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You’re wet. We are going to get along, sirenita.
Mortification burned through me at the memory of Andrés’ words. I might not have considered myself a sexual person, but I wasn’t completely naïve. I knew that a woman got wet when she was aroused, so her body would be prepared to accept a man. It wasn’t the first time I’d gotten wet, either. Watching Dex’s BDSM porn had aroused me, even though I hadn’t been brave enough to act on my desire. Whenever I’d gotten too turned on, I’d thrown myself into a particularly challenging task, usually involving hacking. Using the analytical side of my brain helped cool my animal physical responses.
My stomach roiled. Had my obsession with becoming the object of Dex’s darker needs twisted me so thoroughly? I’d just been spanked by an evil man who claimed to own me, who wanted to rape me. And I’d gotten wet, my body responding to his harsh dominance.
My tears spilled faster as shame heated my cheeks, and I hastily finished my essential business so I could wash my hands and face. I pressed my palms against my flaming cheeks, turning the water colder to help chase away the heat of my humiliation. A few broken sobs heaved from my chest, but I gulped in air and forced myself to calm down.
In the calm, a single imperative took over: escape.
I couldn’t wait around for my friends to find me, for Dex to come to my rescue.
I’m not the damsel in distress, I told myself. I’m the hero. Heroine. Whatever. I’m a badass FBI agent/hacker goddess. I can get out of this.
I couldn’t take down Andrés without a weapon—something he had made painfully clear. My bottom still ached and stung from his punishment, but that wasn’t enough to deter me. He’d stripped me. He’d touched my sex as though he had every right. I refused to sit around and do nothing to defend myself when he clearly intended to rape me.
So, I’d have to find a weapon. Or make one.
I cast my eyes around the opulent bathroom, searching. There, hanging beneath one of the multiple showerheads: a razor.
/> I quickly crossed the tiled floor and retrieved it. I glanced at the closed bathroom door, knowing I didn’t have long before Andrés would start banging on it. Possibly even breaking it down. I’d locked it behind me, but that wouldn’t stop him. He’d already proven how strong he was, how relentless.
Turning my attention back to my task, I tamped down my anxiety and applied pressure to the razor’s plastic casing. After a few seconds, it snapped. I gripped the flat of one of the blades between my thumb and forefinger, careful of the wickedly sharp edge. If I bloodied my fingers, I wouldn’t be able to hold on to my only weapon.
I went to the bathroom door and turned back the lock, knowing he’d hear the metallic click in the bedroom. I didn’t open the door. I needed him to come to me, and then I’d catch him by surprise. He’d seen a broken, frightened woman dart into the bathroom to hide from him. He wouldn’t expect me to attack again now.
I’m not broken. And I’m not frightened. Okay, maybe that last part was a lie. My hands trembled, and I focused on steadying the fingers that gripped my blade.
“Samantha?” he asked, his rumbling voice emanating through the closed door. “Come out of there.”
I made a little sniffling noise to encourage the illusion that I was crying, weakened. Not a difficult feat, considering my tears still mingled with the water droplets that wet my face.
“Come out here. Now, cosita.” There was warning in the last, a clear threat that he’d come in to retrieve me if I didn’t comply.
Come on, then, I mentally urged him, my body vibrating with anticipation.
A heavy sigh sounded through the door. “You will regret this,” he said. “You must learn to obey me, even if you’re scared or upset. I’m giving you one last chance. Come,” he commanded firmly, like he was speaking to a particularly difficult puppy he was trying to train.
I straightened my spine. I wasn’t going to be trained. I wasn’t going to obey. And I certainly wasn’t going to walk out into his scary, strong arms and allow him to violate me.
The door swung open, and I launched myself at him. I had the barest moment to register his dark eyes widening with surprise as I slashed, aiming for his throat. I’d never killed a man before, but I had to escape before something terrible happened to me. I tried to find a cold, calm place in my mind, but instead, I attacked with a furious, desperate shriek.
Maybe my roiling emotions made me sloppy. Maybe I just didn’t have it in me to tear open a man’s throat.
Or maybe Andrés was simply accustomed to people trying to kill him, and his instincts kicked in.
He managed to dodge back, and my blade cut a long, shallow furrow into his chest. I paused, shocked at the sight of his blood welling up.
I’d done that. I’d hurt him.
I didn’t feel any sense of heroic triumph. Instead, horror washed over me. Violence might be ingrained in him, but it turned out, killing wasn’t in my nature.
In my moment of hesitation, he grabbed my wrist. He barely had to squeeze before the razor slipped from my fingers. I’d lost my only weapon, and now I was faced by a hulking, bleeding madman.
Only, he didn’t look mad. He looked… disappointed? What kind of man faces an attempt on his life with such mild emotion? He could have attacked me. He could have killed me and eliminated the threat.
But the laughable truth was, I wasn’t a threat.
Keeping his hold on my wrist, he took a slow step toward me. I dodged back as far as I could, watching him warily. I didn’t understand his calm response.
