by Pam Godwin
“You pay the rent or go.”
His indifference about whether she stayed crushed her willpower. Fighting him only quickened his strides as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of her. He’d given her a choice and wouldn’t bend the rules. She wasn’t worth the trouble.
She was nothing to him.
A low, agony-soaked sound gurgled in her throat as resignation sucked the life from her limbs. “I’ll pay.”
He didn’t give her time to change her mind. Turning back, he hauled her into her cell and tossed her on the mattress, face down. A zipper sounded behind her, followed by the tear of a condom packet.
Violent, full-body tremors chattered her teeth and rattled the metal frame of the bed.
She couldn’t move, couldn’t bring herself to look behind her. She just lay there, frozen in shock and horror, aching to be anywhere but here facing what was about to happen.
Her body stiffened with the instinct to protect itself, everything inside her screaming to kick, bite, and come unhinged. But fighting him wouldn’t get her that phone.
The device lay inches from her face. Her only way out of this nightmare.
As he wrenched down her jeans and panties, her fingernails stabbed into her palms.
As he forced himself into her dehydrated body, something broke inside her.
As he pounded the singed, electrocuted flesh between her legs, she swallowed her cries, buried the anguish, and didn’t make a sound.
But her silence came at a price.
The only way to hold still beneath the violation was to shed the pieces of herself that cared. With each merciless thrust, she lost her naiveté, her kindness, and her hope in mankind. She carved up the vulnerable parts that wouldn’t survive in Jaulaso and let it all go.
Gentle, sentimental fragments of her existence tore away and crumbled to dust, and she knew she would never get those pieces back. Something hard and unfeeling filled the jagged gaps.
Her mind contorted and adjusted, trying to protect itself, to become immune to the damage. She felt herself grow cold and vacant, hardening like a concrete wall.
But she had fractures. God, they were everywhere, letting in the pain from his thrusts, the anguish of being used so despicably, and the fear of tomorrow, and the next day, and the month after that.
She mentally repaired the cracks, stopped the leaks, and shut out the agony. It was a lonely, excruciating effort. As she toughened herself against the stabbing motion of his hips, her edges started to splinter.
The threat of tears burned her throat. It would be so easy to release her grief in a fit of sobbing cries. Maybe someone would hear and take pity on her. Maybe this man would stop hurting her and feel horrible about what he’d done. Maybe, just maybe, her tears would make all this go away.
That wouldn’t happen. No one would feel sorry for her. No one would come to her rescue.
She was in Jaulaso. To survive, she needed to become like them.
Wrapping herself in coldness, she erected shields, closed mental doors, and formed layers of impenetrable resilience.
I will not cry.
I will not show weakness.
I will bear this, bury it, and survive.
A strangled groan sounded behind her, and the weight on her back disappeared.
She looked down at her balled hands and uncurled her fingers. Blood trickled from crescent-shaped gouges in her palms and soaked her nail beds.
The pain didn’t register.
She slowly rose, pulled up her jeans with numb fingers, and turned to meet his eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Garra.” He fastened his pants and ran a hand over his black hair, slicking the strands into place.
“Congratulations, Garra. You forced yourself on an unarmed woman half your size. Your mother must be proud.” Her voice echoed in her head with icy detachment. “If you ever touch me again, I’ll kill you.”
“Welcome to your new home, Petula Gomez.” His gaze swept over her with the same detachment. “Rent is due again next week.”
Austin, Texas
Two years ago
Ricky Saldivar knocked on the front door of Van Quiso’s cabin and tore a hand through his hair.
Why had he even bothered styling it? He’d raked his fingers through the gelled pompadour cut so many times on the way here it probably looked like he just crawled out of bed. After hours of fucking.
It was nerves. Completely normal. Not that he was a nervous guy. It was just…
Christ, he was at Van’s house. Standing on the motherfucker’s front porch. Willingly.
This wasn’t normal. Not even in the same realm.
Shifting beneath the overhead light, he squinted at his reflection in the glass door and tried to fix his hair. The longer strands on top spiked in every direction, refusing to be tamed.
Why the fuck was he fussing over his appearance?
Nerves.
Excitement.
Anticipation.
All of it coursed through him in fitful waves.
He knocked again and slipped his hands into his front pockets.
The deadbolt turned. It twisted three more times before the door opened.
Van’s wife stood on the other side, wearing a tight red-as-sin minidress and a tremulous smile.
“Hi, Ricky.” Amber Quiso chewed her lip, her gaze flitting restlessly over the dark front yard. “Sorry to make you wait. I…I was having a moment. Nothing major. You know, I’m… Sometimes, I slip and… Ugh, save me from this rambling.”
“It’s good to see you. You look beautiful, as always.”
“Thank you.” She smoothed her palms down the front of the dress and cleared her voice. “He’s waiting.”
She didn’t move to let him inside, her eyes stark as she directed them at her bare feet.
He’d only met her a couple of times in passing and knew she struggled with some disorders, one of them being a fear of open spaces. Just the thought of stepping outside used to freak her the fuck out. She supposedly had a better handle on that now but still had bad days.
“Amber?”
“Yeah? Shit. Yes. I mean, what?” She seemed to snap out of a simmering panic attack. “Sorry, I was…listening to my heartbeats. Not counting them. I wasn’t counting. Because I’m okay. Really. I’m just a little off. Not that I’m crazy or whatever you’ve heard…”
“You don’t want to keep him waiting.” He nodded behind her, expecting her to let him in.
“He’s around back. Outside. I’m supposed to take you.” She pointed at the path that led around the side of the house. “The long way. Bastard.” She whispered the last word with a huff.
“Okay.” He stepped off the porch and waited for her to join him.
She didn’t move, her hands balling at her sides and her jaw rigidly locked.
Maybe Van demanded this from her as a form of therapy? Or perhaps he just liked to torment her? He was a sadist, after all, which was precisely why Ricky had requested this meeting.
“I assume Van told you the reason I’m here.”
“Yeah.” Her gaze lifted to his. “Are you sure you want this?”
“I know what I need. Who I need it with is another story.” He laughed under his breath but didn’t feel the humor in it. “I’d choose anyone but him. Believe me, I’ve tried. But…”
“He’s the best.”
The best at beating, tormenting, and fucking someone into the most violent, life-changing orgasms known to man.
The only other person who would even come close to bringing Ricky to his knees was his best friend, Martin.
But Martin was straight.
And homophobic.
An impossible fantasy.
“Yeah.” He blew out a breath. “Van’s the best at being a real asshole.”
“Oh, but he’s a beautiful, loyal asshole.” She stepped onto the porch and inhaled deeply. “He doesn’t want to hurt you. He only agreed to do this because he wants to help you.”
“I know.�
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“We’re monogamous.”
He tilted his face toward the night sky and closed his eyes. “Look, I’m not here to steal your husband.” He met her gaze. “I don’t even like the guy.”
“But you’re attracted to him.”
“He’s…compelling.”
Even when Van had hurt him beyond his extremely high pain threshold, whipped him until he passed out, and fucked his throat to the point of suffocation, he thought his captor was the sexiest, most viciously captivating male in existence.
Until he met Martin Lockwood.
Martin and his goddamn megawatt smile, Viking warrior build, overbearing protectiveness, and vigilant pale eyes… Everything about the man kindled a roaring need in Ricky, one that wasn’t reciprocated and never would be.
Jesus fuck, get over it already.
“He’ll give you what you came for.” Amber anchored her fists on the toned curves of her hips. “But he won’t fuck you.”
“Story of my life,” he muttered too low for her to hear.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She raised her chin, her tone barbed with ferocity. “No intercourse and no kissing on the mouth. Those are my rules.”
“Okay…” He cast her a concerned look. “If you’re not comfortable with this, I’ll go. I don’t want to cause problems.”
“I agreed to it.” She clutched her throat and glanced around before giving him her eyes. “He raped me, too, Ricky. Whatever you’re feeling, the filthy things he planted in your head, his taunting voice in your ear whenever you’re alone, the shameful memories… I understand all of it. But unlike you, I get to spend every night with him, working through it and repairing the parts he fractured. If you need this from him, I’m cool with it.” She shoved back her shoulders. “As long as you remember he belongs to me.”
“You’re a possessive little thing.” He grinned.
“With him? You bet your ass.”
“No betting needed, considering I’m about to hand my ass over to him.”
“Good.” She smiled.
“Good.” He nodded at the path. “Shall we?”
She breezed past him, navigating the steppingstones with the grace of a beauty queen.
“No one else has sought him out like this.” She peered at him beneath her lashes as she made her way around the side of the cabin. “I mean, other than Camila asking him to help with her vigilante work, you’re the only one of his…uh…”
“Ex-slaves. You can call us that.”
She nodded. “You’re the only ex-slave who has reached out to him. He appreciates your trust more than you know, but I’m curious…”
“Why am I here instead of plotting his death like my roommates?”
“Yeah.” She padded along the lit path, her expression pinched with wariness.
“Pain makes you stronger, and time heals all wounds. Blah, blah, blah… I’m sure there’s truth in that, but to be honest, I sympathized with him and Liv when I found out they were forced into that life.”
Back in the day, long before Van met Amber, Van had a hard-on for Liv Reed. He and Liv had made quite the dysfunctional, human-sex-trafficking duo.
Over six years, they enslaved five males and two females. Camila Dias had been their first. Ricky was slave number two.
The night Ricky was captured, he’d taken one look at Liv and followed his dick. The alluring, irresistible beauty had led him out of the dance club, into her car, and straight into shackles with an unspoken promise of fun, kinky, consensual sex.
Unbeknown to him, she’d drugged his beer at the bar, which had caused him to black out during the drive. But that wasn’t why he ended up in her car in the first place.
He’d wanted her, despite her scarred face, and when he saw Van with a matching scar, he wanted both of them. Separately. At the same time. Any way he could get them.
Apparently, gorgeous criminals were his weakness. He was shallow and reckless like that.
But at the time, he hadn’t known what he wanted. Not completely.
“Before Van, I didn’t know I was bisexual.” He stopped walking and waited for Amber to glance back. “I always knew I wasn’t like other guys, but I didn’t know how or why until I was chained in Van’s attic.”
“Oh.” She pulled in a slow breath and turned to face him. “He was your first?”
“I’d been with women, but never with a man. Not until him.”
“I’m sorry.” She cringed. “I imagine he didn’t break you in gently.”
“No.” He laughed with a grimace. “During those godawful months with him… Jesus, he fucked me up so badly I thought I was going to die. But the experience opened my mind. It forced me to examine my curiosities, desires, and all the socially unacceptable things I would’ve never explored on my own.”
“He broke you and put the pieces back together the way they were meant to be.”
“Exactly.”
It felt good to talk about this, and she seemed to relate to him on a level most people didn’t. Because Van had put her through the same hell.
“Had he not subjected me to the things he did…” He gripped the back of his neck. “I don’t think I would’ve ever acknowledged my bisexuality or my need to be dominated in bed. It’s crazy that I feel grateful to him for that, considering the nightmares and years of mental trauma he caused me.”
But he had time and distance on his side. It’d been eight years since his captivity. Nine years for Camila. Every day was easier than the last.
That was the only reason he was able to face Van tonight.
His roommates—Tomas, Luke, Martin, Tate, and Kate—didn’t have as many years to heal. Not yet. They would come around eventually, and maybe someday, they would forgive Van’s cruelty.
Even so, the decision to pick up the phone and call Van hadn’t been an easy one. It had taken him a year of dialing and hanging up before he let the call go through.
He didn’t know if Van would reject him or if he was even ready to take this step with his former captor. He didn’t know if he would ever be ready.
“I’m growing impatient.” The deep baritone punched from the tree line behind the house, shooting a delicious shiver down Ricky’s spine.
Amber must’ve felt it, too, because her shoulders gave a little shudder.
“It’s not too late to change your mind.” She squinted at the trees through the darkness.
Not a chance in hell. But he needed to ask. “Do you want me to back out?”
She shook her head, her lips bowing in a seductive smile. “I’ve always wanted to know what he’s like with a man.”
Since sex was off-limits, she wouldn’t see Van in all his depraved glory. But one thing was certain. Van would find a way to torture them both, holding them right on that precarious edge between pain and pleasure until they begged for mercy.
“Let’s do this.” His heart raced as he nudged her across the backyard toward the woods, his gaze probing the shadows, searching for Van’s intimidating silhouette.
When he called Van yesterday, they didn’t discuss rules or negotiate how this would go, which was ironic considering Ricky had endured months of Van’s sexual training bound by a rigid list of requirements. But those had been set by the slave buyer.
Van had no use for rules, laws, principles, or anything that resembled BDSM. He did what he wanted, however he wanted, and it was rarely safe or sane. Tonight, however, it would be consensual.
For the first time, Ricky would surrender to Van’s will because he wanted this. He needed the relief of an assertive, confident hand.
He’d said as much on the phone when he told Van about his botched dating life, failed foray in the local fetish community, and overall disappointment in male lovers.
He longed to be with someone more alpha than himself. His one-night stands always seemed to fit that mold, until he got them in bed. No matter how many people he fucked—and the list was depressingly long—he hadn’t found a lo
ver who could master him on a natural level. It always felt…forced.
After he’d explained all this, he said the words he never imagined uttering to Van.
I need a release, the kind only you can give.
Van’s gravelly response had been sharp, swift, and arousing beyond belief.
Come to me.
Ricky shivered as he slowed at the tree line, his gaze connecting with Van’s silvery, moonlit eyes in the shadows.
A toothpick lolled at the corner of the imposing man’s full lips, his scar etching a monstrous seam in an otherwise flawless face.
As gorgeous as he was terrifying, he was built like a mountain and somehow managed to stare down at Ricky, even as they stood at the same height.
“Van.” Blood rushed to Ricky’s groin, hardening him behind the zipper.
“Ricardo.”
“Don’t call me—”
“It’s your given name. Grown men don’t go by Ricky.” Van stepped into his space and ghosted the back of a finger across his whiskered jaw. “You’ve definitely grown since the last time you choked on my cock.”
Ricky had added a significant amount of muscle mass over the past eight years. The fact that it hadn’t gone unnoticed thrilled him more than it should have.
“Will I be doing that tonight? Choking on your dick?” His breathing quickened, his erection a hot throbbing heartbeat in his jeans.
“No.” Van grinned around the toothpick. “I only get hard for my wife. I’ll put my hands on you, but you won’t touch me. Or her. If you do, we’re finished. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lose the sir bullshit. You’re not here to stroke my ego.”
“God knows it doesn’t need to be stroked.” Amber stood a few feet away with one brow arched.
Van slowly cut his razored eyes in her direction, and her sassy eyebrow slipped beneath an oh-shit expression.
He prowled toward her, gripped her hair, and wrenched her face to his. “How many times did you turn the deadbolt when he arrived?”
Her alarmed gaze flicked to Ricky.
“Don’t look at him.” Van spat the toothpick on the ground. “Answer me.”
She stared up at her husband and licked her lips. “Four times.”
“And your knuckles? How many times did you crack them?”