As a male member of the Ramirez family, I have a patent disregard for women. It was nurtured from birth. Women are either sluts, or angels to be worshipped. There is no in-between. The sluts are for fucking, the angels for marrying. It's that simple in my world. Except it's not. Because some of the wives are smarter than their husbands, some are crazy, some are competitive and all of them want power. Even my mother, who had more of everything than most women.She died in a car accident when I was eight. That was the story I was told back then. Now I know that my father had her killed. His angel became a slut. Tired of my father and his treatment of her, she thought to betray him. One beating too many was the story most often told, so she sought out his enemy, offered herself and her information. It worked for a while, but deception is not something that can be sustained. Too many lies, too easy to get caught with an inconsistency. Something forgotten.Now it's my father's death that
Broken.He managed to break me and he barely touched me. I'm lying on my side curled around the water jug, tears dripping steadily off my face and onto the concrete beneath me. I try to tell myself to get up, to move, to shift closer to the door where I can smash him with the jug next time he comes in. I do none of this. I'm paralyzed. My first orgasm. Forced on me by an enemy. Shame and humiliation fight for the top position, along with terror. I had been prepared for violence, for rape. To be taken with no thoughts to my pleasure, my feelings. This… this is the ultimate mindfuck. With the cresting wave of my orgasm he released something else. A secret part of myself I hold onto so tight that no one is ever supposed to see. The woman that yearns, that wants things.I can't want things. I'm a machine. Built to protect. This is how I survive. I bury that woman, the woman who wants more out of life, so deep that she'll never see the light. Somehow, with those few touches, his finger
I open my eyes. Luis is crouched over top of me, the buttons of his shirt undone, his long hair loose and disheveled as though he's been running frustrated fingers through it. I briefly catch the edge of concern in his dark gaze, but my body reacts, almost independently of thought. He's kneeling next to me, his hands on my flesh, the memory of his dream monster still fresh.I shove his chest, pushing him back. He's off balance for a split second which allows me to lunge to the side. I bring the jug down on the concrete, smashing it. I grip a broken shard and swing it around toward him. He shifts backward and reaches for his gun. His eyes are alight with fury and something else. Maybe anticipation. Or perhaps expectation. I don't know and I don't have time to think about it. I hurl myself at him, knocking his gun hand aside while aiming for his jugular with the shard.He snatches my hair in his other hand and drags my head back. I expected the move and aim a kick toward his stomach. H
I watch her as she looks around my bedroom, a quick assessing glance, before she lets out a shallow breath, squeezes her eyes shut, and rolls to her side. She folds in on herself, exposing her back and ass. The livid crisscross of marks from my belt stand as my accuser, my inability to manage my anger. I wonder at the regret that sits hard in my chest, an unusual emotion for me.In the stark light of my bedroom I see she's not perfect, not flawless. She has a body well-used. Cigarette burns on the back of her bicep and both her thighs, several scars from whipping or belting on her back, her ass and her legs. Faint lines on her wrists and her ankles where she'd been restrained in past. The pucker of a bullet hole in her shoulder and another further down, just below her rib cage. And three deep scars down her right side. Clean slashes, the first a long one, then a shorter one, then a small one. Deliberate. To mark her as property.Anger burns in me as I clench my hands, but not at her
I watch warily as he opens the door. I wonder if he's going to let someone in. My brain, dulled by exhaustion, tries to understand what's happening. Why am I in his bedroom? Why is he taking care of me? All I can come up with is that he's playing me. He wants something and he's going to be nice until he gets it. Then he'll kill me.He doesn't let anyone in. Instead, he picks something up, closes the door and brings it toward the bed. He sets a tray on the night table. The scent of chicken broth washes over me and my mouth instantly grows watery with anticipation. He's brought food.He turns, reaches for me. I flinch. It's an automatic response, though I'm not sure if it's because I fear the pain or the pleasure that those hands can give. He rests his fingers on the belt tying me to the bed."Promise you won't attack me, Lena."I open my mouth to promise, to tell him what he wants to hear. Then I close my mouth. I've lied before, many times in the past. Either telling people what th
The funeral is well attended. I expected nothing less given Manuel's standing in both the legitimate community and the underworld. I'm standing in the graveyard, watching as they lower my father's body into the ground. Arturo stands beside me, a hand on my shoulder. I feel grief, anger, sadness, betrayal. But I stay impassive, the heir to the throne. The priest says a last few words and then it's over. People are walking up to me, shaking my hand, shaking Arturo's, murmuring their condolences.My father's good friend, Tom Garcia, snags my shoulders with his arm. "Walk with me, Luis."He turns me and we take a few steps. Then he stops, gazes hard at Arturo who's following. "Just Luis." Arturo stops, his face a rock, his dark eyes holding lethal promises.As we walk away from the group, he looks around. "Where's the bodyguard?"His question seems odd. "You mean Lena? She's home.""Alive?"I nod. I have the need to defend Lena. "She killed five men trying to save my father. She save
On the return to my home, I reflect on Tom's words. His doubts about Arturo, his offer of safety.Arturo is in the car with me and we are drinking tequila, but not talking. Arturo seems to understand that silence is what I need right now.Once we're inside the gates, he says, "What did the old bastard want?"I shrug as I reach for the door handle. "He has some thoughts about who killed Manuel."Arturo snorts his laughter. "That old fraud? He can barely get out of bed in the morning, let alone put two decent thoughts together."I inhale as I look back at Arturo. He's right, even if he is a prick. "We should let him die in peace, Arturo. His sons will take exception if we do anything else." I offer a small smile and Arturo grins back. "Go away for a day or two. I want to be alone." I should talk to him about that night, ask about his timing, ask him what he thinks, but I'm tired, overwhelmed, full of grief.Arturo scowls, flips me off and gets back in the car. I hear him tell the d
I'm tucked against his side and he's cradling me, one arm wrapped underneath me, curving over my shoulder. Like lovers. I want to touch him, lift my hand to lay it on his chest. But I hesitate. I haven't been given permission. Feel like I should ask, but I don't think he'll mind.He grasps my hand and presses it flat against his chest, his on top. "Touch me, Lena."I hear the longing in his voice. Maybe he needs the human contact as much as I do. He always seems so strong, so in control. But I know Manuel rarely touched him, was not a demonstrative man. Luis has probably fucked plenty of women. I wasn't his bodyguard and though I share the same house, I wasn't privy to his private life before now. I can't imagine him cuddling with any of those women though.I snuggle closer into his side, burying my nose against his ribs and running my hand from his chest down to his abs, tracing the ridges. I've seen Luis working out, seen him without a shirt before. Knew what he looked like. But t