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My legs trembled, and I didn’t bother trying to fight off my impending emotional breakdown for a second longer. My knees folded, and I sank down onto the cool tiles beneath me, curling up on my side as sobs wracked my body.
I was in a strange room in a strange house, trapped with strange men who had taken me from my home and my family.
I remembered Vicente’s thin lips curled in a sneer as he struck my face; Hugo’s cruel black eyes narrowed as he tore Abuela away from me; Cristian’s sick, satisfied smile as he kicked Andrés over and over again.
Abuela. Andrés.
I longed for the warmth of their comforting arms around me, but I was utterly alone.
I hugged my own arms more tightly around my chest, as though the child-like position could protect me from reality.
“Shut up.”
I jolted at the low, growled words. The boy’s pale green eyes glowered at me from above; the soft morning light caught in them, making them glow. I had a brief impression of a panther, a predator staring me down. I was small and broken beneath him. Easy prey.
I curled up more tightly, fearing he’d lash out and kick me the way Christian had beat Andrés. The way the boy’s full lips sneered at me warned me of impending violence.
I sniffled, but my sob caught in my chest. I didn’t want to anger him further, and he’d told me to shut up.
“Stop crying,” he commanded, his harshly square jaw tightening.
I blinked hard, but I couldn’t stop the tears from falling. My breath hitched in my throat as I suppressed another sob. I stared up at him, fear making me tremble. My fingers began to go numb, and I realized I’d laced them tightly together in front of my knees.
“Do you know what time it is?” he demanded. “You woke me up.”
“I’m sorry,” I choked out.
“Who the hell are you, anyway? What are you doing in my house?”
“I’m Valentina,” I squeaked out my name. “Vicente…” I tried not to gag around the acid words. “I was brought here.” A shudder raced through my body. “I’m sorry I woke you up.” I apologized to the stranger because I didn’t want him to hurt me.
The boy’s chin tilted, and his pale green eyes seemed to scan through me, studying me. “Fine,” he snapped after several tense seconds of heavy silence. “Just be quiet. I’m going back to sleep for an hour.”
I nodded, my cheek brushing over the cool tiles. I hadn’t stood to face the boy, and he seemed unconcerned by my distressed position on the floor. He was as callous as Cristian, and I didn’t dare provoke him.
Only when he’d stomped out of the bedroom and snapped the door shut behind him did I gasp in a shuddering breath. I suppressed another sob on the exhale. I didn’t want the boy to return. I didn’t want him to hurt me. I’d been ripped from the safe haven of my home and taken into a strange, violent world. The cruelty of the men who’d taken me had proven that much.
Is she a woman yet? Vicente’s puzzling words echoed through my head. I wasn’t sure exactly what he’d meant, but my grandmother’s incensed response let me know it was nothing good.
I remembered the way he’d studied my body at the funeral, and I shuddered. I had a terrible suspicion what he’d meant, but I chose to cling to innocent ignorance.
She’s a child, Grandmother had said.
I’m just a girl, I told myself. My body might be developing in ways I didn’t fully understand, but I couldn’t imagine being considered a woman at my age. Women were much older. Twenty, at least.
I’d never known my mother—she died giving birth to me—but my father had taken enough mistresses for me to know I was nothing like the sultry, sophisticated women who’d lived in the big house, no matter how quickly they’d come and gone.
I took several deep breaths to calm my fearful trembling. I couldn’t stay curled up on the bathroom tiles forever, and the cool surface was causing ice to sink into my bones.
Slowly, I pushed myself up, my head spinning slightly from the lingering effects of my injury. I closed my eyes and waited for the dizziness to pass before rising from my kneeling position and getting to my feet.
I was too fearful of the boy to leave the bedroom. I didn’t want to disturb him again.
Despite my situation, there was a small sense of security in the solitude of the bedroom. No one was here to hurt me.
Yet.
The room was much nicer than my bedroom in our modest house on father’s estate. But the huge, canopied bed and heavy, red velvet drapes framing a large arched window left me cold. The room might be spacious, but it was far too mature for me. My bedroom back home had been painted in soft shades of pink, and cheery little monkeys—my favorite animal—had cuddled me to sleep, decorating my blankets.
