He grits his teeth so hard I can almost hear them crack. “They made a final move. Bowie put it all together,” he growls, and suddenly there’s a wave of cold nausea in my stomach.
“Wh—what?” I stammer, horrified. “What do you mean, Bowie?”
He looks at me, his eyes two black holes of fury. “Up until then, all attacks were done by other inmates. But I guess those weren’t fun anymore. They wanted something else.”
His voice hardens. “So your ex-husband roped in some of the guards. And they made sure I knew it was him who sent them. He didn’t just want me hurt. He wanted me destroyed. Humiliated. He clearly had a personal grudge. I thought it was because of my connection to you. That it was his jealousy boiling over.”
A muscle in his jaw ticks. “From that day on, I became so obsessively focused on you that I didn’t even think of the possibility of him being connected to the cartel. I didn’t care about anyone else. I just wanted to get to you.”
He exhales slowly, leans his head back against the seat, and closes his eyes.
“They ganged up on me in the showers,” he murmurs, voice flat. “Stopped me from leaving. Cleared everyone else out. They—” His voice cracks. He rubs the heels of his palms against his eyes and lets out a small, frustrated sound.
I can barely breathe. Barely think. The unspoken words hang between us, too poisonous to touch. How did I never think about this? You always hear about it — in movies, in books, on TV. But the thought never crossed my mind. Not once. He always looked so strong, so big, his every step heavy and sure, that I never imagined him going through something like this.
“It was two against one,” he growls, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles whiten. “Maybe I could’ve fought back, but one of them slammed my head into the tile. Made me dizzy. A few seconds of weakness, but it was enough to give them the upper hand.”
Everything inside me rages, breaking apart the last remaining pieces of my already broken soul.
He slumps forward, breathing ragged, forehead pressed against the steering wheel. Seconds pass. Then minutes. His breathing grows louder, harsher, but no words come.
Somehow, I manage to move. His pain is a living thing, biting into him with teeth made of glass. It needs to go away. It needs to leave him alone. It’s enough. It’s done enough.
I shift forward over the console, my arms moving before I can think. The first touch feels cold against the leather of his cut. He freezes, breath caught, but doesn’t react in any other way. Not until my arms circle his neck and my face buries in his hair. He smells like fire and leather, just like he always did. The familiar scent wraps around me, trying — desperately — to drown out the pain overflowing in this small space.
“We can stop,” I whisper. “You don’t have to say—”
The words choke me. My vision blurs, my tears fall fast, getting lost in his hair.
He turns, nestling his face in the hollow of my neck. His arm slips around my waist and pulls me into his lap.
“I was raped.”
It’s less than a whisper. Less than a breath. But it’s like a nuclear weapon. It burns. It hurts. It rips everything apart.
“And at the end, they told me it was a special message from Bowie. That he wanted to show me how he fucks you every night.”
There are tears in his voice. I wish I knew the perfect words that would heal him. Instead my fingers curl into his hair and I pull him closer, trying, against every rational thought, to absorb those memories. To blast them out of existence.
“It—” I start, but he stops me with a squeeze.
“Don’t,” he rasps. “Don’t say it. Don’t say you’re sorry, that it’s in the past, that I survived. It’s exactly why I didn’t tell anyone. I don’t want those fucking empty words.”
I pull back and look into his eyes. There’s an unspoken question there, hovering, too afraid to surface. I reach out and gently wipe the wet tracks under his eyes. He doesn’t pull away, and for some reason that brings me comfort.
“I was going to say it was bullshit,” I whisper, anger hot under my skin. “That roach never fucked me.” I laugh, bitter. “Not once.”
“What?” He murmurs, brows pinching. There’s a flicker of relief on his face and the pain in my chest eases a fraction. “He has a fucking girlfriend.”
“Yeah,” I nod. “A girlfriend doesn’t mean shit. He had a wife too and everyone thought it was a dream marriage.” My voice drops. “I never cared to find out why. I only cared that he didn’t touch me like that. So I kept my mouth shut and let my mother live out her sick fantasies.”
My eyes narrow, voice hard. “Forget that bastard. What matters is that you survived. You say those words are empty, but they’re not. They’re reality.” I hug him tight, choking back new tears. He hugs me back harder. “You’re here. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”
I gulp down a big breath. “Please tell me those guards are dead.”
He exhales. I feel him relax into me a little. “They’re dead,” he says, voice tense. “Found out later they were killed while I was inside. Fuck knows what else they were involved in.” He huffs. “I wish I’d been the one to end them, but I didn’t get that chance. I only got one to bleed.”
He rolls his head to the side and stares out the window. “After they told me Bowie’s message, something inside me snapped. For a few seconds I turned into an animal. I was lying on the floor and one of them stood over me, smug as fuck, dick out. I don’t remember much, but I remember my arm shooting up. Next thing I knew I was squeezing his balls so hard blood spattered everywhere. The guy squealed like a dying pig.”
