I don’t have time to question the gesture, because one of the men finally sees me, and shouts at the others.
Shit shit shit. What the fuck was I thinking? I can’t save Miel. Most likely, I can’t even save myself.
Still, I fire at the closest man, the bullet missing his ear by an inch and harmlessly hitting the cracked pavement a few feet behind him.
I’m still as useless as I’ve ever been, but infinitely more stupid. Just because I share a bed with a criminal doesn’t make me a mob queen. Why was I ever foolish enough to think I was capable of joining the fight? Javier was right to have wanted me out of his way. Maybe I deserve—
Something blazes past my shoulder, and hits the guy in front of me just as he’s about to reach me. I look behind me—another stupid move—and see my babysitter, holding some kind of rifle that is much bigger and scarier looking than the handgun I’m essentially wearing as an accessory.
Focus, Selina. Fucking focus!
I turn back to the approaching baddies, adjusting my grip on my own weapon. One of the guys that was manhandling Miel is reaching for his gun, and I take aim at him. I don’t think I’m a good enough shot to kill anyone from this distance if I tried, but even so, I find myself taking care to avoid the head, heart, and other deadly bits. If I can just hit an arm or leg, that will slow him down plenty, right? I pull the trigger, and, hell yeah, my target winces and jerks back, grabbing at his left shoulder. I feel a proud grin tugging at the corners of my mouth, but that seems inappropriate, so I turn my attention to the car. The back door is slamming shut, and through the tinted windows I imagine I can see the mystery woman looking back out at me as Miel struggles against her captors, but then there’s the screech of tires and they’re gone.
Miel is gone. Whatever it was I was hoping to do for her, it’s too late now. What’s going to happen to my friend? Will they torture her to try and get to me, or just—
Oh shit. While I was distracted by my failures, the guy I shot recovered enough to grab his pistol with his good hand, and it’s pointed directly at me, trigger finger already pulled tight. I’m paralyzed, imagining the hot sting of the bullet as it pierces me. It’s worse now, knowing exactly how much it will hurt. Assuming it doesn’t kill me on impact, that is.
And then I’m hitting the ground, grunting as the wind is knocked out of me, wincing at the sharp pain of my forearms scraping against the concrete. But the bullet didn’t hit me, it hit…
“Javier!” I scramble to my knees at the sight of my husband’s body in front of me, only barely registering the stream of gunfire that takes down his shooter. Javier’s face looks dazed, his bulky body appearing smaller than usual sprawled out on the asphalt.
Blood. Blood.
Inhale, exhale. I shove aside the circling flashback and pull open his leather jacket. I’m bracing myself for the familiar sight of blood spreading across his shirt, pooling under him and warming my knees, but all I find is the black bulletproof vest I insisted he wear.
He didn’t want to, but I said I’d only wear mine if he wore one too.
“Princesa, don’t cry,” Javier groans, and I suddenly feel the wetness on my cheeks, the heaving panic in my chest. But my captor, my husband, he’s fine. He’s grimacing as he pushes up to a seated position, but he’s fine. I rip open the vest and jerk his shirt up, but there’s only a bright red mark on his chest, sure to bloom into a dark bruise over the next few hours. No wound. No blood.
“You could have died,” I say, accusatory, as I let his shirt drop back into place. That bullet was meant for me, but he pushed me aside and took it himself. Why would he do that?
“What else was I supposed to do?” Javier says, voice still gruff and winded as he takes my shaking hands in his, and I find myself leaning into him without prompting. “I told you, Selina. I’ll never let anyone hurt you. I promised.”
I’m crying again, sobbing into his shoulder, my feelings more tangled than they’ve ever been, but one truth beating bright at the center of that knot.
Javier Vega will do anything to protect me. Anything.
My husband may not know it yet, but he loves me.
The way he loves me is sick, twisted, deep and dark, but it’s the only way he knows.
That’s why he chose to shoot Max that night, and to kidnap me last summer. To take that bullet today.
Because he loves me, more than anyone’s been loved before.
It’s fucked up, so dark I’m not sure I understand it myself, but…
It’s enough.
It’s enough to break the flimsy dam in my heart that’s been trying so hard to keep him out, to silence the voices screaming at me to run away from this dangerous man.
It’s enough to make me stay.
Javier and I, we’ve lived, we’ve killed, and we’ve nearly died for each other.
I didn’t know it would hurt so much, but I got the love I wanted after all.
Fuck.
Fucking fuck fuck.
That could not have gone worse.
If Miel were here, she’d give me one of those unbearable I-told-you-so looks, but, of course, she’s not here. They took her. He took her, and god knows what he’ll do to her.
FUCK.
Hernando is dead, Brock is missing a leg, and Miel is in the hands of the enemy.
There’s always been the risk of collateral damage, but somehow, it tastes a bit more bitter when you’re the one calling the shots, the one responsible for who does and doesn’t make it through the night.
I’ll sacrifice anything to keep Selina safe, but that doesn’t mean the sacrifices won’t hurt.
“Hold still,” my pretty wife says, pushing me back against leather upholstery. The bodyguard is in the front, hastily driving us in the general direction of “away,” while Selina plays nurse on me in the backseat. It’s not as fun as it sounds.
“I’m fine,” I try to say for the umpteenth time, but when she’s unbuttoning my shirt, a slight tremor in those cold fingers, it’s impossible to deny her.
She spreads the shirt open, her hands hovering just above my skin, making it goosepimple. She inhales sharply as she takes in the damage, but there’s relief in her eyes. Instead of a gaping bullet wound, there’s only a burning patch of red. Half my chest will be black-and-blue by morning, but it’s better than a body bag.
Satisfied that I’ll pull through, Selina rebuttons my shirt, taking care not to apply any pressure to my damaged flesh. I silently will her to touch me, beg for the sweet sting of her hands on my body. She’s my anchor in the chaos, her wide eyes the only thing keeping me centered in this moment. If this was the kind of car that had a partition, I’d be on her already, fuck the pain.
“What are we going to do?” She asks, voice low and worried. I don’t have to ask what she means. There’s so much left to do: rescue Miel, kill El Sombrerón, take our kingdom back. In this moment, defeat heavy in my lungs, it feels like all we’ve been doing for the past year is playing pretend, buzzing around the enemy like gnats. Annoying, but easily eliminated.
“We need to rest, regroup,” I say. We can’t solve any of our other problems in this condition, though I’m tempted to try.
“And where are we supposed to do that?” Selina asks, stating the obvious. The mansion in uninhabitable, not to mention no longer safe. Hotels aren’t safe either, not if Andrews found us so quickly. And any of the old hiding spots I used to know, El Sombrerón’s men will know too.
“We could go to the del Reys,” Selina suggests cautiously, glancing at the bodyguard. “They probably won’t think to look for us there, and if they do, there’s plenty of security. And it’d only be for a night or two, anyway.”
She’s right, we no longer have the luxury of time. If we don’t act soon, we’ll be dead by the end of the week. Whatever we do, it’s now or never.
“Good idea,” I say, sitting up a little straighter, hiding the wince that ensues. “We can use our leverage to push on Mateo, get him to let us in.”
> “Or we can just ask Isla nicely,” my princesa says, in that delightful lilt of hers that conveys both haughtiness and nerves. Most people don’t see past the facade of condescension, but I do. I know Selina Palacios like I know the streets of this city. I’ve memorized every corner, every shadow, every crack in the asphalt. I know her without thinking, in a way that I can never forget. I see each of her intersections, and I see the individual beauty in each, as well as the chaotic perfection of her as a whole.
For a heartbeat, I consider sweeping Selina off to safety on a distant island, leaving everything else behind. Leaving everyone else behind. That’d be the smart thing to do, probably. A survivor’s move. But if I abandoned my people, abandoned my mission, it wouldn’t really be me that survived. And if Selina agreed to that plan, she wouldn’t be the woman I fell in—
Fuck.
Fucking fuck fuck.
That’s just the adrenaline talking, I tell myself, pulling away from my wife slightly. I need a good night’s sleep, I’m clearly not thinking straight.
“Take us to Johns Creek,” I bark at the driver, then turn back to Selina. “I’ll follow your lead, princesa.”
When we show up on Isla’s doorstep, looking like a mess and a half, she just smiles gently and lets us in. Over tea—preceded by shots of tequila and hearty sandwiches—I tell my frenemy everything. Well, an incredibly abbreviated version of everything. It’s a long fucking story, and all I want right now is a hot shower and to collapse into bed. Through it all, Isla simply listens with an unperturbed look on her face. I expected a little more pettiness, considering that she saw right through our facade from the start, and I threw her selfless offer to help back in her face. I’m relieved to find none. I know I’ll have to apologize to her for that sooner or later, but right now I’m going to focus on making it to the end of the week alive. Survival first, societal niceties second.
Finally, Javier lays out exactly what we need for the next 24 to 48 hours, and Isla is happy to oblige. She explains that Mateo is out of town on business at the moment, and most of the household staff has already left for the night, so only security should know we’re here. Then she shows us to a guest suite just off the main hall, one with an additional exit out the back. When I come out of the shower, aching muscles slightly less agonizing, I find that she’s brought us some fresh clothes from her and Mateo’s closets. I slip into a cashmere jogger and hoodie set, and I’m unconscious before my head hits the silk pillowcase.
I wake up with one of Javier’s arms slung over me. It’s still dark in the guest room, the only light a pinprick of white from the bedside table, telling me it’s 2:14 am. I roll over to go back to sleep, but the lingering soreness in my side brings the events of the day before rushing back.
Oh god.
H. Brock. Miel. Javier. Me.
We’re running out of time, all of us.
Now that the shock of it all has worn off, there’s no way I’m getting any more sleep. I slip out from under Javier’s arm easily—yesterday must have been harder on him than he let on, because normally he would wake at the slightest stir. I find a pair of slippers in the closet, then tiptoe out of the suite. It occurs to me when I’m halfway down the hall that I probably should have brought a gun or some other sort of defense, just in case, but it’s too late now.
I’m not sure where I’m headed, mostly hoping that stretching my legs will either loosen up a plan in my head or make me sleepy again. If nothing else, I can grab a snack in the kitchen, maybe a glass of wine.
There’s a light on in the den, but I’m still surprised to see Isla there, legs folded under her in a burgundy armchair, a paperback book open in her lap. She startles when I enter the room, eyes darting to the clock on the mantle and widening at the time.
“Selina,” she says, closing her book, but leaving a finger wedged in the pages to mark her spot. “Is everything okay?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I say, hovering in the doorframe, suddenly unsure of what to do with my body. The false flames in the fireplace dance brightly, reflecting off the empty wine glass on the coffee table. “You?”
“I lose track of time when Matty isn’t here,” she says. Something about the dim light and the late hour has us both keeping our voice low, though the mansion is so big we would have to yell to wake anyone. Isla gestures for me to sit, so I lower onto the armchair beside her. It’s worn, but in a comfortable way. “So you’ve been up to some real James Bond shit, huh?”
I chuckle, rubbing the last bit of sleep out of my eyes. “I guess. Well, maybe more like the villains he’d be trying to stop. Less world domination, though.”
“That’s amazing,” Isla says, shutting her book all the way and setting it aside. “I mean, horrible and terrifying, but yeah, kind of unbelievable.”
“Maybe not so unbelievable,” I say, clearing my throat. “You figured it out, after all.”
“Nothing happens in this town without me finding out about it,” she intones, smiling. “Not in the upper crust, anyway.”
“I need to apologize—” I begin, but Isla cuts me off with a wave of her hand.
“You were doing what you had to do,” she says. “But you do owe me the story. And I do mean the whole story, not that vague bullshit y’all gave me earlier.”
I nod at the empty wine glass on the coffee table. “I can do that, but we’re both going to need some of that first.”
I tell Isla everything—even the dirty bits, after a lot of begging and more wine. By the time I’m done, the sun is just starting to peek through the eastern windows, and we’re curled up like children in our armchairs, heads resting heavily against the velvet.
“That’s fucking wild,” Isla says after a beat of silence. All I can do is nod. Yeah, hearing it all laid out like that, it does sound pretty ‘fucking wild,’ to say the least. “Makes me feel boring as shit.”
“No one thinks you’re boring,” I say quickly, not bothering to point out what has now become obvious to me: a boring life would be far preferable to such a traumatic one.
“That’s because no one really knows me,” Isla says, impossibly quieter. Her eyes remain stubbornly on the ceiling. “That’s just the picture I paint of myself, because it’s more interesting than being the blank canvas that I truly am. I’m not actually banned from Saks, and I never went dancing with Prince Harry. Hell, I’ve never actually cheated on Matty, no matter how badly I want to sometimes. No matter how much he cheats on me.”
This is sleepover talk. This is what happens when the little girls who giggled over Zac Efron and the new boy in math class grow up. Our hair gets tidier, and our lives get messier.
I consider sticking to the usual script, lying and convincing her she’s wrong about her shitbag husband, but I can’t. “I’m sorry he does that to you. You deserve so much better.”
My frenemy turns back to face me, a sad smile on her naked lips. “I’m sorry for how Javier treated you, even if it turned out alright in the end. You deserve better than that, too.”
I return the smile and curl deeper into the armchair. The truth that so often goes unspoken: all women deserve better. Sooner or later, once or forever, rich or poor. We’ve all been hurt by a man. The only way they know how to live is through violence, power, and control.
My whole life I’ve been playing by men’s rules. My father’s rules, my brother’s rules, Javier’s rules.
Fuck their rules.
I know what we have to do.
When I open the door to the guest bedroom, Javier jolts awake, sagging in relief when he sees me.
“You shouldn’t be going anywhere alone,” he says, voice gruff with sleep.
I ignore the reprimand, crossing the room and climbing back into bed, remaining upright with my legs folded under me, all but bouncing with excitement. “Who was that woman?”
“Hmm?” Javier asks, squinting up at me in confusion. I don’t think either of us really means to, but he reaches his hand out toward me, and I catch it in both of mine
, clutching it like a lifeline. “What woman?”
“At the warehouse,” I explain impatiently. “She got into the car where they put Miel. She was all done up, in Gucci and heels.”
Javier rubs the last of the sleep off his face with his free hand. “You must mean Marcela. She’s El Sombrerón’s latest wife—third or fourth, I can’t keep track. Why?”
“She’s the weak link,” I say, nearly tripping over my own words in my eagerness. “She’s how we get to him.”
My husband sits up, wincing slightly at the effort to his bruised abs. “You mean, use her as leverage? That won’t work, princesa. He doesn’t give a shit about his women. They’re expendable to him.”
I jump back off the bed, shaking out my hands by my sides in frustration.
“No, we won’t use her as a pawn,” I explain. “We let her become a player.”
Javier is still just staring at me with a perplexed look on his face. We don’t have time for this. Miel is in the belly of the beast, and every second we spend talking is another second that she… well, I’d rather not think about what might be happening to my friend.
“El Sombrerón treats her like shit, right?” I ask, pulling the cashmere sweatshirt over my head and letting it drop to the floor. “She hates him, right?”
Javier is looking at me like I’m crazy, but nods. I turn away and grab a shirt off the pile of clothes Isla left for us. “As far as I can tell, yeah. How do you know?”
“I just know,” I brush the question off, tugging the shirt on and reaching for a pair of jeans. “We can ask her to help us. She can tell us how to get close to him, maybe let us into their house, or wherever. She’s the key to everything.”
I throw a t-shirt to Javier, a grey number that looks like it’s never been worn, and he catches it easily.
“She won’t do that,” he says matter-of-factly. “She’s too scared of him. A brief life of misery is still preferable to immediate death.”
“She will,” I say, matching his confidence. “We promise her that we’ll take care of him, for good. We tell her she’s stronger than she thinks. We tell her that this is her only shot at freedom. Trust me, given the chance, she’ll do whatever it takes to save herself.”
Caged: The Complete Trilogy Page 40
