by Leigh, Tara
I sigh happily, warm and cozy, snuggling deeper as I push aside my strange dreams. Sebastián and Michael. Syringes and milkshakes. Dogs, duct tape, damp basements, dirty bathrooms.
All of it was just a dream. An awful, unrelenting nightmare.
“Thank God,” I mutter groggily.
“You’re awake.”
My eyelids fly open, my hands fisting the covers against my neck.
That voice didn’t come from my unconscious. And I am not in a basement … but I am not in Damon’s bedroom, either.
With my heart in my throat, I turn my head to find Sebastián perched on the end of the bed, staring at me with an air of impatience.
Reality slams into me like thunder. My location may have changed, but my nightmare was real. Is real.
Because I am still living it.
I run my tongue over dry lips, fighting the pang of nausea that twists my stomach. There is so much I want to say, and an anguished scream is gathering strength at the back of my throat, fighting for release.
My brain is on fire, a quiet fury simultaneously thickening and heating the blood inside my veins so that it oozes at a sluggish pace beneath my skin. After a long moment, all I say is, “You never came.”
“Plans changed.” Sebastián is unrepentant, maddeningly so. “It made more sense to bring you here.”
My eyes bounce around the unfamiliar room. Gold-framed art adorns yellow walls, thick crown molding emphasizes the high ceilings, ornate window treatments cling to mullioned windows. The decor is elegant and formal, like a bed-and-breakfast at a historic country manor. “Where is here?”
“This is the country home of a client of mine. I curated his collection last year and I still swing by occasionally. He’s out of town right now.” Sebastián lifts a hand and lightly sets it down on my duvet-covered hip. “After I left you yesterday,” he pauses for a moment, “I decided that your accommodations, while convenient, were unsuitable. This is a much better place for us to talk. Reconnect.”
Reconnect? What I want is a phone, or access to the Internet. Car keys. An unlocked door.
Freedom.
“Are we still in the city?”
He shakes his head. “No, but not far. Westchester County.”
A cage is still a cage. “Why, Sebastián? You still haven’t explained anything.”
His expression tightens. “Take a shower and come downstairs. I know how to make a decent omelet and then we’ll go for a walk. We have a lot to discuss.”
The thought of a shower is enough to make the barrage of questions retreat behind my teeth.
I am filthy.
But I don’t immediately race to the bathroom. After Sebastián closes the door behind him, I jump out of bed to stare out the windows.
This isn’t just a house. It’s an estate. One with acres and acres of land.
Both windows are locked, the thin white wire snaking around the frame evidence of an alarm. Whether it would alert the police or Hugo Cruz, I don’t know. Either way, there’s no balcony, just a long drop down. Breaking my legs would seriously hamper any chance of escape.
I’m not even sure escape is a possibility. I don’t see a single neighbor. No road to run toward.
I open each drawer of the heavy bombe chests that bracket the bed. Empty. Same for the enormous dresser on the opposite wall.
I have better luck in the bathroom.
A small manicure set that includes a pair of cuticle scissors.
I set it on the ledge of the shower and start the water, waiting until it runs hot to take off my clothes.
It’s then that I recall what one of the men said, just before I passed out. Let’s fuck her now. No one will know, not even her.
Fighting back a wave of panic, I examine my naked body in the mirror of the bathroom. My skin is peppered with bruises in varying shades of blue and green and yellow. But they are all in places where I recall being hurt. There are no fingerprints on my breasts or thighs, no chafing or soreness anywhere there shouldn’t be.
Apparently raping an unconscious woman isn’t enough of a lure to risk defying Michael. Or inviting the wrath of Hugo Cruz.
Exhaling a relieved breath, I step beneath the single showerhead and tip my head back. Water cascades down my hair and over my shoulders, taking with it a stream of fresh tears. They fall unchecked down my face, mixing with the spray sliding down my body, flowing into the drain.
Relief. Fear. Anger. Desperation. Regret. Longing. Frustration.
So many emotions. So many tears.
I am grateful for the certainty that the last man inside my body was Damon. But knowing how little control I have over that fact … is sickening.
Damon King—where are you? Are you looking for me?
Have you given up on me?
I press my palms against the shower wall, leaning my forehead against the tile as I suck in deep breaths of humid mist. It is tempting to slide down the wall, to stay within the warm enclosure until the water runs cold.
But then what?
How am I going to get out of here?
I turn off the water with shaking hands and dry my body with a thick white bath sheet before using it as a turban for my hair and slipping into a plush bathrobe hanging from a hook on the back of the bathroom door. I brush my teeth, staring at my reflection in the foggy mirror.
You can do this, Aislinn. You can convince Sebastián to let you go. And if you can’t, you’ll figure out how to get the hell out of here. Just … don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.
It might not be the most inspired pep talk, but it will have to do.
I can’t bear to put on the dirty outfit I’ve been wearing for days, and there are no other alternatives. With a shrug, I put the scissors into one of the deep pockets and fill up the sink with warm, sudsy water. The bloodstains have long since set. They don’t come out of my ivory silk blouse, and there is nothing to be done about the tears to the fabric. Even so, I squeeze out the excess water and hang them to dry over the shower door.
My bare feet make no sound as I step into the hall and make my way down the wide, curving staircase and across the marble foyer. I want to run right out the front door, but a quick glance shows one of Cruz’s men standing guard. His sinister smile and the bulge of his gun are strong deterrents.
Following the scent of eggs and coffee, I walk through an archway, down another hall, and into an enormous kitchen. I round the corner just as Sebastián is setting two full plates onto an ornately carved walnut table.
He pulls out a chair and I sit down, the bay window overlooking an immaculately kept lawn and gardens.
I could be a guest he’s invited for the weekend. Old friends catching up over brunch.
But I’m not. The awkwardness of this situation is inescapable, and yet neither of us comments on it.
My nerves are drawn piano wire tight as I spread a napkin on my lap and pick up my fork. “You know, if you wanted to keep in touch, you could have just slid into my DMs.” My voice is several octaves higher than normal, belying my attempt to keep things casual.
Even though this is Seb … I’m still on shaky ground.
He forks a bite of eggs into his mouth, an unrepentant grin curving his lips. “Unfortunately, some things are out of my control.”
I take a few bites myself, trying to figure out the best way to approach this conversation. “Can we start at the beginning—how did we get here, Seb? Beyond your father, what is your connection to Los Muertos?”
His rough chuckle is more pained than amused. “Beyond my father? Come on now, Aislinn. Can you separate your involvement in New York politics from James Granville?”
“I don’t work for my father anymore. I quit.”
At that, Seb tilts his head back and laughs. It is a deep, velvety sound, as rich as the coffee in my mug. “That’s not exactly an option in my world. If you are born Los Muertos, you will die Los Muertos.”
I wince at the finality of his words, the bitterness of his tone. But it
doesn’t lessen my rancor. “I have no affiliation with the cartel, or your family, and yet you left me with men who wouldn’t have blinked at killing me—after they raped me, of course.”
A muscle in his jaw tics. “They would have paid for it with their lives.”
“So? Their death wouldn’t erase their actions.”
“Did they … do anything to you?”
“No,” I shoot back. “But that’s not the point.”
“I think you’re missing the point.”
“Really?” I cross my arms. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re treating me with complete disregard, yet you expect my complete subservience. And, let me assure you, that particular mannerism is not one I’m familiar with.”
He drops his fork with a clatter. “We’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. And I’m sorry for that, truly. Let’s go back to the beginning, like you suggested. I believe you will understand my actions, even if you don’t agree with them.”
I could dig in my heels and argue until I’m blue in the face, but that won’t get me anywhere. Most importantly, it won’t get me out of here. So I take a breath and compose my features into an aloof mask. “Back to the beginning it is. What brought you to New York all those years ago?”
“I’m a second son. I was brought here to be out of the line of fire, in case anything happened to my older brother. But over the years, New York has become a critical part of our business. Almost thirty percent of revenue. The distribution hub for our East Coast operations.”
I am taken aback by his blasé attitude. Sebastián could be talking about coffee or oil or pencils. But he’s not. His business is drugs and guns and who knows what else. Well, I’m sure he knows.
I don’t want to know.
I push my plate away as the implications of his explanation spoil my breakfast. “What about your art appraisal work?”
“It’s a legitimate interest of mine. And there was a time when I believed …” Sebastián pauses, clearing his throat. “It doesn’t matter what I believed. Unfortunately, my work with illuminated manuscripts is now just a great cover.”
A great cover. “The Seb I knew wouldn’t have become a glorified drug dealer.”
The look he gives me is old and weary. Disillusioned. “No. The Seb you knew—”
He stops abruptly, pushing his chair back. It squeals on the parquet floor. “How about that walk?”
I look down at my bare feet. “I don’t have shoes.”
With a wry grin, Seb toes off his own and extends his hand. “Come on, a little grass under our feet is just what we need.”
13
AISLINN
Sebastián and I walk across the stone patio and onto the lawn. The morning is cool and crisp, the grass wet with dew and springy beneath the arches of my feet. And after four days trapped in a damp basement, the fresh air is heavenly.
But it still doesn’t change the fact that I’m being kept here. A fancy fortress, but still a prison. My body hums with anger.
Noticing the pensive expression on Sebastián’s face, I ask, “Are we talking out here because you think we’re being listened to inside the house?”
If he’s surprised by my question, he doesn’t show it. “I’m not sure, but it’s a good guess.”
I drag my feet through the grass, feeling the tickle of the blades between my toes. “What were you going to say in there?”
He sighs, running long fingers through his hair. “The kid you knew didn’t realize that his last name was a curse. He thought he was free, that his future was his own.”
My heart is not nearly as hardened as I want it to be. The seditious organ aches at the sadness in his voice, the resignation etched into his face, the grimace twisting his lips. An ache only compounded by Sebastián’s next statement.
“I was a fool.”
I take his hand in mine. “You are not your father, Seb. You don’t have to be a part of his business, you can walk away. If you want to.”
He doesn’t answer. We continue walking, hand in hand. Ten years ago, I would have been absolutely giddy.
But there is nothing sexual about our contact this morning. And despite the fresh air, I’m choking on the thick tension between us.
“Back in high school, when we started hanging out, my father found out who you were.” He stops. “Del tal palo, tal astilla. Like father like—”
“—like son,” I finish hesitantly, not knowing where he’s going with this.
Dropping my hand, he squints up at the sky and rubs the back of his neck. “My father married a politician’s daughter. That’s how Los Muertos became the most powerful cartel in Mexico.”
My stomach churns, making me regret even those few bites of breakfast. “What does that have to do with me?”
Sebastián returns his gaze to mine. “The way I see it—we’re both imprisoned. By our fathers, by this city, by our last names.”
The truth chafes at me. In New York, I will always be known as James Granville’s daughter. “Go on.”
“This kidnapping plot—you’re not being used as leverage, like you thought.” There is an almost manic pattern to his speech, a desperation in the blaze burning inside his eyes. “My father wants to use his money and muscle to make your father the most powerful man in New York, and eventually, the country.”
I narrow my eyes. “In exchange for what?”
“His private support and public ignorance of Los Muertos operations.”
“From what I’ve learned, it sounds like a deal my father would jump at.”
“Which is why my father wants a guarantee. If there was a connection between our families, if we are actually family, my father would be more confident of the long-term prospects.”
“Family …” The implications of Sebastián’s explanation sinks into my brain. “As in marriage? Between us?”
“Exactly.”
“Your father had me kidnapped off the street, drugged, bound, threatened by four of his thugs, locked inside a church basement for four days—and now he expects me to become his daughter-in-law?” Hysterical laughter bubbles up in my throat as the absurd reality of my situation finally hits home.
“I know it sounds crazy. But there’s a way out if we team up together.”
“No.” I poke my finger into his chest for emphasis. I am so tired of being used by men. Expected to advance their interests without any thought of my own. “You understand—I’m not getting married to appease your father or mine. I am not some Barbie doll bride to be paired off with a convenient Ken doll.”
Whirling around, I stomp away from Sebastián and his outrageous proposition.
Marriage.
No way.
Not long ago, I considered marrying Chad for similar reasons.
But they were my reasons.
Our relationship was convenient and comfortable. Mutually beneficial.
Dating in Manhattan is like running a gauntlet of egotistical bankers, alcoholic lawyers, aspiring artists, and tourists just looking for a story to take home. A gauntlet I happily avoided, because I had Chad.
But then Damon King showed up and upended my world. He taught me all about passion. How it whispered through my veins in the most delicious way, setting my skin on fire. The explosive power of an orgasm that couldn’t be replicated by a battery-operated toy.
Not that King is marriage material. Or that the spark between us could last a lifetime.
But if I’ve learned anything from him, it is not to sell myself short by settling for convenience.
Especially someone else’s convenience.
Before I can get far, Sebastián grabs my wrist and pulls me back. “What if a simple I do means we can live our lives as we see fit? I don’t want to be involved in Los Muertos any more than you want to work for your father. We can leave here, travel the world. Live our lives, not theirs.”
Sebastián’s reasoning is eerily similar to my thoughts as I walked away from Damon three—no, four days ago. All I wanted w
as to get away from New York and leave everything and everyone behind.
Sure, I would miss my mother. And I would miss Marisol. But the rest of it … the expectations and obligations and threats.
Nope.
I don’t want to acknowledge the truth in Seb’s theory. But I can’t deny it.
“So,” I question him, “love has no place in your marriage, then?”
Sebastián scoffs. “Love? Come on, Aislinn. What you and I have is better. We understand each other.” His face softens and he sweeps a knuckle beneath my chin. “I think it’s best if we keep emotion out of this. Establish a business arrangement.”
I hesitate. Sebastián’s proposal makes sense. He’s offering me exactly what I thought I wanted. What I’d been perfectly willing to settle for. Before.
It’s no longer enough. Not anymore.
I need passion. Intensity.
Love.
“No. Tell your father to leave me alone. I want nothing to do with his plans for world domination. And I won’t be dominated, either.”
I’m halfway back to the house when Sebastián calls my name. “I heard about the bruises on your wrists and ankles. Sounds to me like domination is exactly what you’re into.”
I spin and walk through the grass until our bare feet are just inches apart. “We haven’t seen or spoken to each other in ten years. Don’t presume to know anything about me.”
“I stayed away from you for your own good, Aislinn.” Sadness pulls at the corners of his lips. “But it was too late, the damage was done. My father has been planning this for years. It is our fate.”
14
AISLINN
I stomp away from Sebastián. There’s too much anger and frustration rattling around inside my chest to bear the thought of going back inside. Willingly returning to my cage.
Instead, I edge around the house, getting my first view of the front. Like the back, an endless expanse of grass stretches as far as the eye can see, but here it is split by a long driveway that leads to an oval courtyard. It’s been filled in with tiny white stones that sparkle beneath the sunshine like an iridescent pond. After a few steps, the rough edges scratch the smooth soles of my feet as if I’m walking on crushed glass.