The creak of the door opening interrupted my fantasy with an unhealthy dose of reality. A sudden flood of light from the staircase made me instantly alert. I forgot my need for the restroom. My hand clenched around the plastic bottle. Water spilled over my fingers and onto the mattress. Fresh sweat broke out behind my knees and on my forehead. My muscles tensed. My chest tightened.
The woman in me watched the steps in dread, but the caged cat was eager, because everyone who entered the basement represented my shot at freedom. Even if I had to fight for it. And I was ready to fight.
I screwed the lid on my water bottle and let it fall to the mattress as I stepped onto the concrete, struggling to control my pounding heart.
Black work boots appeared on the top step. Abby glanced up.
“Buenos días, chicas,” Miguel said. His words sounded beautiful and exotic, in startling contrast to his apparent intentions.
But I didn’t give a damn about his intentions. I had plans of my own.
Twenty-Two
Miguel clomped down the stairs, his steps heavy and pronounced. I held my breath, hoping to hear him stumble in the dark and fall to his death. Unfortunately that only seems to happen in the movies. He took the stairs slowly, and I was sure he did it intentionally, to prolong my dread. But if that was the case, the joke was on him, because I had lots of practice waiting anxiously. Inspiring fearful anticipation was Daddy’s specialty. My father was the master at making you wait until you were willing to punish yourself just to get it over with.
And waiting on Miguel had a benefit for me that he’d probably never considered. By the time he hit the last step, my eyes had readjusted to the gloom, and I could see him pretty well.
He stopped at the foot of the stairs, facing Abby. “How are you this evening, Ms. Wade?” Each word was crisp and carefully spoken, his pronunciation seasoned with the distinctive rhythm of his native Portuguese.
Abby glanced at me with wide, scared eyes and backed up until she hit the cinder blocks at the back of the cage, her palms flat against the wall, as if she’d like to pass through it.
“Don’t worry, niña,” Miguel said. “I’ll be visiting our new guest today.” He turned his back on her, and Abby slid down the wall to sit with her arms wrapped around her knees. She watched through eyes narrowed to slits as Miguel sauntered slowly toward me, stopping two feet from the door to my cage. “How do you like your accommodations, Ms. Sanders?”
“My accommodations?” Ignoring my rolling stomach, I glanced around the basement, pretending to consider the question. “I assume you were going for stark simplicity with the metal-and-concrete decor, but it just doesn’t work for me. It’s too ‘third-world detention center’ for my taste. As are the restroom facilities. And room service here sucks. I can’t think straight in the morning without a healthy dose of caffeine, and I have yet to see a single cup of coffee. But the worst is the food. Tell Ryan to get off his ass and make me something decent. Maybe some chicken, with a little rosemary? He’ll know the recipe I mean.”
Miguel smiled, clearly amused. “Anything else I can do for you?”
I scratched my head, just behind my left ear. “Um, let me think. Yeah, there is one more thing. Fuck off.”
Chuckling, he pulled a small silver key from his front pocket. “As delightful as that sounds, I was thinking of something a little more…collaborative.”
Collaborative? How very civil, as if he wanted to cochair a committee with me.
“I get the impression you don’t play very well with others, but if you’d like a set of scars to match Eric’s, by all means, come on in.” I backed into the center of the cell, feet spread for balance, arms open wide to welcome him into my accommodations—at his own risk.
Miguel paused to take in my defensive stance, one hand cupping the padlock. He looked relaxed and confident, dark eyes blazing not with fear but with anticipation. And just in case I had any doubts regarding his intention, the bulge in his pants spoke quite clearly.
Shoving aside fear and self-doubt, I met his eyes, aiming for absolute confidence in both my stance and my voice. “My father taught me to disarm my opponent at all costs—regardless of his choice of weapon,” I said, glancing pointedly at his groin.
“Are you threatening me?”
“Damn right. Lay one hand on me and you’ll never stand to pee again.”
His eyes darkened, and his laugh sounded forced. “You’re very funny, gatita.”
“I’m glad you think so. I’ve always considered my sense of humor to be largely underappreciated, so it’s nice to finally meet a fan.”
Miguel laughed again, more genuinely this time, and unlocked my cage with a needlessly harsh twist of the key. The lock popped open with a sharp click and fell into his cupped palm.
Okay, time to get serious. I let my smile fade slowly and lowered my pitch, as no human woman could have. “I’m not joking this time. If I see it, it’s mine, and you won’t get it back at the end of the school year.” I growled, deep and long, savoring the feel of the vibrations in my throat, as if the sound alone could save me. It wasn’t quite a cat’s growl but it was damn close. And it was his last warning.
Miguel dismissed my threat with an easy smile, and my stomach clenched. Oh, yeah, Faythe. You have Puss shaking in his boots, all right.
I kept my eye on the key until he shoved it deep into the right front pocket of his jeans. The key was my goal, and everything would be all right once I had it. At least in theory.
Miguel opened the door and stepped inside, then closed it and reached through the bars to replace the lock. Behind him, Abby scooted into her favorite corner and buried her head in her arms. She couldn’t help hearing, but she didn’t have to watch. Seeing her like that made me want to kill him before he’d even laid a hand on me.
“Esto no tiene que ser difícil, mi amor.” He leaned against the door, waiting patiently while I puzzled my way through the translation. How courteous.
As I searched my brain for remnants from my high-school Spanish class, I stole a moment to try to force my face into a partial Shift. I stretched. I strained. I twisted my mouth into a horrible grimace. Nothing happened.
Miguel chuckled, apparently assuming my problem was linguistic in nature. It wasn’t. By the time I realized my face wasn’t going to Shift on command, I had the translation. He’d said something like, “This doesn’t have to be difficult.” But his eager grin said he was lying; he wanted me to resist.
He was about to get his wish.
Still watching him in my peripheral vision, I glanced around my cage, desperate for something to use as a weapon. There was nothing but the plastic coffee canister and the mattress. Shit.
Miguel’s heart raced, and eagerness shined in his eyes. He was practically humming with anticipation. Instinct told me to back away from him, but I fought the urge because once I reached the wall, I’d have nowhere left to go. Better to keep my options open.
“Esto va ser una diversión.”
I was still trying to translate the new phrase when he pounced, driving me back by my shoulders. He pinned me easily to the only solid wall of the cage, in spite of my attempt to avoid being trapped.
Grunting, I threw my knee up hard, aiming for his groin. Miguel stepped back, deftly avoiding the blow. Seizing my left arm, he yanked me forward. In a single, frighteningly fast movement, he spun me around, twisting my arm behind my back.
I sucked in a short breath, and Miguel pulled up on my elbow. Pain exploded in my shoulder. He shoved me face-first into the concrete blocks. I turned my head just in time to avoid a broken nose. I got a skinned cheek instead.
Aiming blind, I kicked backward and caught his shin with my heel. Miguel cursed in Portuguese and jerked up on my left arm. Fresh pain ripped through my shoulder, burning deep within the joint. I screamed. Miguel writhed against me, obviously aroused by my agony.
Not again, I thought. He won’t hear me scream again.
“Do you like it rough, gatita?” he
whispered, his sultry accent at odds with the repugnant nature of his question.
In reply, I shoved my right elbow into his ribs as hard as I could.
Miguel bellowed in pain and surprise. Clearly irritated now, he pulled my right arm straight up and pinned my wrist to the cinder-block, pressing my body against the wall with his own.
“Let me go now, and we’ll call it a tie,” I said, panting with my cheek still pressed into the concrete. I thought it was a pretty generous offer, but Miguel only chuckled.
He made a show of sniffing my neck and behind my ear.
I closed my eyes, my skin crawling with revulsion.
“You reek of stray, mi amor,” he said, nosing aside a sweat-damp strand of my hair. “All over. Your Mexican lover, maybe?”
My eyes flew open, and I gasped.
He laughed. “Yes, I know all about your boyfriend. The golden boy, Ryan calls him. I was pleased to find a purebred princess willing to spread her legs for a scratch-fevered tom.”
Clearly, this was not the time to mention that Marc was no longer my boyfriend, and that his scent on me was just a drunken mistake. Since Miguel thought otherwise, I decided not to disappoint him.
“He’ll kill you for this,” I said between quick, near-panicked breaths as his knee slid between my thighs, forcing my legs farther apart. “If I don’t do it first.”
Despite my threat, I was truly scared. I’d known Miguel would be strong, but he was faster than I’d expected. Too fast. I didn’t think he’d kill me—not on purpose, anyway—but there were things I feared worse than my own death.
“You can do better than this, then?” he asked, sliding his knee toward my crotch.
I breathed deeply, determined not to give him the satisfaction of making me squirm. “Even if I can’t, you don’t stand a chance. It’ll take both of your hands to keep me from killing you, which leaves you no way to get your pants down. Or mine. So why don’t you give up now and save us both the trouble?”
His breath oozed across my bare neck, and I cringed to feel it, hot and damp. “This is no trouble, bella. This is only foreplay.”
I clamped my lips shut on a groan. Great. A psycho. That figures. No dumb jocks for Faythe. I got the crazy bastard who gets off on causing pain.
Suddenly Miguel’s hands were gone, along with his knee. My left arm dropped to my side, and fresh pain shot through my shoulder, radiating down my arm.
Behind me, Miguel shuffled backward three steps. Convinced it was a trick, I didn’t move. He took two more steps, and I turned slowly to face him, cradling my injured arm.
His eyes shone. “Come on, bella. Come get me. If you win, you get the key. If I win, I get you. However I want.”
Now, why did that sound so familiar?
It was almost exactly the same bet that had gotten me into this mess in the first place. But this time I wasn’t even tempted. “You’ll have to kill me first,” I said, focusing on his eyes, letting the anticipation glinting in them fuel my anger.
“And you me. Te atrevo darme.”
Wonderful, a death match on my first day behind bars. Some girls have all the luck.
Rolling my head on my shoulders, I took inventory of my various aches and pains as I stretched my neck. My right cheek stung, and my knee was still bruised from my ride in the van. And my left arm was no use at all, possibly for a very long time.
Fortunately, my right arm still worked, and there were always my feet, assuming I could keep from breaking any toes. And as a last resort, I could scratch and bite.
Too bad I hadn’t been able to pull off the partial Shift. I could really have used a few more inches of teeth.
Eyeing Miguel warily, I struck my fighting pose, both fists raised with my knees bent and my feet apart, just like Daddy had taught me. Well, sort of like Daddy taught me. This time my left fist was low and stiff, held against my side for stability.
Miguel watched me in amusement, an ugly grin warping his mouth. I was entertaining him, giving him a laugh. And that pissed me off.
I lunged forward, hugging my wounded arm to my stomach. My right wrist rotated as it flew, smashing head-on into that revolting grin. I don’t think he even saw me move.
Miguel stumbled backward into the bars, slapping one hand to his mouth to cover a split lip and two broken teeth. Blood leaked from between his fingers to drip on the floor. He gaped at me, eyes wide in shock and anger. Apparently he wasn’t expecting me to throw any actual punches, which wasn’t surprising. Most tabbies had no reason to learn to fight; they had fathers, boyfriends and enforcers to protect them. But my father thought I should be capable of my own defense, and I’d never been happier in my life to admit that he was right.
I shook my hand, surprised by how much it hurt. I’d punched Ethan countless times and never injured myself. Of course, I’d never really tried to hurt him. But I meant to hurt Miguel.
Watching him warily between two fingers, I inspected the damage to my hand. Three of my knuckles were cut and smeared with blood. I flicked my tongue across them, tasting. Some of it was mine, but most of it was his. I’d drawn first blood. Yeah me.
Unfortunately, the surprised phase passed pretty quickly, for both of us. “You crazy bitch!” Miguel spat, spraying pink saliva across the concrete.
I frowned. Why am I a bitch every time I draw blood?
He wiped his stained hand on his jeans. Starting forward, his hands were curled into fists. He looked like a deranged boxer, eyes blazing with fury and barely focused. I’d finally fazed him, and anger was getting in the way of his concentration. It was about time something went my way.
I dodged him to the right, jumping onto the mattress. “What’s wrong?” I asked, lunging to the left in time to evade another blow. “I thought this was your idea of foreplay.”
“He meant he likes to hit girls,” Abby said. From the corner of my eye, I saw her standing at the front of her cage, brown eyes wide and eager.
Miguel glanced back at her, fist raised. “You shut up, niña,” he shouted, shaking his fist at Abby. He must have been pretty shaken to take his eyes off an opponent. Or maybe he still didn’t consider me a serious threat. How insulting. “I’ll deal with you when I’m finished with—ugh!” I cut off his threat with a kick to the groin.
It wasn’t a great kick. For a great kick, I’d have needed a pair of shoes with hard toes. But I’ve been assured by several of the men in my life that just about any kick to the crotch is pretty effective.
Miguel bent over, clutching himself as he turned half away from me. Rotating my hips, I whipped my right leg around again, kicking him in the face. I was careful to use the inside of my foot to protect my bare toes. The awkward angle blunted my force, but it worked. He fell over backward with what I hoped was a broken nose. I couldn’t tell, because his hands were cupping the injury. But my foot was pretty sore, and slick with enough blood to threaten my balance.
I wiped the bottom of my foot on the edge of the mattress, briefly considering the victory dance Ethan taught me the year he played peewee football. But then Miguel groaned, and I dove for the key instead. I sat on his right leg with my knee pressing into his injured groin, forcing my fingers into his pocket. It was too tight. I couldn’t reach the key.
Determined, I pushed my hand in farther. The tip of my middle finger brushed something hard and smooth. The key. I wiggled my fingers, but only pushed it in deeper. I shifted forward for a better angle. And then I made my critical mistake: I took my eyes off his face.
Miguel let go of his swollen nose. His left hand shot past my head. He grabbed a fistful of my hair, twisting it around his palm. Using his grip on my hair for leverage, he pulled me down, pinning me to his chest. He yanked my head back, wrenching my neck to expose my throat.
I tried to swat his hand away, but my left arm wouldn’t move, and my right hand was still stuck in his pocket. With his free hand on my hip, he pushed me to the left and rolled on top of me. My injured shoulder hit the ground and I screamed. We
wound up on the mattress, with me on the bottom.
Miguel leered down at me. He gave my hair one more vicious tug, then let go. Several strands came away with his hand, stuck to the drying blood. Smiling, and dripping more blood on my face and shirt, he plucked my hand from his pocket and pulled my arms over my head. Tears standing in my eyes, I bit my lip to keep from screaming again as he jerked on my injured arm. He pinned my wrists to the mattress with one hand. “I’ll take the top, if you don’t mind, gatita.”
I swallowed back a sob, speaking through teeth gritted against the agony in my shoulder and the panic in my chest. “I do mind. Get the hell off me.”
He sat up, straddling my hips, and pulled my hands forward. My fingers dangled in the air above my stomach, my wrists trapped in his left hand. I struggled to free my hands. He drew his right arm back and slammed his fist into my cheek.
Pain erupted in my face. Lights floated in front of my eyes. I opened and closed my jaw to make sure it wasn’t broken. My face was still intact, but it sure didn’t feel like it.
Miguel forced my wrists back onto the mattress, and by then I had little resistance left to offer. At least physically. Verbally, I could have sparred all night, but apparently he no longer appreciated my wit. “I’ve had just about enough of your mouth,” he said, dribbling a trail of blood from my chin down to the center of my shirt as he repositioned himself over me.
“Really?” I tried to ignore the throbbing in my face. “I’d have thought you’d be more bothered by my fists.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, tabbycat.” He shoved my shirt up over my stomach, smearing me with blood. “Compared to mi padre, you hit like a toddler.”
“Not bad for a girl, though, huh?” I said, still trying to free my hands, despite the pain in my shoulder.
He glared down at me, nostrils flaring in anger. “I’m done playing, bitch. You’re risking your life every time you open your mouth.”
A smart woman would have shut up. Did I? Hell no. Intelligence is overrated anyway. “Oh, come on. Wouldn’t you rather go upstairs and lick your wounds? Maybe make an ice pack for your crotch?” I was trying to get him mad enough to make his concentration slip again. He wasn’t falling for that twice.
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