Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
It was sick the way her pussy clenched in anticipation. She’d fantasized being taken by him—forcibly, passionately—since forever, but the circumstances were all wrong. He was all wrong. Her insides knotted.
Still, she kept her attention on the door, anxiously awaiting his expression upon finding her posed in presentation.
The knob turned, and the door swung open, revealing the golden flames of his eyes, motionless in a sea of crimson.
Blood spattered his face and throat and caked the ink on his forearms where he’d rolled up his sleeves. His black shirt and pants glistened with wetness, and his hands clenched at his sides as he stared at nothing.
“What happened?” Her heartbeats fell hard, her posture crumbling. “Are you hurt?”
He didn’t look at her, didn’t acknowledge her in any way as he stepped into the bedroom. No noticeable limping. Not a hint of physical pain or visible wounds beneath the smears of blood.
Stopping at a built-in cabinet, he opened the doors to a wet bar and poured a glass of aguardiente, neat, the way Colombians preferred their soft vodka.
She wanted to ask him whose blood he was covered in, hoping with every shuddering breath that the gore didn’t belong to one of the captured women. “Matias?”
His entire body stiffened, the glass hovering midway to his mouth. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to call attention to herself.
He swallowed back the guaro in one gulp, poured another, and carried it into the closet. When he disappeared beyond the doorway, she couldn’t see inside, but the retreat of his footfalls hinted at the extensive depth of the room.
She pressed her lips together and sat back on her heels. Did he get in a fight? Torture someone? Stand too close to a ritualistic slaughter?
Her stomach rolled. Maybe this was just a normal day of work for him. Except the crystallized glaze in his eyes suggested that whatever happened had rattled him.
A moment later, he exited the closet, carrying a fraternity paddle, a cane, handcuffs, and a ball gag. His stony gaze landed on her.
“What’re you doing?” Her pulse went crazy as she scrambled to her feet and shuffled backward until the chain snapped her to a halt. “I behaved while you were gone. I fucking knelt for you!”
Jesus, he hadn’t even changed his clothes, standing there like a blood-soaked nightmare. And his eyes… Something wasn’t quite right in the shadows behind those unmoving flames.
He dropped his bundle on one of the armchairs and dragged the chair toward her, its legs squealing across marble.
Parking it just out of her reach, he stood so very still and silent, intent on watching her while her insides fell apart and her bladder screamed to spill all over the floor.
“I have to pee, Matias.” Her voice wavered. “And you need a shower. I’ll help you clean up.”
He continued to stare, studying her in a detached way. No, not studying. He seemed to have retreated inward, mentally shut down. His hand blindly swept over the chair and picked up the ball gag.
Shit shit shit!
“Matias? Remember when I got this?” With trembling fingers, she parted the hair on her scalp.
His gaze flicked to the jagged scar above her hairline and returned to her mouth without a trace of emotion.
She was seven when she fell out of the orange tree, busting her head open and bleeding all over the place. “Do you remember what you told me?”
“An ounce of bravery is more valuable than a gallon of blood.” His voice was ice grinding against rock. “Andres taught me that. Then he died a coward’s death.”
What did that mean? His uncle had perished in the fire that had taken her family. A conversation for another time.
“The day I got this scar,” she said hoarsely, “you promised me you would never let me fall again.”
If she reached out an arm, she could touch his sticky shirt. But she didn’t dare.
He stood taller, his chin level with her forehead as he lifted the ball gag. “Open your mouth.”
“Don’t do this.” She shook her head, eyes blurring. “Don’t hurt me.”
“If you fight me, what will I do?” His tone held no pitch or fluctuation.
Take it out on someone else.
She tensed with the compulsion to kick out a leg, knock him off balance, and lock him in a chokehold. Then what? She was chained to a fucking pole.
Her attention flew to the cane and paddle. Deep down, she believed he wouldn’t kill her. Probably wouldn’t make her bleed either, no matter how badly this would hurt.
She stretched open her mouth.
His lips curved, but there was no pleasure in his smile. No dimples. No emotion whatsoever as he pressed the rubber ball between her teeth and secured the strap behind her head. Thank God, his hands were free of blood, washed clean up to the wrists. Or he’d worn gloves.
“Face down.” He stabbed a finger toward the floor. “Legs spread wide and pray to hell.”