BOUND

by Akeroyd, Serena

  He didn't seem to understand that a person couldn't be arrested for murder when there was no proof that a murder even happened!

  Jerk off.

  This place was full of the old guard. Men in their fifties and early sixties who thought they knew everything but, really, knew jack shit.

  Just like her father.

  Refusing to spoil her mood on thoughts of dear old dad, she burrowed deep into her work. Researching the history of the tomato and ketchup, as well as discussing the differences between that and catsup, she finished her double page spread on the General Store's naughtiness. The pictures she included in the paper were never of that great a quality, but folk seemed to revel in them regardless.

  Deciding that tomorrow she'd drive into Rapid City and buy a few different brands of ketchup and do a taste panel on which was best, she got started on another section of the paper—her opinion column. This was her place to rant and rave, and this week, she surely did.

  Poor ol' Ramsay would be hating her by the end of her tirade on the idiocy of the local sheriff's department.

  It was the least he deserved. Joanie was a prick, but still, Ramsay's incompetence triggered her irritation. Which was the most she ever really felt.

  The numerous shrinks she'd had over the years had tried and failed to label her. She was a convoluted mixture. Detached and dissociative, aggressive and violent. They'd slapped PTSD on her shoulders, figuring that covered it all, but she knew it wasn't just PTSD. A part of her wondered if she'd ever been normal.

  She felt very little. Never had felt all that much. She'd always found it hard to make connections with people, and if she did, it was usually because something about them facilitated something she wanted. Manipulative, selfish, they were all things she could be labeled. Somewhere along the line, maybe because of Josiah or long before he'd gotten his hands on her, something in her brain had twisted, gone awry, and what should have made her afraid, what should have had her approaching a situation with caution, didn't make her flinch.

  She'd always wondered if that was why her mother didn't like her.

  Mothers always knew, didn't they?

  They knew if they'd given birth to a bad egg.

  Before all the shrinks, she'd never really questioned it. Her mother just hadn't had the time for her, and she'd accepted that. But after all the psychobabble, she had to wonder if there was a fundamental reason for it.

  She had to wonder if Josiah had fucked her up or if it had been inside her all the time.

  Lucia had, after all, turned the tables on a psychopath. Who could do that? And who could come out of that situation alive?

  Maybe her mother was right to dislike her. Lucia didn't like herself all that much either. Which was why it was odd that Martinez had wanted her in the first place. Things like that didn't happen to her. People didn't like her. But then, he didn't have to like her to want her, did he?

  After Josiah, she'd realized, in a sense, she was fearless. Not because she was brave or valiant. Not for any nice reason, but simply because too much had happened to her to be afraid by the minutiae of life.

  And yet, she feared Martinez, and that fear was unusual. In a way, she embraced what he made her feel, because to feel at all was a wonderful, wonderful thing.

  She pursed her lips at the thought, reached for her warm bottle of coke, and took a large sip. The metallic taste was bitter in her mouth, but she shrugged it off, deciding to stop wasting time thinking about herself—because that was always a waste—and to get on with her work.

  So work, she did.

  Only, halfway through her rant on Ramsay's incompetence, the buzzer on her door sounded. Saving her column, she got to her feet and peered through the peephole upon reaching the door. Spying Jessie, she opened it and asked, “What the hell do you want?”

  Jessie rolled her eyes. “Anyone ever tell you, that you know how to make a body feel welcome?”

  “I'm busy, and the storefront is closed.”

  “Yeah, well, I've got news for you.”

  “It's too late for this week's edition.”

  Her blond hair fell onto her forehead, and with a huff, she pushed it behind her ear. “This is more than just for the paper. Marjorie's back.”

  Eva smiled, her glee at Ramsay's stupidity more than evident. “She is?”

  Jessie cocked a brow. “Thought that would cheer you up. But, yeah. She came stumbling into the diner an hour ago.”

  “Shit. I wish I'd been there. What the hell happened to her?”

  “You know that fool dog of hers?”

  “No.” Eva shook her head. “Didn't even know she had a pet until Deputy Dick mentioned someone called Dimwit. Seeing as he wasn't talking about himself… I put two and two together.”

  Jessie pursed her lips, but Eva knew she was withholding a grin. “She took it for a walk, tripped on the leash, fell head over ass down a ravine, and has spent the last three days trying to get out of it.”

  She chuckled. “I know that's not very Christian of me, but I'm just wondering how in the hell Ramsay's going to feel when he lets Joanie out of jail.”

  “He's out, and he's pissed.”

  “I'll bet pissed isn't the word.” She grinned. “You just made my day. Although, I wish like hell I'd been around to see it. The first time in ages I don't come in for dinner and the shit hits the fan.”

  Jessie winked. “I come bearing gifts.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Check your email.”

  “You didn't.” Eva clapped her hands. “You sent me the video?”

  Jessie nodded, grinning widely. “I'll leave you to your fun.”

  “You're a doll!” She made to close the door. “I'll see you in the morning.”

  Jessie waved and headed back out on the street. Eva locked up behind her, sliding the double bolts in place. As she made to turn, a whoosh of air was the only clue she had.

  A fist slammed into her temple then agonizing pain ricocheted through her skull. Try as she might, blackness blinded her before she even had a chance to look her attacker in the face. Her legs gave way, and conscience thought disappeared without a trace.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You. Did. What?”

  Red flag to a bull. That was the only way to describe it. A red fucking rag to a pissed off bull.

  Martinez could feel his blood start to boil as Montoya trembled before him. To say the man's knees knocked was an understatement. He'd have torn the man limb from fucking limb if the bastard hadn't thought he was doing something for the good of the Lobos.

  “In future, don't fucking think. Don't even fucking breathe without permission. Do you understand me?” Martinez grated out, wishing like hell the limo would hurry the fuck up and take them to the property he'd had Juan rent out on the outskirts of the city Eva lived in. A shit heap called Darmon or something.

  Montoya nodded meekly, but that wasn't apology enough.

  “Tell me Hernandez is with her.”

  “Sí, jefe, he's there. He’s just not answering his phone.”

  Martinez scrubbed a hand over his face, tried Hernandez’s number once more, then roared when there was still no answer. “If she's hurt in any way by the time we get to her, your balls are mine. Do you understand me? What the hell possessed you?”

  “I thought...” Montoya shrugged, his shoulders cowering when Martinez bellowed at that. “We wanted to please you.”

  “You wanted to please me by abducting one of our gang?”

  “She escaped. She left. She's not a loba anymore.”

  “Says who?” he growled. “I'm the one who makes that decision, and I haven't said jackshit about her not being a part of the gang anymore. Juan,” he called out to the front of the car. “—tell me we're close.”

  “Fifteen minutes away.”

  “Fuck,” Martinez swore. “How long is it since you took her?”

  Montoya grimaced. “Four hours.”

  “And she's been tied up since then?”


  “We haven't touched her, jefe. We just wanted to make sure she was ready to talk to you.”

  Rage bloomed through Martinez's chest like an A bomb ready to detonate. “Stop the car.” When Juan looked back, a startled frown on his face, Martinez ground out, “Stop the fucking car.”

  “We're on a highway! I can't just pull over.”

  “I don't fucking care. Get this idiot out of my goddamn sight.”

  Apparently realizing how serious he was, Juan quickly complied. To the chorus of hoots and beeps, he pulled over and Martinez stated, “Either get out or I'll fucking kick you out.”

  “B-But, jefe, where am I supposed to go?”

  “I don't give a shit. In fact, yes, I do. Go back to HQ and wait for my orders. Do you understand me? Is there something in there that doesn't compute?”

  “Jefe, hurry. This is a dangerous place to pull over.”

  “You heard the man. Fuck off, Montoya.” As he scrambled out of the limo, Martinez growled out, “If you've been lying to me and you've touched her, I'll fucking knife you in the guts myself.”

  The sheen of sweat loading the other man's brow had Martinez's stomach twisting. Whether that meant Hernandez had been having some fun at the expense of his captive, he didn't know.

  But Montoya nodded before fleeing the flurry of oncoming cars, and Martinez slammed the door shut. “Go,” he ordered, watching, detached, as Juan broke countless laws to take them back into the flow of the traffic. “I don't care how fast you have to speed, get me to that house ASAP.”

  Juan nodded, grimness etched onto his face.

  “Did you know about this?”

  “You think after I saw her file I'd have them kidnap her?” he bit out, his own anger flaring outward.

  Martinez sucked in a breath and shook his head. “They'd better not have hurt her.”

  “Hernandez knows better.”

  “He'd fucking better.” He dialed Hernandez's number again, only to get the beep of a cell out of service. “How did this get so fucked up so quickly?”

  “They wanted to please you. They all want to please you.”

  “Goddammit, they think pleasing me consists of kidnapping women?”

  “In fairness, she's a loba. And she did go AWOL.”

  “Let it be known that the best way to please me is to stay the fuck out of my personal business. They knew I took her to my quarters, they know that makes her mine.”

  “All the more reason to try to please you, jefe. Let's face it, Montoya's brother, Bernardo, was the one who let her walk out of there, even though I told him to keep the place on lock down.”

  Martinez shook his head. “I don't want to talk about this. Just concentrate on getting me there as quickly as fucking possible.”

  He thought of what he'd read last night, the files that had kept him awake, unable to sleep, unable to stop reading. Needing desperately to know what made Eva tick, the discovery of what that was made his heart sick, and knowing that his own men had tied her up infuriated him all the more.

  She'd been tied up at the mercy of a sick bastard for over six weeks. Tied up, tied down, raped, cut, tortured, burned. No wonder she'd turned the tables on him. No wonder she hadn't been able to hand him control. And no wonder she'd fought Matteo, railing against Rico's treatment of their girls.

  Fifteen minutes until he could release her.

  It killed him. Literally, knifed him in the belly.

  He felt the limo speed up around him, at a pace that had all the fixtures and fittings starting to quiver. He didn't care. He just needed to get there. To her.

  It was with a sigh of relief that the car turned off the highway and started down a byroad. The car's suspension had a real workout, but it couldn't make him feel any sicker than the prospect of what he was about to face at the property he'd rented.

  He'd come here with the intention of bending Eva to his will. Of making her pay for trying, and succeeding, to dominate him. Now, that plan was all messed up.

  Reading those files, seeing what she'd faced, he'd had a choice to make. And he'd realized he was too selfish, too entwined in her power to let her go.

  After what she'd been through, he knew he either had to relinquish control to be with her, or he had to walk away.

  The prospect of never seeing her again...it had been too hard to bear, and that was why he was here. Why he'd gone through with the flight.

  In the seventeen years of running Los Lobos Rojos, Martinez hadn't been able to display a single weakness. To be weak was to be annihilated. It was bad enough that most of his business partners had known what a big deal his family was to him. He'd dealt with countless blackmail attempts, abductions, and hijackings...all in an attempt to make him bow down to someone else.

  In all those years, he'd had to be strong. The notion of relinquishing control, of handing it over to someone else...well, it would be a learning curve.

  A fucking hard one.

  But, early this morning, when he'd read the last file on the ‘Josiah’ serial murder case, when he'd looked over the copies of the evidence, the knives the bastard had used, come to terms with what Eva had had to do to escape, he'd realized that it was either take the learning curve or say farewell.

  But now this.

  He'd intended on going to her, olive branch in hand. An attempt at friendship first. A meeting to tell her that she needn't live in fear of him or his reprisals anymore.

  Instead, she was tied up, most likely terrified, and waiting for shit to hit the fan.

  When the car pulled up outside a large ranch house, he leaped out of the vehicle while it was still moving slowly, and headed up the walkway toward the front door. It opened the second the car's brakes sounded and Hernandez stood there, a worried frown on his face. And so he should be worried.

  “Were you ignoring my calls?” he roared.

  “No, jefe!”

  “Where the fuck is she?”

  He blanched. “The master bedroom.”

  “You’d better not have harmed her,” Martinez warned as he strode past.

  “She's okay,” he mumbled as he quickened his pace to stay at Martinez's side. He rushed a few steps ahead, guiding his jefe toward the correct bedroom.

  “She’d better be, or it's on your head.”

  When Hernandez stopped outside a closed door, Martinez jerked his head to the side in dismissal. Before he slinked away, Hernandez held out a hand. A move that had Martinez sucking in a deep breath when he saw the knife and glowering at Hernandez before he opened the door and took a step inside.

  The lights were on, and Eva was bundled up with rope. In the center of the bed, she was curled into a fetal position. From her bindings, he could see that was by choice rather than force. He approached the bed, every bit of his focus on her, on the tension that invaded her shoulders, on the stiffness of her limbs.

  He ached for her. His heart wept for the strength it took to remain there, frozen, not a word escaping her mouth. One of the girls she'd saved, Josiah's last victim, had said in her report how no matter what the bastard did to her, Eva hadn't said a word. She hadn't cried out, she hadn't jerked in pain.

  The woman, Victoria, had said Josiah was attached to her because of that. Because of the strength of will it took to remain silent, stubbornly soundless when a motherfucker pressed a knife to her skin and sliced deeply.

  If the bastard hadn't been murdered in jail, Martinez would have set someone on his ass. He wouldn't have survived the goddamn night. Hell, he wished he could do something so proactive. As it was, he had no one, nothing he could do to make this right.

  Apart from try to heal a woman who didn't particularly want to be healed.

  He approached the side of the bed, taking care to tuck the knife in his pocket, and kneeled down beside her, so she could see him without straining her neck.

  “This was a mistake,” he whispered, his voice hoarse enough to surprise even him. “I never asked for this. I never requested it. Montoya took it on himself becau
se his brother let you go that night. He thought it would please me to have you ready on my arrival. I swear to God, I didn't plan this.”

  Her eyes were closed, but at his words, she opened them. The black pit within those beautiful golden orbs had him shaking. There were horrors within those irises. Terror and fear, rage and wrath. It was like looking into Pandora's box and fearing what the outcome would be for daring to open such a tidal wave of darkness onto the world.

  He sucked in a breath and whispered, “I'm going to let you go. I have a knife, but I'm not going to cut you. I'm not going to hurt you. When I let you free, if you want to step outside of this bedroom, you can. If you want to run off, you can. My limo is in the yard, and Juan will take you anywhere you want to go. Do you understand me?”

  Slowly, she nodded.

  “You're not a prisoner. You're free to go.” He held up his hands in a mock-surrender then reached for the knife he'd stowed away in his pocket. “I'm reaching for my knife. I'm not going to hurt you with it. Do you understand?”

  Another slow nod.

  He moved around the bed, rested a knee on the mattress, careful not to disturb her positioning and cause her undue pain. He cut the bindings, wincing at the tautness of the grip, at the reddened flesh underneath. He loosened her wrists then the ties at her feet, finally cutting the rope that connected the two together.

  When she was free, he moved away from the bed, not wanting her to feel crowded.

  “You know, don't you?” she murmured, her voice worryingly blank. She turned onto her back, before slowly moving into a sitting position. He saw the pain on her face, but she quickly shielded it. “You know about Josiah.”

  How could he lie? “Yeah, I know,” he replied, his voice still a croak.

  She worried her lower lip with her teeth. “That's the only reason you're being gentle with me. It's always the only reason people are gentle with me.”

  He frowned. “You'd rather I yelled at you? Shouted?”

  “I didn't want you to know,” she replied. The emotion in her eyes disappeared, replaced with a harrowing blankness that cut him more than her rage could have done. “I never want anyone to know.”