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“Nightmares keeping you awake, little warrior?” She nods once. “Is it the first time you’ve killed someone?”
“No,” she breathes. “I once belonged to a man who liked to break young girls.” She keeps tracing patterns in the water. “And when his methods didn’t break me, he’d get angry and make me kill one of the others.”
“He didn’t kill you though.” I try to keep the bite of anger out of my voice.
She shakes her head. “I escaped a couple of times. I was always forced to watch the girls who ran with me die. I wanted him to kill me. More than anything. But I was his favorite.”
“You kept trying?”
“I knew that the second I stopped trying, was the moment he’d finally broken me.” Her eyes drift closed. “There are some fates worse than death.” Her voice remains strong and steady, full of strength. Fuck, if she doesn’t make me want to hold her and promise her all the safety in the world. I want to demand the name of such a man so I can end him, but this isn’t my fight. It isn’t my business. I take a seat on the edge of the pond, and I don’t know if she’s even aware of the way her body tilts towards mine.
“You’re a survivor.”
“Survival,” she breathes. “It seems so pointless though, doesn’t it? What kind of life is this?”
Without thought, I take her hand, clutching it between mine. “One step at a time, avecita.” She stares at her hand in mine. “Firstly, you should probably stop hiding in the garden at night.”
“I like the darkness.”
“Why?”
Her eyes meet mine, a soft smile whispering over her lips. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you? You can’t see the stars without the dark.”
“Poetic.” I sip my beer before offering it to her. She eyes the bottle warily. “You’ve never had beer?” Her teeth sink into her bottom lip and it shouldn’t draw my attention, but it’s so innocent and yet… “Try it.” She releases my hand, and takes the bottle from me. She tentatively lifts it to her lips and tips the bottle back, swallowing before her face scrunches up. I laugh and take the bottle back. “It grows on you.”
She retreats into her silence. Nine years of slavery. How is she still half sane? I’ve heard the stories of Sinaloa whores trying to escape and being beaten to death, or worse, escaping and being thrown into some of the nastiest brothels they have. Some even manage to kill themselves, although they make it hard for them. Most of them don’t survive a year, and the ones that do are mentally ruined by that point. Nine years. I’ve never heard of one making it so long. And though she’s undoubtedly damaged, she’s strong. When I look in her eyes, I can see the torture and the pain, but she wears it like an impenetrable shield. I can’t help but respect that kind of tenacity to survive.
I want to protect her, simply because I can, and because she deserves to have someone in this whole damn world give a shit. But I can’t offer her that. I can’t promise that—because of Nero. Just business, I remind myself, for what feels like the hundredth fucking time since I met her, I can’t offer her much, except maybe one thing…
“Twenty-two,” I say.
“What?”
“That’s how old you are. Twenty-two.”
I stand up, leaving the beer on the low wall next to her. I have to force myself to walk away from Anna, to distance myself from her, because already I’m not rational where she is concerned. The girl is an adrenaline laced dart aimed right at my cold, dead heart. I can’t afford to feel alive – to feel- because caring about someone is nothing but a weakness. One that has cost me dearly many times over. Consider the lesson learned. I stride through the gap in the hedge like my ass is on fire.
“Rafael.” I pause when I should keep fucking walking. “Thank you,” she says quietly, the purity in her voice reaching inside me like the goddamn hand of death. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and then leave.
When I walk into the kitchen in the morning, Maria is standing in front of the stove, frying bacon. I kiss her cheek and she side-eyes me before swatting at me with a dishcloth. I’m trying to swipe a piece of bacon when I sense someone behind me. I turn around, hot bacon burning me as I come face to face with Anna. Shoving the food in my mouth, I lick grease from my fingers.
“Raised in a barn…” Maria is grumbling, shunting me out of the way. “Sit, both of you.”
I yank my gun from the waist of my pants and place it on the breakfast island. Maria huffs. “No guns at the table!”
