by Pam Godwin
Marco’s eyebrows pulled tight, his gaze narrowed on the thrashing fighter, considering her worth.
“Why her?” Vera fisted her hands, the snarl of her lips baring white teeth. “Omar will not allow—”
“Cállate!” Marco returned fire, spitting a mouthful of Spanish before thrusting a finger at the door. “íVete!”
With an enraged glower at Luke, Vera spun and stormed out of the room.
“I’ll gladly test drive Ms. Gomez, instead.” Luke ogled at her retreating backside, angling his neck and making a show of it.
She slammed to a stop, just long enough to shoot daggers over her shoulder before vanishing around the corner.
“No, no, no.” Marco shook his head, chuckling. “I will not share that one.”
“Because she’s your sister?”
“Because she’s mine.” With that unnerving announcement, the man removed a key from his pocket and held it up. “I give you a week with the whore. But I warn you. Watch the grill.” He gestured at his mouth. “She bites.”
“I look forward to it.” He grabbed the key and squatted before the seething girl.
Woman.
Hard to be sure with her face banged up, but her eyes confessed her maturity. Mid-twenties? Possibly older. Jaded beyond her years.
She hadn’t stopped kicking and bucking in the shackles, her anger so intense it foamed from her mouth. He couldn’t fault her for the tantrum, but all that straining couldn’t be good for a concussion.
Marco left without another word. Luke waited for the heavy thud of footsteps to fade in the distance. Then he addressed the woman now in his charge.
“You can fight me.” He caught her swollen jaw in his hand and squeezed, making her eyes burn hotter. “Kick and scream and wear yourself out. It only makes me harder. Hungrier. But if you cause serious harm to my bodyguard or me, or if you run and make us chase you, I will find another girl and hurt her worse than this one.” He tilted his head at the dangling corpse. “I’ll make her beg for death, and there will be no mercy next time. No escape from the agony. And you’ll watch every second of it, knowing you caused it. Nod your head if you understand.”
Her eyes flashed, but her head didn’t move.
The point was to scare her with threats instead of his fists. She didn’t know he would never follow through. Only it wasn’t working. He didn’t detect a trace of fear in the air.
Maybe she didn’t speak English?
No, there was too much comprehension in her expression. Too much stubbornness. She understood him perfectly.
He yanked her up by her long black hair, hauling her body against his, and grazed his teeth across her swollen cheek, the corner of her mouth, and bit her ear. “Nod your goddamn head.”
Her lashes fluttered against his face, and her breath came in rapid gusts. Then she nodded.
He unlocked her restraints.
When she didn’t move to stand, he scooped her up and cradled her to his chest. She weighed nothing but felt as strong as hell. Compact muscle. Sturdy bones. It would require a lot of effort to really hurt her.
He hoped he was right about that, for both their sakes.
“Should I bring the shackles?” Tomas asked.
“No.” His threat would suffice.
As he carried her out, the pull to look back at the dead girl slowed his steps. He wanted nothing more than to bow his head and give her a moment of respect. He needed to tell her he would never forget.
He’d stolen her life, and he didn’t even know her name.
How would he ever redeem himself? Ever forgive himself for what he’d done? Or what he was about to do?
Pushing forward, he felt like he was wading through ice, every step a perilous obstacle, every breath a frigid stab in his chest.
Vera waited at the exit, holding the door open to the final tunnel. Marco had already left.
“I want a medical kit.” He strode past her, tightening his grip on the injured woman. “Ice packs. Food. High-calorie, nutritional food. And a bottle of your best whiskey.”
“Tequila.” The fighter buried her nails into his nape, deliberately breaking skin.
“And tequila.” His lips quirked. “Make sure it’s in my room within the hour.”
“I’m surprised.” Vera hurried after him, eyes on her phone, presumably passing along his demands. “There are sixteen untouched girls back there, and you choose a whore who can’t even walk. She’s been thoroughly used up by all four of my brothers. This very moment, their come is leaking down her legs.”
His jaw hardened, and he almost lost his footing. But the rage inside him didn’t compare to that of the woman in his arms. She exploded in a fit of slashing claws, reaching toward Vera’s face while shouting in Spanish.
He wrangled her back, using more strength than he wanted to restrain her against his chest. Then he threw a withering glare at Vera.
“Oh, you didn’t know?” She swiped her key card and opened the elevator. “Marco and Omar tag teamed her after the fight.”
Raped.
If he’d acted sooner and followed Omar down here, he could’ve prevented that.
“Why do you care?” He stepped onto the lift with Tomas at his heels.
“I just think… You can do better.”
“Better, as in… You? Have you reconsidered my offer?”
Her gaze slid to the woman in his arms, and a malevolent drum of energy electrocuted the space between them. A hatred so rancid and sticky it raised the hairs on his arms.
“The two of you have a story.” He looked from one to the other, back and forth, before pausing on the woman he held. “How long have you been here?”
“Too long,” they snarled in chorus.
“Are you related?”
“God, no.” Vera laughed.
Similar brown eyes, black hair, and tawny skin. Both had Mexican accents, like many of the girls here. But their likeness ended there. Where Vera held herself with sophistication and reserve, the fighter was feral and impulsive. Vera had grown up in a loving home, until her mother died of heart disease.
The common thread between them was Hector’s sons. The brothers prized the woman in his arms, whether for sex or blood sports. But the nature of Vera’s relationship with them wasn’t clear.
Was she jealous of the fighter? Because Hector’s sons showed interest in another woman? Or because Luke showed interest in her?
The elevator opened, and Vera sashayed away, leaving Luke standing there holding an unsolved puzzle.
She entered a breezeway in the opposite direction of his rooms and paused, glancing at him before scowling at the fighter. “Have fun with that.”
“Have no doubt.” He headed the other way, placing his full attention on the woman he was about to become intimately acquainted with. “Tell me your name.”
Stubborn silence.
He growled, “This will go much easier if you give me that.”
“Easier for you?” Her accent dripped with vitriol while somehow retaining a seductive quality that made his balls tighten. “I’m not giving you shit.”
“We’ll both have fake names then. I’m John, and you’re Gina.” At her thinned stare, he clarified. “Gina Carano. The hottest female fighter of all time. At least, she was until I saw you defeat that kid tonight.”
She clamped her busted lips into an angry slash and looked away.
Why had he said that? He was supposed to scare her, not charm his way into her panties.
Old habits.
“Tell me what happened in the basement with the girl.”
“Go to hell.” She shoved at his chest with a shocking force of strength. “Put me down.”
He constricted his grip, which only spurred her to push harder. In the next breath, she went wild, flailing and cursing in Spanish.
After spending years with Camila, Matias, and Ricky, he understood common words. Mostly slang. Too little to hold a conversation.
Not that this woman was interested in ta
lking.
She aimed her mouth toward his, her eyes promising teeth and blood. He dodged her, wrapped her up, and still, she kept fighting.
The little heathen needed boundaries, and now was as good a time as any to set them.
He opened his arms.
She dropped. Her legs buckled, and her rear hit the floor. The woman had been hit so many times in the head tonight she couldn’t keep her eyes focused. She was in no state to stand, and they both knew it.
“Let’s go.” He took three steps toward the room and stopped with his back to her. “Start walking, Gina, or I will rip off your pants and blister your ass.”
Tomas stood off to the side, his expression blank. No one moved.
He set a toe behind the opposite heel, pivoted, and stalked toward her. With her legs sprawled and chest heaving, she thrust up her chin. It was all she could do before he was on her.
Flipping her to her stomach, he set a knee on her back and shoved a hand beneath her waistband.
A button flew. The zipper broke, and the thin cutoffs ripped like tissue paper. Her panties followed, and he tossed the shreds aside.
Nude from the waist down, she clenched a firm, round, tanned backside.
Lust hit his circulation like a crackle of fireworks, lighting him up from the inside out. But he couldn’t enjoy this. He shouldn’t.
That was the real bitch of it. He had to behave as if spanking and touching and fucking this woman was pure goddamn bliss without taking real pleasure in it. Without becoming the monster he pretended to be.
She’d been violated and abused in unspeakable ways. No matter what he did with her, to her, he couldn’t forget that.
So as his hand came down on her ass, he made her feel it without feeling it himself. He wailed on her, avoiding her injuries smoothly enough that she didn’t notice the mercy. He hit her just enough to make her fear him, and she took the punishment without making a sound.
When he was sure his point was made, he threw her over his shoulder and hauled her to his room.
She didn’t cry or struggle, didn’t try to hide her red backside from the men he passed. But she didn’t just hang there, either. Her muscles contracted against him, bracing for war, biding time.
She was plotting a way out of this. If she wasn’t, she fucking well should’ve been.
Tomas opened the door with his key reader, and Luke carried her directly to the bathroom.
Placing a chair beside the tub, he dropped her there and got in her face. “Don’t move.”
She gave him an unblinking stare, looking pissed and miserable beneath all those bruises.
He cranked the faucet for the bath, tested the water, and let it run. Then he strode behind her, out of her range of sight.
Tomas joined him at the vanity across the room, monitoring her as Luke doused cold water on his face. In the mirror, he watched her, too, stealing glimpses between splashes of water.
His hands were shaking.
Shoving them under the faucet, he tried to calm himself. Except he didn’t feel nervous. No panic or dread. Could’ve been the lingering effects of adrenaline. But there was something else. He felt different. Dazed. Empty.
“I’m losing myself,” he whispered.
I killed an innocent girl.
Tomas leaned in while keeping his golden eyes laser-focused on the woman’s back.
She couldn’t hear them, not over the water spraying from multiple faucets.
“You’re still you.” Tomas gripped the tie at Luke’s throat, loosening and removing it.
“I feel numb. Cold. Really fucking cold.”
“It’s temporary. Embrace it for just a little longer.” With steady hands, Tomas unbuttoned Luke’s collar and spoke in his ear. “I know it doesn’t feel right, but you’re doing a good thing. Focus on the big picture, the end goal, and remember, I’m here. If you fall too deep, I’ll pull you back.”
Too late.
Luke shrugged out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, his movements wooden.
Tomas placed a supportive hand on his neck and gave him a look that had been forged in trauma, friendship, and solidarity.
“You’re John Smith. A slave buyer.” Tomas shored up his grip, squeezing painfully. “Act like it.”
“Done.” He knocked the hand away and shed the remains of Luke Sanch.
Then he turned toward his newly acquired slave.
Her lower half was naked, but she hadn’t consciously registered that detail until his eyes latched onto her in the mirror. Green eyes, glowing like toxic fire as they licked across her battered body.
With her back to him, she didn’t need to turn around. The full-length mirror near the door hung at a convenient angle, giving her a direct view of him with his bodyguard. And what a strange bromance they shared.
First off, why were they both so damn good-looking? That wasn’t normal. Not in this cesspool of pervy sadists. In the years she’d been imprisoned here, she’d never seen an attractive guest.
It was surface-level bullshit anyway. Every man here was hideous at his core.
But what struck her was the way these two interacted. A moment ago, the golden-eyed bodyguard seemed to console his boss, whispering sternly while helping him undress.
The boss—a sickeningly gorgeous redhead who called himself John—certainly didn’t look like he needed comfort. Especially not now as he swung his searing gaze around the damage splotching her skin.
God, she hurt. Her head pounded, and her face felt like an overinflated basketball. Her mouth and cheeks throbbed, so hard and swollen she couldn’t even scowl. Or cry.
The pain in her ribs indicated more bruising. Last year, they’d cracked during a fight and hadn’t felt the same since. Then there were the degrading welts on her ass, which burned each time she shifted. He’d enjoyed that particular torment. No noticeable bulge in his pants, but his eyes had dilated the moment he’d hit her.
He didn’t take those eyes off her now as he prowled closer, all hard angles and long, muscled legs, eating up the distance. He hadn’t known she’d been watching him with his employee and didn’t look happy about it. Whatever. It didn’t change her outcome.
She knew why she was here and what he expected from her. If she fled, he would punish another girl. Even if she could physically run to the outside perimeter, Marco’s men would capture her, drag her back to the basement, and torture another captive.
Like today.
That poor, innocent girl. Viciously butchered and killed. Because of her.
Every time she closed her eyes, she relived that horror. She still couldn’t believe John had the balls to end the girl’s life. Despite what he’d said, he hadn’t done it out of cruel annoyance. Marco might’ve bought the act, but the conflict in John’s eyes hadn’t lied. He’d hated doing it and suffered for it.
Circling her chair, he stopped before her and laid his gaze boldly on hers. He didn’t move, didn’t blink, as if caught in a trance. Or maybe she was the one entranced. His stare wasn’t a stare. It was a labyrinth. All high walls, dark corners, and confusing dead ends.
No way out.
She spent a week in the maze of his eyes. At least, that was how long it felt before he released her and shifted his attention to her lap.
He lingered on the shallow gashes, the dirt caking her knees and feet, and the patch of trim black hair between her legs. Despite the conversation in the elevator, he wouldn’t find a drop of come on her body.
Marco and Omar usually fucked her after a fight. But tonight, they’d punished her in the worst way possible.
Her chest squeezed, and a thousand needles stabbed the backs of her eyes. She would mourn the nameless girl who’d bled for her. But not now, not here. She couldn’t let the sorrow cripple her.
Anger was her only friend. “What are you looking at?”
“A repulsive mess. Grubby fingernails, filthy clothes, a fucked-up face…” His American accent penetrated her senses, cold and ravaging. He shut off the w
ater. “I can’t decide if you’re hiding anything pretty beneath the bruises or something even more abhorrent.”
She flinched and pulled in a slow breath to conceal it. They were just words. Harmless cruelty. She’d endured much, much worse.
“Remove your shirt.” He stepped around her, casting a smothering shadow over her back.
The shirt was the only clothing she wore. Whether she liked it or not, it was coming off. But she wouldn’t make it easy.
Crossing her arms, she trapped the bloodstained cotton against her chest.
He didn’t say a word. Not a sound for the longest minute.
With a deep shaky breath, she twisted around and looked up into the greenest, wickedest, most terrifying pair of eyes she’d ever seen.
Oh, God. She turned back.
Would he strike her? Throw her across the room? Rip away the fabric?
He took his time wringing out her nerves, and when he finally moved, she didn’t hear or see him. But she sensed him all around her. His body heat against her skin, his breath on her neck, and his chilling patience like a collar on her throat.
“Do you feel the walls pressing in around you? Restricting your movements? Strangling your air?” He brushed his nose against her ear. “That’s me, Gina. The more you defy me, the closer and meaner I get.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Do you prefer whore? Slave?” He held her motionless without touching her. “How about cunt?”
A fist pounded on the door, prompting Golden Eyes to exit the bathroom. She welcomed the distraction, knowing food had arrived. When was the last time she’d had an actual meal?
Confusion edged in, fogging her vision. The thought of eating made her sick. She needed sleep. Just a few moments to close her heavy eyelids. But that was dangerous. And impossible.
The night had only just begun.
As voices drifted from the main room, he shoved a hand between her legs. It happened so fast she wasn’t prepared. The iron bar of his arm caught her across the chest, pinning her to the chair. His other hand hooked around her waist, his fingers seeking and finding the hood of her clit.
