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So, I ignore Ciaran’s last two questions and answer the only one that matters. My voice is soft, but there’s steel behind my words. “I’m confident Vito doesn’t know the meaning of the word consensual.”
Ciaran stiffens almost imperceptibly, something I might have missed - except in this position, as vulnerable as I am, I’m attuned to his every breath.
“Then why did you get on your knees for me yesterday? Why did you allow me to use you?”
Would he understand my logic?
Does it matter?
“Because it was my choice,” I tell him, defiance coloring my tone despite the slight wobble to my voice, which I detest. But I don’t care what he thinks. After Vito, consent has become so much more important to me. I made my decision in that great hall yesterday and I stand by it without a moment of regret. “I read that room. I felt the agitation and the thirst for revenge. And I decided whatever happened in there was going to be because I allowed it and not for any other reason.”
To my surprise, he doesn’t scoff or snarl. Instead, when he responds, his voice is surprisingly soft and quiet, considering the conversation so far. “None of my men would have acted without my permission, and I would never have allowed you to be violated,” he says with complete assurance. “No matter how worked up they all were.”
I nod, not about to argue the point. Maybe he’s right, maybe he’s not. “I’ll take your word for it,” I agree. “But I wasn’t to know that, and my recent… experiences weren’t something that supported such a belief, so it seemed like the best option at the time.”
I sense rather than see him incline his head. “I realize you have no reason to believe me, and maybe it sounds incomprehensible in this world of organized crime we all inhabit, but we do have our own brand of ethics. I have a sister, and I know how I want her to be treated. I encourage all my men to follow those same moral principles.”
He sounds less and less like the monster he claims to be, but whatever he says, I know there are plenty of men, probably in his own organization, whether he wants to admit it or not, who have no interest in following such virtuous values. And Ciaran might stand by his word and banish them if they overstep, but that won’t happen until after the fact, and I don’t ever want to be the woman who is facing the aftermath of some guy’s contempt. Not ever again. I’ve been there before, and it’s no word of a lie to say I’d rather die than find myself in that position again.
I take a moment to consider his words. "I don't doubt there's a sense of honor and respect among your men, but I can't overlook the fact that we're in a world where power and violence often dictate who lives and who dies."
I still feel brave - or maybe it’s sheer stupidity, trapped beneath him as I am - so I continue this strange conversation. “It might be hard to believe," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "But I also have my own brand of morality. One where I get to choose what's in my best interests, even if it means prostrating myself in front of an entire roomful of men."
He's silent for a moment, and I wonder if I've crossed a line… Or if what I’ve said makes him see me as a whore. But then he meets my gaze, and I see a flicker of understanding in his eyes.
"I don't know you, Maricela," he admits. "But I can see through the bravado. I can see the strength and resilience you've had to build up in order to survive in this world. I won't pretend to know what you've been through, but I can respect that you're still standing."
I let out a shaky breath, feeling a strange mix of emotions: fear, curiosity, and even a hint of... hope.
He climbs off the bed and pulls me up onto my feet, his grip still tight around my wrists. “And I can also respect your decisions… as long as it's clear who's in charge here."
Chapter Sixteen
MARICELA
Ciaran and I have come to an uneasy truce. I’ve been here for five days now, and we’ve settled into a kind of routine, but I’m aware that with each passing day, I relax my defenses a little more.
I don’t even mind being confined to this suite. In some strange way it’s almost a relief. A reprieve.
My aching body has had time to heal for the first time in six months; the bruises are starting to fade, and there are no new ones to replace them. Plus, my mind is calming, and I’m no longer on edge every second of the day. I’ve also managed to get a decent amount of sleep. Something that hasn’t happened for a long, long time.
I guess that, more than anything, says a lot about the unexpected depth of trust I feel for Ciaran. And for his own part, he hasn’t done anything to break that trust. Something that is particularly surprising, since every day I wake up draped over him like he’s my own personal cuddle toy. The thought makes me chuckle. How Ciaran would hate to know I referred to him as such a thing. But the truth is, I’ve started to feel safe with him.
Especially since, despite sleeping in the same bed and nudging me with his impressive morning wood each day, he’s true to his word and never tries anything. I almost wish he would.
I’m right here after all, and Ciaran is sexy as sin. The things I’ve endured don’t mean I don’t want to be desired and made to feel like an attractive woman. If anything, being treated like an object for so long, something buyable and disposable, I almost crave it. To be seen and appreciated as myself; a person and not a commodity.
Of course, I’m also aware I’m currently existing in my own little bubble, one that’s not quite real, and no matter what’s going on in the outside world, I know the current status quo won’t last forever.
The tired part of me that just wants a little peace, almost wishes it could.
Day five is barely underway when there’s a commotion outside my door moments before it bursts open. I realize how comfortable I’ve gotten when my fight or flight mode is slow to propel me into action. By the time my mind catches up, and I realize it’s only Róisín and her friend barging into the room, my heart is battering against my sternum like it’s going to rupture my chest wall.
“I can’t believe my brother has kept you locked up in his room like this for all this time,” Róisín declares, incensed, as Liam pulls the door closed behind them, and the lock snicks back into place.
If she’s conscious of it, Róisín doesn’t say anything; she just throws herself down on the bed, oblivious to how she, herself, has scared me. It’s the blonde girl, Emylyah, who quietly comes over and squeezes my limp and clammy hand.
“Are you okay?” she asks softly, with what I realize is the barest hint of an Eastern European accent; now I’m concentrating on her alone and not any other circumstances. She looks right at me, and in that silent moment of eye contact, I realize she’s had the same kind of experiences. Which means she understands my feelings a little more than I’m comfortable with.
