He doesn’t stop me like he did last night, doesn’t grab me and silence me with that special mix of passion and violence that he wears so well. He probably doesn’t feel like dealing with me, has better things to worry about, but his lack of response to my accusations pokes at an all-too-familiar wound. He’s not shutting me up because what I’m saying is true. I am just a piece of ass to him. A complicated, twisted, lots-of-strings-attached piece of ass. And damn if I didn’t make it easy for him. He didn’t even have to try, I spread my legs wide open for him at the first opportunity, and have continued to do so even as our situation gets more and more fucked up. I was an idiot to believe I would ever be more than a toy to him. Tears prick at my eyes, and I should walk away, get out of here before things get worse, but some dark, self-despising part of myself has been activated. So I do the only thing that could make me hate myself more than I already do in this moment.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” I say steadily, my shaking hands reaching out and hooking on the waistband of his jeans. His hands fly up at the sudden movement, but don’t reach to stop me as I unfasten the button and tug at the zipper. “This is all you want from me. Other than my money, of course, but a fistful of hundred dollar bills doesn’t make your cock quite feel this good.” He’s opening his mouth to speak now, but I can’t bear to hear what he has to say, what pathetic excuses he’ll make to assuage my feelings, or worse, the admissions that I’m correct. His lips clamp shut and he swallows hard as my fist closes around his shaft, already beginning to harden. I stroke him gently, swallowing back the butterflies that begin to swarm in my belly as I feel him swell in my hand. Anyone could walk in on us here: Kate, Miel, the guys. But it’s too late to stop now. I’m already lowering to the ground, pulling his cock all the way out of his jeans. “You never wanted me by your side. You just want me like this, on my knees.”
I don’t take him in my mouth immediately, gulping hard at the sight of the thick member I’m suddenly face to face with. I remember the feeling of it inside me, stretching my inner walls to their limit. My throat hurts already, imagining taking the full length of him. Instead, I start slow, licking his pink head gently. It’s already wet with precum, the taste warm and salty on my tongue. I hear him inhale sharply at the touch, but he still remains stubbornly immobile. I go in again, slower, longer this time. On the third time, I part my lips and take him in my mouth. His flesh is velvety and smooth, and without quite meaning to, my hand reaches up to cup his balls as my mouth works his shaft. This time he groans, a visceral and erotic sound. His hand knots around my hair, not violently, but a possessive motion that makes my hips squirm. Even now, lost in outrage and heartbreak, with his cock filling my throat, he awakens something heated and dangerous deep within me, something I’ve never felt before.
“Fuck, princesa. Just like that,” he murmurs, but I can barely hear him over the rush of blood in my ears and the thrumming of the washer behind us. He keeps his grip tight on my hair, but doesn’t fuck my mouth. He lets me lead, lets me control the depth, rhythm, speed. He cues me with moans, murmurs, and caresses, each gentle touch or sharp squeeze making my heartbeat escalate. Inexplicably, I feel more power in this moment, down on my knees in submission, than I have in months. Not because I could bite down at any moment and ruin his whole life—although the thought does flit across my mind for the briefest of moments, a survival instinct deep inside me that still holds out hope for escape, or at least vengeance. No, it’s the way he moans my name that makes me feel like I’m a queen in my own right, not just the captive heiress of a meaningless title, a figurehead capable of nothing but looking pretty in a crown. I have all the control in this moment, not of his pain or punishment, but of his ultimate pleasure. When his hot seed coats the back of my throat, I swallow it down greedily, luxuriating in the sound of his heavy panting and the lingering touch of his hand in my hair. For a moment, one bittersweet, senseless moment, I let myself believe that there is hope for me, for us, after all.
Miel was really fucking pissed when I told her we’d be going with Selina’s option over hers after all. She accused me of being swayed by my dick, which while not incorrect, isn’t the whole truth. The thing is, I decided that Selina’s suggestion was the best course of action from the start. I just wasn’t going to let her know that, of course. An asshole move, sure, but the last thing my little captive needs is to start growing an ego. She’ll belong in my world, I’ll make sure of that, but she can’t have it that easily. And sure, maybe part of me likes it when she’s pissed at me. It’s fucked up, but I love the way her eyes flash at me in fury, the way she bites her red lips when she’s trying not to say whatever she’s inevitably going to say anyway. I must’ve gotten very lucky today, because I didn’t just get that, I got my princess on her knees, sucking me off so artfully I almost forgot she hates me.
And she sure fucking hates me. Her little speech made that infinitely clear. She’s wrong, though. Of course this isn’t just about me wanting to get laid. Taking her was an arduous ordeal, one that cost me everything I’d ever known. Keeping her might cost me my life. No pussy is worth that much trouble. No, my so-called obsession with her goes so much deeper, is so much darker. I wonder, if I told her, if the truth would make her feel better or a lot worse.
I should have told her something, even a lie, to make her feel better, to help her realize that her fears are unfounded. That’s what a good guy would have done, a guy who deserves a girl like that on her knees. But a man like me, a man who wants her shattered into pieces, wants her dark and twisted, feeds off her panic. The harder she breaks, the easier it will be to put her pieces back into something that can belong to me.
God, that damn mouth, though. The passing memory alone is enough to bring me to half-mast, even sitting here in Atlanta traffic. If I knew how good it would feel, when she finally stopped talking back and put those lips to good use, I would’ve hurt her feelings a lot sooner.
“Javi, what the fuck?” Miel says next to me, and for a moment I fear she’s seen the hardening bulge in my pants. But no, she’s gesturing at the open road ahead of us, traffic finally clearing. “Fucking go.”
I fucking go, swerving around a few slower vehicles. We’ve lost enough time already. I can sense Miel’s nerves, and they’re becoming contagious with each passing moment we’re stuck in this metal box together. Miel is a loose cannon when she’s nervous, and I’m beginning to wonder if her increasing anxiety might lead to a dead body on our hands after all. My friend’s philosophy has always been to hurt before being hurt, to kill before being killed. It keeps her alive, but creates more messes for me to clean up. I’m in no mood to be handed one more mess this year.
We pull up at Kevin Hopkins’s apartment complex with about twenty minutes left before the sun goes down, making things twice as dangerous. I haven’t been here in a couple months, having handed off the daily upkeep of our secondary business to Miel once I took over Café Palacios. I take a parking spot by the rusted staircase, and Miel and I step out of the Hummer in sync, the slam of the heavy doors echoing across the empty lot. Well, mostly empty. Just like Miel reported, there’s another car just across the parking lot, and though the windows are tinted I can see two silhouettes sitting in wait, staring at us. I don’t need to see their faces to know who it is. Like Annie said, I’m assuming they look a lot like me, down to the tattoos on their arms.
“Go up,” I tell Miel, walking around the back of the car. “Don’t worry, but make it quick.”
Miel’s eyes beg to ask if I’m sure, but she doesn’t let her apprehension translate to her face. She just nods and takes the stairs two at a time, the gait showing off the Glock tucked into her waistband.
Keeping my own face stony, I lean against the side of the Hummer that faces the other car, a cheap sedan. I cross my arms, pulling up the hem of my leather jacket with the motion and revealing my own weapon. Well, one of several I have on my body right now, not to mention the backup artillery in our trunk. I just stand there, star
ing down the men in the sedan, and they just stare back. Fuck. This is more stressful than if we just had a gunfight in this Decatur Heights parking lot and got it over with. I wait for them to step out of the car, point their weapons at me, or at least issue a direct threat. They don’t. They just wait and watch, until Miel bounds back down the stairway and we climb back into our car. I don’t speak until we’re back on the highway, and my heart rate has come back down to a speed that might not kill me.
“Why wouldn’t they just take me?” I ask Miel, who turns her face my way, brows knitting up. “If they’re not under orders to kill, or at least take me, what are they doing?”
“It’s just intimidation,” Miel says, looking more worried with me than with the situation. “He just wants us to know he knows where to find us.”
“Then why not stake out the estate?” I ask, mostly to myself. “Since the engagement announcement, he’s known to find us there, too.”
“Too many police,” Miel answers easily. That’s been worrying her, too, even knowing that the APD is firmly under our thumb now, not exactly a willing ally but no longer our enemy.
“It’s going to be bad,” I say, admitting the inevitable. “When he does take me, take Selina, it’s going to be so much worse than death. That’s why he has his men under orders not to even engage. He doesn’t want to risk a fast death for me.”
“If,” Miel corrects me, fidgeting in her seat. She’s not usually the one not jumping to the worst-case scenario. “They’re not going to take either of you, you’ve made sure of that. You’re too good, and Selina, well, she’s got a dozen men on her at any given moment.”
I don’t love that phrasing, but she’s not wrong. With my own team, as well as the police backup, my pretty captive is better guarded than ever before. Still, it’s not enough.
“Double the security for the wedding,” I say, taking the exit toward Johns Creek.
“Impossible,” Miel says. “We already have as many officers as they can spare, and then some.”
“Get H to find more hires from the private sector,” I tell her. “Hell, I’ll take mall cops. The more bodies to shoot through to get to us, the better.”
Miel says nothing, but she’ll follow orders. Hopefully not too well, though. I don’t actually want mall cops at my wedding.
“I wish I could just lock her up, keep her completely hidden,” I say, and I don’t realize I voiced the thought aloud until I hear it. I do, though. I wish I could keep my princess in a golden box, hopelessly captive but utterly hidden from the demons of my past. It’s the only way she’d be truly safe.
“You know you can’t,” Miel says unnecessarily. Of course I know that. I appreciate that she doesn’t accompany it with some sort of dig, a probing comment about the nature of my relationship with our captive, a mocking accusation of me caring too much. “If you’re so worried about her, why don’t you arm her? Her wings seem plenty clipped lately. I think we could trust her with a switchblade or something, just so she has a hope of defending herself, if it comes down to it.”
“It won’t come down to that,” I say confidently. “And I’m not arming her in any way. She’s not ready for that.”
The fact is, my pretty captive will only need me as long as I’m her only protector, her only hope against our dark enemies. If I let her start calling shots, or give her any way to defend herself, she’ll leave. Maybe not now, and maybe she’ll never be strong enough to escape us, but as long as she feels capable, she’ll never let herself be fully mine. I need her broken and scared, and I don’t care if that makes me a selfish bastard. I’ll do whatever it takes to own Selina Palacios.
The wedding dress came in today, delivered with enough pomp and flair to make a celebrity blush. Kate and Miel help me carry the delicate garment into my walk-in, where I quickly shimmy out of my t-shirt and jeans. Kate helps me pull on the gown practicedly, just as she’s helped me put on countless elegant dresses over the years. This is the first time it’s ever made her tear up, though.
“Your mother would be so proud,” Kate says, holding her chin in her hands, blinking back the moisture in her eyes. She doesn’t mean the words to hit me like a sucker punch, of course, but they do. My mother would be ashamed of me. My mother was a strong, independent woman, as cliché as that phrase may be, and as misguided as her intentions may have turned out to be. She would have died before letting herself be taken hostage like this, and she certainly wouldn’t have let the situation escalate this far.
Miel steps in to help me fasten the back, and we all examine my reflection in the mirror. The dress is fitted perfectly, the skirt clinging to my hips in all the right places, the bejeweled silver capelet draping just so over my shoulders, which pull back straighter almost instinctively. This might look like a queen’s gown, but it fits like soldier’s armor.
“Such a beautiful bride,” Kate goes on.
“Thank you,” I say, pulling my hair up into a messy bun to show the collarpiece off better. “I don’t know how Mom would feel about my choice of groom, though. She always said she pictured me ending up with Teddy Harrington.”
“She said that when you were ten?” Miel asks skeptically.
“Well, she started saying it when I was six,” I say, fingering a loose thread by my left knee. My mother would have demanded a refund for such a flaw, would have been ranting about it for weeks.
“Your mother would have just been happy to see you settling down,” Kate says, and I shift in my stilettos. Sure, I might be leaving my partying days behind, but I’m not sure my new life of crime counts as settling down. “A woman needs a husband to take care of her.”
Well, I don’t know if that’s what my mother would have said, or what Kate herself is saying. My mother married my father to piss her own parents off, and though I don’t doubt they were in love, at least in the beginning, that love turned into a lot of tears and yelling over the years. Knowing what I do now about the kind of pressure they were dealing with, being involved in a life of crime themselves, I think I might understand that a bit better. Turning our family’s business into a drug front tore them apart, and now, taking it back again is bringing me and my unexpected husband closer together. We just have to survive the decision.
“Kate, can you get us some drinks to celebrate?” I ask, and I see Miel cut me a look in the floor-length mirror. “Just tea is fine.”
Kate nods and scurries off, wiping at her eyes as she exits the closet. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe easily around her, let alone speak. I’m glad she’s free from Vega’s captivity, although she walked right into another cage, one she isn’t even aware of. And I’m happy to have her with me, but it’s not the way I thought it would be. I guess I foolishly believed that she could take care of me again, like she used to when I was younger, but this isn’t a breakup or a hangover she can nurse me through. Now, she’s just one more person I have to be wary of, tiptoeing around truths when I speak to her, constantly worried about what harm could befall her just for living in this house. I don’t know how much longer I can keep her safe from the reality of our new world, and I don’t know how to live with her while I wait for the other shoe to drop.
“What’s up?” Miel asks, taking a seat on the ottoman to my right. “You have a face.”
“Of course I have a face,” I say, turning to look at my reflection from the side.
“A face like you want to ask me something,” Miel clarifies. “And you sent that old bat away, so I guess it’s something bad.”
“Don’t call her that,” I say placidly. The truth is, Kate has made her dislike of Miel fairly clear, and I probably should be grateful Miel hasn’t done more in response than call her names.
“Just fucking ask me whatever it is,” Miel says impatiently. I sigh and turn to face her directly.
“Am I really going to get my skin carved off?” I ask, the words tumbling out in a slur.
“No, of course not,” Miel says quickly, and I wish I could say she sounds convinc
ing. “I’m sorry I said that, I didn’t mean to freak you out. I was just… I don’t know.”
“But, it’s still going to be bad, right?” I ask, growing uncomfortable with the prolonged eye contact and turning back to the mirror. “If Vega can’t stop him, or protect me.”
“You shouldn’t worry about that,” Miel says, which sounds a lot like an affirmation. I wish everyone would stop saying that to me. How the hell am I supposed to not worry, when I’m now no longer collateral damage but directly in the line of fire, and the only person on the team wholly incapable of defending themselves? “Javi is taking care of everything.”
The first time I tried on this dress, it made me want to be strong. It made me want to fight for myself, even if that meant fighting beside my captors instead of against them. And then what? All I’ve done since then is piss off Isla del Rey and blow my husband in the laundry room.
“Teach me to fight,” I say impulsively, turning back to face Miel. “Just, like, basic self defense. How to throw a punch, how to dodge one… how to shoot a gun.”
Alright, maybe that last one isn’t basic self defense, but I don’t think a knee to the balls will be quite enough to fend off the monsters we’re dealing with. Miel looks taken aback by my question, and about as apprehensive as I would expect.
“I’m not going to use it against y’all, I swear,” I say. Not yet, anyway. “I just… I’m scared, Miel, and I want to be able to defend myself if I have to, or at least try to.”
Caged: The Complete Trilogy Page 25
