by S. R. Grey
“Did he hold Haven there?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No. Rick has spoken with her concerning all that went down. He reported back to me that Haven was almost always with Eric and Vincent. If not, then she was with guards.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “And for as bad as all those men are, they are nothing compared to Dawson. Thankfully, Rick extricated her before she was moved to the house that we’re going to. It’s the last stop before the captured women are sent to Mexico.”
“Where do they go from there?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Central America, South America, all over, Essa.”
“That’s sick,” I say, disgusted.
“That’s why I’ve been trying to help stop it from happening,” he says quietly.
“Have you ever been to this house we’re going to?”
“I have,” Farren replies curtly.
Recalling how Farren told me he’s had to do things he’s not proud of—bad things—I decide not to delve for details.
And he doesn’t volunteer any.
Instead, he says, “I can’t give you any weapons prior to the meeting. Dawson will know if you’re armed. But I can’t leave you completely unprotected, either. I’ll tuck a .38 under the passenger seat. It’s easier to handle than the .45.”
“Um, okay… But you’ll be with me, right?” I shakily inquire.
“Yes, but I’ll need to talk with Dawson privately at some point.”
Confused, I say, “Yeah, but if we’re in his house, how will a gun in the car help me?”
“We’re not going into that house,” Farren states, his voice firm. “We’re meeting Dawson at a specified point along the driveway. The damn thing is about a mile long; we’ll rendezvous there. I plan to talk to him in his car. If things start to go badly when I’m with him, I need you to retrieve the gun.” His eyes meet mine. “Don’t be afraid to use it, Essa.”
“Okay,” I croak out.
Farren gently brushes my hair over my shoulder. When it won’t stay put, due to the breeze, he tucks the wayward strands behind my ear. “There’s one more thing,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“When we meet Dawson, I need for you to be completely submissive to me.”
Clarity rushes over me. “Oh my God, he thinks I’m some girl you abducted. Like, for this fake operation of yours.”
“That’s what he thinks,” Farren confirms. “And it’s important that he continues to believe I took you against your will. If we can pull this off, he’ll believe the rogue story.”
“Yeah, but,” I say slowly, “if you tell him you’ve reconsidered, he’s going to question why I’m still with you.”
Farren smiles, and this time it’s genuine. “I’ll make him think that you got to me. That I’m keeping you for myself.”
Have I gotten to you? Are you keeping me for yourself? I long to ask these questions, but things are complicated when it comes to this burgeoning relationship. I’m not even sure Farren will remain in the country after all this is over. He could be off to anywhere—to Asia, South America, Central America. Who knows?
“What about Mr. Barnes?” I query. “Does he expect you to continue working for him?”
“I’m not sure, Essa. There may be another angle in the operation where I can be of help.”
“You’ll keep doing this, then?” I whisper. “You’ll continue to go after these guys?”
He sighs. “I have to, Essa. It’s important to me.”
“It is a lot of money,” I mumble.
Farren hears me and says, “It’s not about the money. I’m committed to helping Barnes, especially since Haven’s been caught up in this mess.”
I want to question why he’s so committed. This is about more than Haven. This is more than seeing things through. And it’s more than a cause of some sort.
But what is it? What could be driving Farren to this level of commitment?
Unfortunately, I don’t have the nerve to interrogate him, so I just softly say, “Does that mean you’ll be in some other country, like, indefinitely?”
I stifle a sob and close his eyes. When I open them, he touches the side of my face. “Essalin…”
I grab up his hand. “I’m sorry.” My voice cracks. “I know you said no promises, or whatever, but I just…I just don’t want this”—I wave a hand between us—“to end.”
“I care for you, Essa,” he tells me. “I do.”
“Okay, how much?” I blurt out. His brows go up, and I amend, “I mean, I know we haven’t known each other all that long. But spending every day and night together like we have kind of throws the rule book right out the window, you know?”
He nods, and, encouraged, I continue. “Farren, all I know is that I feel something for you, something I’ve never felt before.” I take a much-needed breath. “I’m not saying it needs to be defined, not yet. But I also don’t want to continue on without at least declaring something.”
Farren’s response isn’t some sudden declaration of love, but it’s a pretty strong reaction when he pulls me to him roughly. His lips crash down to mine, and he kisses me, firmly at first, but then more gently. “Essalin Brant, you’re going to be the death of me,” he murmurs against my lips.
I run my fingers through his silky hair and down to the nape of his neck. Clutching the back of his shirt, I say, “Never. It will never come to that.”
His lips return to mine, and soon I am so turned on that I begin shaking. Farren, knowing my needs and wants almost better than I do, lifts my skirt and makes short work of my panties. He allows me to tug his shirt over his head, but he has me keep my own shirt and jacket on. When he backs me up to a large boulder and leans me back against it, I understand why. Though the boulder is smooth, the clothes left on my top half will keep my back from getting torn up.
And torn up is what would happen, as there’s urgency to Farren’s actions when he hoists my legs up around him. Within seconds he’s undoing his pants, lowering them, and freeing his erection.
I sense he needs to be inside me—feeling me—as much as I need to feel him. Still, he meets my gaze, his eyes questioning if this is all right.
I nod and say, “Yes, yes.”
Very slowly, and never looking away, he lowers my body onto his, burying himself deep inside me.
I gasp. He groans. But he doesn’t move, not at first. He just holds my gaze. And when he says my name, with us joined as we are, I know in the deepest recesses of my being that Farren feels as strongly about me as I do for him.
And today, right now, for where we’re at and what we still face, that’s enough for me.
Dawson’s estate is close to the border, so close that if you threw a stone from the edge of his vast property, you’d be almost guaranteed it’d land in Mexico. Not that you’d know where one country ended and the other began. It all just looks like desert to me.
However, as we close in on the elaborate entrance to Dawson’s property, it becomes clear this particular oasis is vastly different from the barren desert land surrounding it. Dawson’s estate is a gem in desolation. There are huge gates at the entrance, and a wrought iron fence encloses the meticulously landscaped greenery. Shrubs, flowers, and grass as lush as it would be back in Pennsylvania this time of year grow in abundance.
Farren pulls up to the entrance gates and stops at a control box on a pole. He enters a code, and the gates open slowly. I know he’s been here before, so his knowing the code is no real surprise.
Still, it’s a bit unsettling.
Off in the distance—about a mile away, like Farren mentioned—a huge house looms. Even from this far away, I have a bad feeling about the place. Just to be sure neither one of us is stepping one foot in Dawson’s residence, I say to Farren, “We’re not driving all the way up to the house, right?”
“No,” he assures me with a comforting pat to my knee.
“Well, at least this part is pretty,” I remark as I gesture to all the exotic flowers and greenery growing along
the sides of the driveway.
“Don’t be fooled by appearances,” Farren replies dryly.
“What happens here?” I carefully ask. “You said this is where girls are brought before being sent over the border.”
“Yes, this is where they’re brought.” Farren blows out a long breath. I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about this. Sure enough, he says, “As for your first question, I think it’s best if we don’t talk about the things that happen here.”
I know then that Farren has had to take part in at least some of the bad things that have occurred on these grounds. Suddenly, the flowers don’t seem so pretty anymore; the greenery, not so bright. It’s all a farce. The young women who are brought here probably think this is a sanctuary after the things they’ve experienced up to that point—like how Haven was kept in “cold, damp” places.
They have no idea the worst is yet to come.
Farren slows to a stop. We’re not quite to the house, but we’re close enough that I can see it’s as opulent as the grounds. Turrets, a limestone exterior with intricate detail work, the house is magnificent. But for as stately as the huge home appears, there’s still that cold, sinister vibe lingering in the air.
“Maybe we should leave,” I murmur.
Just then a black stretch limo appears. It travels slowly to where we’re stopped.
“Too late now,” Farren murmurs.
The limo parks a few yards away from us.
Farren places his hand on my knee again. “Essa, remember what I told you.”
I bite my lip and glance his way. His green eyes bore into me, demanding and making it not such a stretch to say, “I’m supposed to be yours, all yours. I obey everything you say.”
He nods slowly. “That’s right. I own you.”
“You own me,” I echo.
The limo door opens, and the man I assume is Dawson steps out. He appears to be in his early sixties. He runs his hand through gray hair that is thinning. His face is heavily lined from the desert sun. His physique—he’s clad in a dark brown suit despite the hot weather—is trim, compact, and tight. He’s not a particularly tall man, but he holds himself confidently. When he catches me observing him from behind the windshield, he scowls, making his sharp features harden.
“I’m kind of afraid,” I whisper to Farren as I avert my eyes.
“Good.” He places his hand on the door handle and opens the door. There’s no going back now. “Fear will keep you alive, Essalin.”
Farren steps away from the car, and I watch as he strides toward Dawson. Farren is much taller than the older man, far broader in the shoulders. Now that I take a better look it appears Dawson’s suit has some sort of shoulder pads attached to make him look bigger. Even so, Farren dwarfs him. And despite Farren’s casual attire of a fitted black tee and faded jeans, he’s far more suave and put together than squirrely Dawson.
I sit dutifully in the passenger seat, watching and waiting for a sign from Farren to join the men. The air conditioning is off, and though the windows are down, it’s stifling in the car. Even so, I begin to shiver. I rub my arms, trying to generate heat. I wish I’d worn something less revealing. My too-short white shorts and skimpy red camisole have me feeling far too exposed. But this outfit is what Farren directed me to put on.
I’m playing a role, I remind myself.
When Farren reaches Dawson, the two men shake hands. I hear Dawson say, “I see you brought your young, pretty thing with you. Does this mean we’ll be playing with her today?”
Farren tenses, only a bit, but it’s enough that I notice. Dawson, however, pays no heed. His cold, obsidian eyes bore through the windshield glass, focused on me like there’s nothing between us. He says a few words to Farren that I can’t make out.
Farren then startles me when his voice rings out, gruff and commanding, “Essalin, come here.”
Warning bells go off in my head, urging me to stay put. But since I trust Farren implicitly, I obey his command.
When I’ve just about reached the men, Farren grabs my arm roughly. He yanks me to him. He wraps his arm around me and moves his hand to my chin, his thumb digging into my jaw. “Say hello to Mr. Dawson,” Farren growls in my ear.
I know this isn’t Farren. He’s also playing a role. But his rough handling has me whimpering instead of doing what he’s requested of me.
The pressure of Farren’s hold increases and he tilts back my head. “Essalin, do as you’ve been told,” he hisses.
Dawson chuckles, and I reluctantly squeak, “Hello, Mr. Dawson.”
“I see you have a strong-willed one here, Mr. Shaw.” Dawson says, smiling coldly. He steps closer to me, and Farren pulls me into his body protectively. “Those are always the most fun to break,” Dawson remarks.
This gross man is so close to me that his fetid breath fills my nose. I long to turn away, but Farren’s hand stays put on my jaw, holding me in place. His grasp tightens, like he knows what I’m thinking. I have a feeling turning away would be a very bad idea.
Thankfully, after one extremely long minute, Dawson steps back. Farren loosens his hold, and his fingers stop digging into my skin.
I breathe a sigh of relief.
My relief is short-lived, though, when Dawson says, “Let’s have a look at her.” His tongue darts out and he licks his lips in a reptile-like fashion. “Lift up her shirt.”
Fear turns to outright terror. Farren knew something like this was in store. That’s why he couldn’t arm me. A sob escapes me as Farren’s hand slips under the hem of my camisole, lifting…and revealing.
I start to cry, and he whispers in my ear, “Shh, trust me.”
He continues to lift my shirt higher.
The dry desert air would normally feel like a warm caress, but with my camisole bunched up all around my neck, all I feel is icy and exposed. But my humiliation is not enough for Dawson. He rubs at his crotch and rasps, “Unclasp her bra. I want to see more.”
I start to shake and press myself as far back into Farren’s chest as I can. Despite Farren’s calm movements and demeanor, his heart is pumping faster than normal. I know then that we have to pull this off…or Dawson will kill us. And though I suspect Farren is armed, killing Dawson must be a last resort, due to the potential fallout. This insidious man has influential connections. His reach is long. And though Haven is supposedly safe, Farren won’t take any chances.
Resigning myself that this is how things are going to roll, I go lax in Farren’s arms. He unclasps the front closure of my bra and peels away black lace, exposing my breasts.
“Very nice,” Dawson grunts. “Do you mind if I touch?”
Tears roll down my cheeks. Is this what Haven endured? If so, this kind of shit was probably just the tip of the iceberg.
“This one’s not for sharing,” Farren—to my relief—replies.
I’m momentarily calmed, until Dawson growls, “I’ve shared plenty with you, Shaw.”
I don’t know if Dawson means women who were brought here have been shared with Farren, or if he’s referencing the fact that Farren has “stolen” girls from him. My only solace is in knowing that the young women Farren “stole” from Dawson—and maybe slept with in order to keep up his cover story—were ultimately rescued and returned home.
“I said no sharing,” Farren states firmly.
Dawson shifts his weight and grumbles, “Fine.” And then he adds with a sinister grin, “Do you want to come into the house and fuck her in front of me? I’d be happy with that.”
What? No, no, no…
For as much as I enjoy Farren fucking me, I have no desire to have this disgusting man watch. I sense these sick requests are angering Farren, too. His body tenses as he says to Dawson, “We’re not going into your house. And enough with the girl; she’s not important. However, I believe we still have some business to discuss.”
I think it’s all over, and so, apparently, does Farren. He begins to lower my top. But that’s when Dawson states, “Not so fast. I want to
see the rest of her before talking any business.”
Bile rises in my throat. We can’t keep saying no. Farren has to talk business with this man. He needs to make a deal with Dawson. A deal that will result in keeping Haven—and me—safe.
That is why when Farren swiftly turns me around and bends me over the hood of Dawson’s limo, I don’t resist. I put up no fight when he yanks down my shorts and panties, and I don’t struggle when he places his hand on my lower back and urges me to arch my ass up high so Dawson can see all of me.
It’s all so humiliating, like I’m some object to display and apprise. But the worst part of all is that, because Farren is doing these things to me, my body starts to respond. And it doesn’t go unnoticed by Dawson.
“You’ve trained her well,” he comments lecherously. “She’s fucking soaked.”
I press the side of my face to the hood, tears hot as they stream down my cheeks. It’s true; my body is aroused. My camisole was never lowered enough to cover my breasts, and the heated steel my chest is pressed against feels surprisingly good against my sensitive nipples.
“Get her off,” Dawson says offhandedly, “and then we’ll talk business.”
I am so turned on that I’m not as repulsed as I should be by his request. I only crave relief. Still, I hate that this wicked old pervert will watch me come undone. I close my eyes and try to pretend it’s just me and Farren. When he slips his fingers into me, I tighten around him and let out a moan.
“She likes it already.” Dawson laughs.
Shut up, I think, shut up. I wish I could kill Dawson. I think Farren wishes he could kill him, too, as his movements become rougher and harsher. But Farren is still skilled enough with his fingers that I’m soon rocking my hips with the pace he sets.
I forget we’re not alone. I writhe on the hood of the limo as Farren works my clit with his thumb. When he twists his fingers, two of which are inside of me, in just the right way, I come.
Once my orgasm subsides and I am no longer aroused, I start to cry.
Farren lifts my limp body off the hood and slips my panties and shorts back up my legs. Quickly, he reclasps my bra and lowers my camisole completely.
