“Keep your eyes forward.”
I turn my head back to the front, but keep my gaze on the mattress, watching the blue arabesque patterns shift beneath me as Andrews arranges himself behind me.
“Do I get a safe word?” I ask, knowing it’s a stupid question but needing to expel my nervous energy. “Since I asked for this?”
“No safe word,” Andrews replies, and I feel one hand tucking into the crease between my stomach and my thigh, not to play with me, but to hold me steady. “You have to learn to trust me, woman.”
A slap of leather, just below my ass, striping the back of my thighs. My body instinctively tries to pull away, but Andrews’s hand is there to keep me in place. A second strike, and I’m wondering how I could ever be so stupid as to ask for this.
His belt feels nothing like the palm of his hand. This is a totally different shape of pain, sharp and intensely isolated. And loud. So fucking loud.
He spreads his strikes evenly from my ass to the insides of my knees, always hitting at a new angle, not leaving a single molecule of flesh unflagellated. I think I manage to keep my mouth shut, utterly humiliated to have begged for this treatment, but silent tears drip off the tip of my nose. I always thought that tears meant weakness, only inviting more pain, but now I feel lighter with every drop that slips down my cheeks. Crying isn’t an admission of fragility. It’s a purge, a release, a way to empty myself of all the thoughts and feelings haunting me. It’s the freedom to finally let go.
I don’t know the exact moment it happens, but the searing pain on my behind slowly morphs into nothing but an anchor, keeping me grounded as I slowly fall out of my mind. The sensation is so overwhelming I can’t remember so much as my name, can barely remember to breathe. And then I don’t feel anything at all. Andrews pushes me over the edge, and I lose time, float through eternity with nothing inside me but primal bliss. I’m too far gone to recognize that this is everything I wanted, but it is.
Andrews was right when he said I should just trust him.
Too soon, I come dripping back into reality, shivering a bit, face down across my captor’s lap as he gently dabs a cool, damp cloth against the fiery welts he just created. His fingers patiently slide through my hair, fighting a losing battle against my curls. I don’t think he’s saying anything aloud, but I still hear him, feel his steady heartbeat pulling mine into submission, hear a thousand unspoken promises in a language I don’t yet understand. With every mindless touch, he tells me I’m okay, I can let go now, I can rest.
I don’t say anything aloud either, but my own words ricochet through my lungs, forcing me to realize how utterly fucked I am.
Because there’s just one, simple thought left in my mind.
Keep me.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Andrews
I don’t know how, but I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep this girl.
This fucked-up, evil, gorgeous, bloodthirsty girl.
My desire to dominate and punish her is only rivaled by my primal drive to protect her and give her everything she’s never had before. It might be just another color of control, but I want to take care of Miel Conde. She’s never had that before, has always been solely responsible for her own survival. There hasn’t been a single day of her life that wasn’t a struggle. I want to lock her under my custody and never let her worry about anything ever again. It might be a foolish thought, believing I could protect a woman like that better than she could protect herself, but I know I could do it. For Miel, I could do anything. I already have.
God, she’s got me fucked up. I should be worrying about my own survival, working out how I’m going to get away with all the crimes she’s made me commit, but instead, I’m wondering how to make her stay. Like a kid with a crush, I’m playing out every improbable scenario in my head, over and over. Will I keep her captive forever? Where would I keep her? Could I go back to my normal life while there’s a woman chained up in my basement? Will I have to make us disappear entirely?
They’re all stupid questions, but not the most stupid. The real question, the one I bury under all the others because it’s so fucking insane, floats to the surface again and again.
What if she wants to stay?
The things this woman does to my head, it makes me want to flog her until she bleeds, then bury myself inside her while she screams for more.
This woman takes a fucking beating like it’s what she was born for, while being the most sadistic person I’ve ever met. She’s deeply wounded and distrustful, yet is discovering her own sexuality with the sweet innocence of a virgin. She’s independent to a fault, and yearns to be controlled. Miel is messy, wild, a tangle of contradictions. I want to peel her apart until I understand what’s inside her, but I don’t ever want to lose the fascination of being constantly surprised by her. Maybe those two don’t have to be mutually exclusive, either.
I know what my sisters would say about all this, after they ripped me apart for the kidnapping and the questionable kink. That’s one more reason why I have to keep my family far, far away from all this.
I left Miel in a balltie at the center of the mattress, neatly folded up with her knees against her chest and her wrists bound to her ankles. I can tell she’s shifted around a bit, but must have quickly discovered that the position leaves her all but immobilized. She’s looking off into the distance when the elevator doors open, lost in thought, but the little ding alerts her of my arrival. When her face turns to me, her expression is completely unreadable, and it stays that way as she drags her gaze down my body. When her eyes land on the oversized paper bag in my hands, she blooms with what can only be amusement. It’s different than the smiles I’ve seen on her before, the ones where she was getting off on violence and sin. This grin rounds her face and warms her eyes, and white teeth peek out through her plump lips.
“Is that fucking Red Lobster?” she asks with a snort.
“What can I say, I’m a gentleman,” I return, setting the bag down and reaching over to untie her. “If I’m going to put my dick in a woman, the least I can do is buy her dinner.”
Her amused expression falters, but she quickly regains her composure. It’s a fake smile now, a mask just as thick as her usual blankness. She doesn’t say anything else as I release her wrists and loosen the bindings on her legs so she can settle into a more comfortable position.
“What if I told you I’m allergic to shellfish?” she says, watching me pull warm plastic boxes from the paper bag.
I pause and glance up at her, those dark eyes revealing nothing but my own reflection. “Are you?”
“Nope,” she chirps, but the message is clear. I may have been inside her, but that doesn’t mean I know a damn thing about her.
“Well, I did get a steak in case you hated seafood,” I say, placing the first box between us and peeling the lid off, revealing said filet mignon. I set down the lobster tail, caesar salad with salmon, crab claw appetizer, and obligatory biscuits. Laid out like this, the spread looks enormous, and I feel a weird twinge of embarrassment.
“What is this?” Miel asks cautiously. The alarm in her voice makes me feel worse.
“I’ve been putting you through hell on crumbs,” I say, tossing her a packet of plastic utensils and ripping open my own. “You need to eat right, and so do I.”
“Can’t have your sex slave passing out from hunger mid beating,” she says dryly. She takes a biscuit and wolfs it down, then eyes the rest of the spread.
“What’s that?” she says, pointing at the smaller box.
“Crab claws, battered and fried,” I say, taking a bite of lobster meat. Fuck, that’s better than usual. This is why my first partner refused to eat seafood in a non-coastal city.
Miel picks one up gingerly, opens the accompanying cup of cocktail sauce, and pauses. All of a sudden it dawns on me that shellfish probably wasn’t on El Sombrerón’s usual menu. Not for his people, anyway.
Knowing she would rather die than ask for my help, I grab
a claw of my own and dip it in the sauce.
“It’s kind of like eating shrimp,” I say, and of course Miel’s face remains vacant. I try my best to explain further without being patronizing. “Just, like, bite down really gently at the end here, careful not to break the shell, and kind of suck it out. Okay, you probably already know that, I’ll stop mansplaining now.”
I pretend to casually eat my claw while showily demonstrating every step. Miel meets my gaze and I almost see a flicker of gratitude. She knows I know that she doesn’t actually know. I busy myself with the salad and watch her out of the corner of my eye as she takes a tentative bite. Her hand immediately flies up to her mouth and she looks at me with a panicked expression.
“Fuck,” she says, though it comes out garbled by the crab claw trapped between her teeth. “I bit too hard. I bit right through the whole fucking thing.”
I scramble for the pile of thin paper napkins. “Here, spit it out.”
She does, wadding up her garbage and tossing it to the side with all the demureness of a pig in shit. I expect her to be angry, embarrassed, but it appears she’s still in a cheerful mood, a soft smile on her lips as she reaches for another claw.
“Okay, show me again?”
I do, and she goes in for round two. Again, her hand stays covering her mouth as she shakes her head in defeat at me, reaching a hand out. I give her more napkins.
“Fuck that shit,” she says, grabbing another biscuit. “Eating something shouldn’t be that hard.”
I find myself smiling, a real smile that I probably hadn’t produced since before I met Miel. Hell, my whole body feels more relaxed than it has in ages.
“Try this,” I say, passing her the box with the lobster tail. “You can just eat that with a fork, like normal.”
She tries a bite, and her guard is lowered enough that I can see the flicker of dislike in her eyes, but she resolutely tries a few more bites before handing the lobster back to me.
“I’m just gonna eat the steak,” she says, taking that box and positioning it on her lap so she can cut off a piece. She shoves an enormous chunk of meat into her mouth, her cheeks blowing out in the most unladylike fashion. Why the fuck can’t I stop smiling?
“How do you even live in Miami if you don’t eat seafood?” I tease, launching into my solo journey with the crab claws.
She mumbles something I don’t understand through a full mouth, then swallows and tries again. “I like fish tacos!”
I file that piece of information away and speak again, quietly and not meeting her eyes, like I’m trying to not spook a wild horse. “What else do you like?”
“I don’t know,” she replies with a shrug, taking a smaller bite, one she can still speak through. “Just regular shit.”
A pause, and I think she’s done, but then she speaks again. Her voice sounds small and honest, like she doesn’t even fully realize she’s talking.
“Sometimes Yesenia brings me this pozole she makes, that shit’s real good.”
“What’s poh… What’s that?” I set down the box of now empty claw shells and reach for the lobster.
“It’s this, like, stew,” Miel answers, her plastic knife and fork waving around alarmingly in the air as she speaks. “I don’t know, it’s got chicken and shit.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Y’all eat stew in this weather?”
Miel just shrugs in response and finishes off the steak. Watching the way she eats, I think I know what she means. Sometimes, kids would come into the precinct to be questioned or while we waited for CPS, and they ate like that. Like they’d been waiting all day for that bag of chips or that cookie, and had to make it disappear before it was taken back.
After downing another biscuit, Miel lets out a loud burp, and I chuckle in surprise. Not mockingly, but in the way I would when my sisters and I had belching competitions at the dinner table as kids, until Mom would come in to beat our asses. To my surprise, Miel grins back, a loud, piercing smile. The kind of smile you’ll do anything to see again.
I’m so fucked.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Miel
I know what’s happening.
I watched it happen two years ago to Selina Palacios, when Javi wormed his way into her bed, then into her heart. He was obsessed with her, too, and she hated him, too. It didn’t matter in the end.
I can’t let that happen to me.
More accurately, I can’t let myself believe that’s happening. Because no one could ever want me like that, not the girl with the scars and the mouth on her. Not the girl who’s nothing but a bullet casing, used up and hollow. This is all part of Andrews’s torture, and I can’t let myself get hurt anymore than I already have. I need to push him away and lock myself back up, until he finally fucking kills me, or my broken brain stops betraying me.
Andrews is cleaning up the garbage from dinner, just another shadow outside the reach of the lamp light.
“Do you want to know about my first kill?” I ask, using the same faux nonchalance he does when he’s trying to pry me open with an innocent question, thinking I don’t see right through his shit. I think I see him tense, but he says nothing. We both know I wasn’t really asking for an answer. “I was twenty-one, and I’d just gotten busted for tricking. The cops fucked up some paperwork or something, so I got released a couple days later. Long enough for me to dry out.”
I don’t know if Andrews already knew this, and I still can’t see his face in the shadows. Javier had all our records erased, and Selina stole the only hard evidence. But the cops were all up in El Sombrerón’s business, so Andrews has to know enough to have pieced some theories together. He’s not a complete idiot.
“So when they let another asshole have at me as soon as I got back, they didn’t know I wasn’t strung out enough to not fight back. But the john was good and wasted, so it wasn’t that hard for me to grab the stupid knife on his belt and stab him in the throat.”
“Sounds like self-defense,” Andrews says flatly as he takes me to the restroom area to wash up. This isn’t how he’s supposed to be reacting. The Reggie Andrews who brought me here would be in my face, calling me a murderer and a monster.
He hasn’t heard it all yet, though.
“It wasn’t quick,” I say, plopping down on the toilet seat for a piss. “I think he eventually choked on his own blood, or some shit. It was everywhere, all over him, all over me. But he couldn’t yell, and that gave me enough time.”
“Enough time for what?”
A flush, and then I’m washing dinner off my hands and face.
“To cut his fucking dick off,” I say, not bothering to hide the smile in my voice. Finally, a reaction from Andrews. Just a twitch, but I’ll take it. “I sawed it off the fucker, and then I stomped on it until there was nothing left.”
Andrews hands me the toothbrush, and I’m forced to pause while I brush. It’s probably for the best. This is the part of the story is where I should have slit my own throat, should have taken my one out instead of putting on a show. I regretted that for the next five years, until Javi and I escaped. In some deep pit of myself, I still do.
“Do you know what they did to me for that?” I ask, letting Andrews steer me back to the mattress. “Well, I don’t, either. I blacked out after the first couple hours and when I woke up two days later, I had half of these scars and I was pregnant. Of course, I didn’t know that then, and there’s no way to know for sure, but I’m pretty sure that’s when it happened. And do you know what they did then?”
He’s holding my hands behind my back and beginning to loop some rope over my shoulders. I can tell he’s about to start on one of his complicated bindings, with the measured ties and perfect knots.
“They beat the shit out of me, until I wasn’t pregnant anymore.”
They kicked me in the stomach so many times, I was bruised for weeks. I remember one of the other girls crying for me, mourning that now I’d never be able to have babies. She was new, and she hadn’t let herself rea
lize yet that there was no future for us anyway, no weddings and families and lives. Thanks to the buried memories Andrews gave back to me, I remember that she overdosed three months later. We all watched while the life bubbled out of her, the men arguing in the background about who had given her the lethal dose, and who would have to take care of the body.
Andrews finishes up his bindings, leaving my arms perfectly immobile behind my back. I expect him to leave me on the bare cement for the night, but instead he pushes me down onto the mattress, clicking off the lamp and lying down beside me. My heart pounds as he turns me on my side and wraps those hard arms around me, unnecessarily caging me against his chest. The bindings are plenty to keep me from using my arms to hurt him in the night.
“You know, I could still kill you with my legs,” I say. It would probably hurt, but I could get a knee hooked around his throat, put my thick thighs to good use.
“What are you going to do, sit on my face and smother me with your pussy?”
For some reason, the image of me sitting on his face floods my core with heat. My pulse speeds as I wonder what it would feel like, his hot breath between my legs, the tip of his nose brushing—
“Do you want to know about my last kill?” I ask, reminding myself that I’m trying to remind him why he hates me. The first story doesn’t seem to have done the job, but I have plenty more, each more gruesome than the last.
“Shut up, woman,” he grunts into my neck, his voice heavy with sleep. I guess being on the giving end of all those brutal beatings is pretty exhausting, too.
I do shut up, still thinking about the white trash whore who ran Hard Candy before me. She made the guys fuck her if they wanted their full cut of the tips. It was easy to do her; she had no idea how to protect herself from real danger without any threat to dangle over me. Now, no one at the club even remembers her name. Just like they’ll soon forget mine, if they haven’t already.
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