on the floor around each grouping, but some members had wives and mistresses who sat in chairs beside them. There were also a few non-members like Yessica, the resident madam, who’d secured a seat at a table.
As he passed Yessica’s chair, she reached out and brushed a hand against his cock, her lips puckering in an air-kiss.
He couldn’t hear Camila’s footfalls behind him, but the sharp exhalation at his back sounded as if she were choking on smoke and ash.
Without acknowledging his slave, he weaved through the dining room, stopping every few feet to shake a coke-stained hand, pat a tattooed shoulder, and answer questions about his recent visit to the States. Frivolous questions about the weather, the watered-down alcohol, and American pussy.
Other than the wandering eyes and looks of appreciation, they seemed to dismiss Camila as his slave and nothing more. She wasn’t restrained like the others on the floor, but no one would question how he kept her in check. His brutal reputation glowed in angry red welts all over her legs and ass.
She remained silent, head down, and spine straight. Her mind, however, was likely spinning off its rails, absorbing every detail of his criminal wonderland. Her thirst for information matched his own, but where he’d unearthed almost everything he needed to know about her, she was still fumbling through the dark.
If she looked hard enough around her, she’d find her answers.
MATIAS TOOK HIS TIME MAKING his rounds on the veranda. Amid the holstered guns and scarred faces, the usual laid-back energy circulated through the room, making it easy to hold a smile as he examined expressions for deception, studied postures for restlessness, and refused the drinks offered to him.
Camila followed, sticking close to him, but not too close. He suspected she wasn’t seeking protection from the heated stares, but instead trying to evaluate every word spoken and glance exchanged between him and the other members.
He hadn’t bound her hands because he didn’t want to add more discomfort to her beaten body, but she held her arms behind her anyway. Perhaps it was her slave training. Or maybe she was trying to keep herself from drawing the .45 from his shoulder holster and blowing his brains all over the linen tablecloths.
When he reached the head table, he lowered into his chair and pointed at the floor beside him. She knelt without hesitation, and possessive warmth settled in his chest.
Beside him, Nico frowned at the screen of his phone, eyebrows furrowing and releasing. The man might’ve seemed disinterested in his surroundings, but he was always watching, constantly on high-alert.
Picar, Chispa, and Frizz were already seated at the table, which left one empty chair. Matias could smell Gerardo’s death and deceit wafting from it.
“Someone get rid of that.” He waved a hand at the vacant seat.
A man in a black suit emerged out of nowhere and carried the chair away.
Nico glanced up from his phone and rubbed a hand over his dark beard. “Taking this personal, ese?”
“Don’t pretend you’re not.” Frowning, he snatched the bottle of aguardiente from the center tray and poured a glass.
By now, every member in the room had been briefed on Gerardo’s betrayal. However, no one outside of the inner circle knew about the mole that still lurked among them.
Matias tossed a casual glance across the veranda. Men of all ages and style of dress sipped from a range of beer to hard liquor. Their preferences for jeans or suits were as diverse as their motivations. The elders tended to be content in their positions, just buying time while protecting their families—their legacies. The younger members took more risks, always searching for greener pastures, hungry for more money and more power. Like Gerardo.
With a shrug, Nico cast his eyes on Camila. “Any success on the other matter?”
Matias looked down at the swollen cuts on her thighs and felt a deep ache to pull her onto his lap. “Success is relative.”
Once he owned Camila’s heart, he would spend every day of the rest of his life continually seducing her consent for his brand of fucking.
She didn’t seem to be following the conversation, too frozen with horror as she stared at the man and woman on her other side.
Frizz poked a straw through the gap in the threads on his mouth, sucking from a glass filled with a thick, brown puree—probably whatever was on the menu blended into a soup. His other hand stroked the head of the Latina brunette. Tears ran down her face, her eyes dead as she cried silently on her knees beside his chair.
She was one of the slaves brought in with Camila this morning. Nico must’ve gifted her to Frizz, because she wore Frizz’s tragic trademark.
Red X’s stitched across the woman’s lips, with excess thread dangling from one corner of her mouth like a drool of blood. A needle was tied to the end and swung like a pendulum with each violent shudder of her nude body.
Camila pressed her hands to her stomach. Her shoulders quaked, and she jerked her head toward Matias with accusation and tears in her eyes.
Yes, he’d told her if she fought him, he’d take it out on someone else. That didn’t mean he’d protect the slaves from harm.
He bent down and put his mouth beside her ear. “I didn’t do that.”
She gave him a vicious glare then redirected it to Frizz.
Sure, his corpse-like appearance and fetish with sewn mouths was gruesome, but she wouldn’t be so quick to judge if she knew his story.
Frizz ticked his head to the side and wiggled three fingers at her in greeting.
She choked and shot her gaze to the floor.
Dinner was delivered in courses by servers in black suits, beginning with grilled lamb chunchullo, followed by sancocho, large pieces of plantain, sliced avocado, and white rice. The rich spicy scent of the tropical stew blended with cigar smoke and the hum of laughter. Easy conversation added a low-key backdrop. Nothing seemed out of place, which made it difficult to keep his guard up.
As Nico discussed the finer details of yesterday’s heroin shipment to Orlando, Matias spooned hunks of salty meat from the soup and fed Camila.
She sat on her heels, knees bent in perfect form, and opened her mouth for each bite without contest. But she couldn’t hide the p
ain etching her face.
There was that pinch of guilt again, twisting behind his ribs.
He glanced across the table and met Picar’s cloudy eyes. The old doctor didn’t speak very good English, but he excelled at deciphering expressions. Gerardo’s double-dealings had begun only two days ago, and it had been Picar who’d noticed Gerardo seemed shady.
Leaning to the side, Picar removed something from his bag on the floor and slid it across the table. Matias recognized the color and shape of the pill, and for a moment, he considered the possibility that it could be poison made to look like Vicodin. But Picar was a devoted husband and father. He had nothing to gain and everything to lose if he fucked over one of his own. Besides, if he’d wanted to harm Camila, he would’ve done it when he injected the sedative on the plane.
Matias pocketed the pill.
Between spoonfuls of sancocho, Chispa and Nico debated strategies on how to deal with the federal agents that hovered around the compound in El Paso. In the distance, thunder rumbled, drawing Matias’ attention to the huge archways and columns that encircled the veranda.
Nightfall blackened the horizon, hushing the chirrup of cicadas, but the sound of drizzling rainfall helped to ease his nerves.
He pushed his chair back and patted his lap, watching Camila out of the corner of his eye.
She grimaced, and her mouthwatering cleavage heaved above the bodice of the corset. She could hate him all she wanted. His lap would be a fuckton more comfortable against her sore muscles than the wood floor.
With a deep breath, she rose, her legs trembling with the effort. As she stepped in front of him, she kept her head lowered and arms hanging loosely at her sides.
He turned her to face the table, and sweet mother, her round flawless backside flexed inches away. He wanted to shred the panties, bend her over the table, and sink his teeth in. Followed by his cock.