My desire to break Lena overwhelms every other thought I have. I want to beat her into submission, fuck her until she's begging me. The look in her eyes drives my fury. She's afraid, but not. She knows what I'm capable of, thinks she can withstand it until she has an opening to fight back, to kill me, to flee.She underestimates me because she thinks of me as my father's son. It's unfortunate for her. She thinks I hate her but she's wrong. She was seconds late from saving my father. She saved my life. It's admirable, but it eats at me. That she bested five men with weapons. That she did what I could not.After I kick Arturo out, I have a moment to think without his constant stream of vitriol. Just me and Lena. She's chained and cuffed to the floor. Naked and dirty. The way I want her and it's making me hard. I wonder how to break her. Through force, through seduction? Through humiliation? I know who she is and what she's been through, but it doesn't evoke sympathy. I don't have those
Who killed your father?It had been stupid of me to push Luis like that. But there was something about his grief, his deeply entrenched rage over Manuel's death that called to me, forced the words past my lips. I think I know who killed his father, was trying to kill Luis, had worked it out almost immediately after we'd been taken. And if I'm right, then Luis is still in grave danger.I don't know why I care. He and I have been at odds since my arrival in the organization. At worst, I knew he wanted to get his hands on me, wanted to get me alone to pit his strength against mine, prove to his father that I am an unnecessary inconvenience for a man of his stature. At best, Luis was coolly indifferent to me. His chilling gaze following my movements whenever we were in the same room together.Now, I'm in the exact position he's always wanted me in. Tied up, ready to be used, at his mercy. If I'm going to have any chance at survival, I need him to see the truth of the kidnapping, the exe
As a male member of the Ramirez family, I have a patent disregard for women. It was nurtured from birth. Women are either sluts, or angels to be worshipped. There is no in-between. The sluts are for fucking, the angels for marrying. It's that simple in my world. Except it's not. Because some of the wives are smarter than their husbands, some are crazy, some are competitive and all of them want power. Even my mother, who had more of everything than most women.She died in a car accident when I was eight. That was the story I was told back then. Now I know that my father had her killed. His angel became a slut. Tired of my father and his treatment of her, she thought to betray him. One beating too many was the story most often told, so she sought out his enemy, offered herself and her information. It worked for a while, but deception is not something that can be sustained. Too many lies, too easy to get caught with an inconsistency. Something forgotten.Now it's my father's death that
Broken.He managed to break me and he barely touched me. I'm lying on my side curled around the water jug, tears dripping steadily off my face and onto the concrete beneath me. I try to tell myself to get up, to move, to shift closer to the door where I can smash him with the jug next time he comes in. I do none of this. I'm paralyzed. My first orgasm. Forced on me by an enemy. Shame and humiliation fight for the top position, along with terror. I had been prepared for violence, for rape. To be taken with no thoughts to my pleasure, my feelings. This… this is the ultimate mindfuck. With the cresting wave of my orgasm he released something else. A secret part of myself I hold onto so tight that no one is ever supposed to see. The woman that yearns, that wants things.I can't want things. I'm a machine. Built to protect. This is how I survive. I bury that woman, the woman who wants more out of life, so deep that she'll never see the light. Somehow, with those few touches, his finger
I open my eyes. Luis is crouched over top of me, the buttons of his shirt undone, his long hair loose and disheveled as though he's been running frustrated fingers through it. I briefly catch the edge of concern in his dark gaze, but my body reacts, almost independently of thought. He's kneeling next to me, his hands on my flesh, the memory of his dream monster still fresh.I shove his chest, pushing him back. He's off balance for a split second which allows me to lunge to the side. I bring the jug down on the concrete, smashing it. I grip a broken shard and swing it around toward him. He shifts backward and reaches for his gun. His eyes are alight with fury and something else. Maybe anticipation. Or perhaps expectation. I don't know and I don't have time to think about it. I hurl myself at him, knocking his gun hand aside while aiming for his jugular with the shard.He snatches my hair in his other hand and drags my head back. I expected the move and aim a kick toward his stomach. H
I watch her as she looks around my bedroom, a quick assessing glance, before she lets out a shallow breath, squeezes her eyes shut, and rolls to her side. She folds in on herself, exposing her back and ass. The livid crisscross of marks from my belt stand as my accuser, my inability to manage my anger. I wonder at the regret that sits hard in my chest, an unusual emotion for me.In the stark light of my bedroom I see she's not perfect, not flawless. She has a body well-used. Cigarette burns on the back of her bicep and both her thighs, several scars from whipping or belting on her back, her ass and her legs. Faint lines on her wrists and her ankles where she'd been restrained in past. The pucker of a bullet hole in her shoulder and another further down, just below her rib cage. And three deep scars down her right side. Clean slashes, the first a long one, then a shorter one, then a small one. Deliberate. To mark her as property.Anger burns in me as I clench my hands, but not at her
I watch warily as he opens the door. I wonder if he's going to let someone in. My brain, dulled by exhaustion, tries to understand what's happening. Why am I in his bedroom? Why is he taking care of me? All I can come up with is that he's playing me. He wants something and he's going to be nice until he gets it. Then he'll kill me.He doesn't let anyone in. Instead, he picks something up, closes the door and brings it toward the bed. He sets a tray on the night table. The scent of chicken broth washes over me and my mouth instantly grows watery with anticipation. He's brought food.He turns, reaches for me. I flinch. It's an automatic response, though I'm not sure if it's because I fear the pain or the pleasure that those hands can give. He rests his fingers on the belt tying me to the bed."Promise you won't attack me, Lena."I open my mouth to promise, to tell him what he wants to hear. Then I close my mouth. I've lied before, many times in the past. Either telling people what th
The funeral is well attended. I expected nothing less given Manuel's standing in both the legitimate community and the underworld. I'm standing in the graveyard, watching as they lower my father's body into the ground. Arturo stands beside me, a hand on my shoulder. I feel grief, anger, sadness, betrayal. But I stay impassive, the heir to the throne. The priest says a last few words and then it's over. People are walking up to me, shaking my hand, shaking Arturo's, murmuring their condolences.My father's good friend, Tom Garcia, snags my shoulders with his arm. "Walk with me, Luis."He turns me and we take a few steps. Then he stops, gazes hard at Arturo who's following. "Just Luis." Arturo stops, his face a rock, his dark eyes holding lethal promises.As we walk away from the group, he looks around. "Where's the bodyguard?"His question seems odd. "You mean Lena? She's home.""Alive?"I nod. I have the need to defend Lena. "She killed five men trying to save my father. She save