Trey’s earlier clutch on my wrist has nothing on the one he wraps around my waist. He pulls me into his fit body before he drops our weird, tangled mess to the floor with a thud.
“Stop it!” he demands when my nails digging into his tattooed arms agitate him more than my wish to escape. “I’m not going to hurt you. I am trying to fucking help you.”
When his roared words reach the ears of his crew, we’re joined in the kitchen by three of his men. I thought their humored faces would end Trey’s charade in an instant. It couldn’t be further from the truth. With one of his legs wrapped around my waist, and his arm pinning my back to his thrusting chest, Trey demands a dark-haired man to bring over the pot of stew simmering on the stovetop.
Once he has a generous helping sloppily served into the bowl I kicked out of his hand, he fishes out a large chunk of meat before steering it toward my face. I clamp my lips together as firmly as I can, but they’re no match for the strength and girth of Trey’s fingers. He strains the chunk of beef through my lips, and then my teeth in a matter of seconds before adding a warning to the deadly gleam in his eyes.
“If so much as a drop of stew spills from your lips, I’ll feed you like this every fucking day for the rest of your life. Do you hear me, K? I’m not fucking playing. I’ve got all the time in the world to force you to eat, so there won’t be any skin off my back if moments like this are added to my daily routine.”
With my shock higher than my belief my food is tainted with drugs, my lips part to accept the next chunk of the food Trey fishes out of the bowl. Its texture and starchiness tells me it’s a piece of potato. It is tastier than the chunk of steak, although my body will never admit that. It is shut down in shock, muted and confused as to why this rough, rugged, and pierced man is so pedantic about me eating. It’s not like he’d be upset if I starved to death. No one cares about me, not even people I classed as family, so why does a stranger feel the need to take up the campaign?
I peer at Trey through a different set of eyes when he mutters, “Good girl. Keep eating.” He feeds me like a father would their sick child. His hold is anything but gentle, but his eyes are brimming with unusual tenderness.
* * *
By the time I realize Trey’s Adam’s apple matches the bobs of my throat when I swallow his offerings into my stomach, I’ve consumed half a bowl of stew. It feels good to have food in my tummy, but no amount of heaviness stops its flips. I feel out of my element here, even more than I did when I ‘entertained’ my first lot of guests.
After wiping away the meaty dribbles running down my chin with his hand, Trey lifts his eyes to something above us. When I follow the direction of his gaze, I’m anticipating to see three humored faces peering back at me, so you can imagine my surprise when I discover the kitchen is empty. It’s just Trey and me, alone, and in a lighted room.
With no concerns about waste, Trey uncurls the leg wrapped around my midsection to knock down a bowl of bread from the counter. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry about his worry I’ll attempt to escape the instant he releases me, so I smile instead. It’s not a big smile. I don’t think I’m showing any of the teeth that were hard to keep clean with a lack of accessories, but Trey notices it in an instant.
As his lips lift in a similar fashion, he asks, “Are you smiling ‘cause I look like I shit my pants? Or are you excited about devouring some fresh bread?” Although he’s asking a question, he continues talking as if he didn’t. “I can still recall the first time I sampled bread straight out of the oven. It was warm and spongy… almost as delicious as a woman’s cunt.” A flare darts through his eyes when he drops and locks them with mine. “This isn’t warm, K, but I swear to you, it’s fresh.”
My heart beats out a funky tune when he rips off a chunk of the bread and pops it into his mouth. After angling his head so I can see the bob of his Adam’s apple from him swallowing it down, he tears off another generous chunk for me. He doesn’t force it into my mouth this time around, though. He holds it out in front of me, offering it up as if there won’t be any stipulations attached to his generosity.
It takes me longer to accept than I care to admit. My mind is still spiraling with debilitating confusion, so a lack of respect can be excused. Furthermore, men I once called friends hurt me for less than a chunk of bread, so it’ll take a lot longer than an hour for me to trust one I hardly know.
“More?” Trey asks when our turn-for-turn on the bread roll sees it consumed in under a minute.
Although I still feel hollow on the inside, I shake my head, confident the empty feeling has nothing to do with a hungry stomach.
“Alright.” Trey stands to his feet without the slightest bit of discomfort fettering his features from my monkey hold. “Then, how about we get cleaned up.”
Don’t misconstrue his wording. He isn’t suggesting we should do this. He’s telling me what we’re doing. It’s a known trait of all men in this industry.
Usually, I hate it. It isn’t irking my nerves as much tonight, though.
After placing me back on my feet, Trey curls his tattooed hand around mine. His hold is less aggressive than it was previously, but there’s no denying its possessiveness.
When we enter the common area in the middle of the compound, my eyes float up from the floor to Trey when he says, “Give the women access to the shower stalls. They’ll need clothes and toiletries. If the whores don’t have enough to share, send someone out to get supplies.” He’s speaking with the man he was talking to earlier, the giant who’s missing a finger from each of his hands. “And have some of Nero’s men guard that side of the compound tonight, but ensure they’re aware of Nikolai’s order. If they are touched—”
“There will be hell to pay,” the unnamed man interrupts. As his tongue fiddles with the circular ring in the corner of his bottom lip, he drags his eyes down my body. His prolonged gawk of my stew-stained nightgown doesn’t make my stomach flip, but his questions sure do. “What about her? Want me to take her back to the dorm?”
I doubt he’d touch me, fear was the first emotion that flared through his eyes when he finalized Trey’s threat. It is Trey’s reply that has my stomach twisted up in knots. “No. She’s staying with me.”
I don’t know why his answer shocks me. I paid horrendously for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, so why would I anticipate a lessor response for a much more heartier meal? Nothing in life is free, and I’m about to learn that the hard way for the third time in my life.
Eight
Trey
“Eight is going to get you some clothes, but for now, you can wear one of my shirts.”
After double-checking the temperature of the water pelting out of the shower, I spin around to face the main section of my room. Clarks is like a fortress. It’s made out of concrete, glass, and steel, and has an impressive amount of floor space, however, its sleeping quarters aren’t hideously ugly like the rooms Vladimir held his captives in. They’re like hotel rooms with king-size beds, double-headed showers, and state-of-the-art equipment.
I swear the person who built this compound was either gay or a chick because even the roughest and meanest members of Nikolai’s crew have hairdryers in their bathrooms. I’ve had my room the longest. It was the first space I was given that didn’t represent a prison cell after my failed bid to take down the Dvoráks, and the only place I go when I’m feeling lost.
K is making me feel lost. The dark bleakness in her eyes, the frailness of her skin, and the pained expression on her face that never quits has me wanting to go on a killing spree. Considering our heist today notched my tally up to thirty-three deaths this year alone, the craving shouldn’t be as strong as it is, but fuck me, the urge is fierce, even more so when my entrance to my room has me stumbling onto a butt-naked and frozen-stiff woman.
