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“Sit.”
Horacio nods toward a toilet with the lid down.
He rummages through the cupboards while I try my hardest to regain control of my breathing. More blood is pouring out of me than I’ve ever seen in one place. Too much. I’ll die if this keeps up. Die.
No!I pinch my wrist until a semblance of clarity returns to my thoughts. I’m panicking, and I can’t afford to now.Damn it. Focus, Pita.
After all, this isn’t the worst I’ve been through. Not by a long shot.
One time Diego hurt me bad. So badly, I had to go to the hospital under an assumed name and was there a week for monitoring. The pain in this instance is no different from that. I need to stay focused. Keep breathing. Don’t scream.
“Ah.” Horacio prods my lower back. “These are superficial, but this one is deep. You move—it will hurt. I won’t waste the good stuff on you, but here—” He shoves a bottle into my hand. It’s brown liquor.
I recall the last time I drank something and try to give it back.
“Drink it,” he warns. “It’s straight tequila. You’ll need it.”
“I don’t need anything,” I rasp with a familiar weariness in my voice. “Just get it over with.”
“Doctor’s not here,” the man says gruffly though he withdraws the bottle. “I stitch you myself. It will hurt.”
I say nothing.
True to his word, the old man cleans my wounds and then leaves for a heartbeat before returning with a battered metal case from which he draws a medical needle and black thread. He applies stitches to the deepest puncture mark, and tears stream down my face by the time he’s done. I don’t look back, but I suspect there are five in total.
With a satisfied grunt, Horatio tosses a bloodied rag aside and heads for the door.
“Come,” he calls back to me. “He wants you in his suite.”
I don’t know how I manage to stand, let alone walk properly. Jaguar’s suite is down a long winding hallway and up a flight of stairs. It’s large and spacious, decorated in shades of black. A window overlooks a familiar scene—the pool I glimpsed the first time I was in Jaguar’s mansion—but viewed from another angle.
“That was a beautiful show, chica.”
I turn to find Jaguar loping into the room like his predatory namesake—only this time, the comparison isn’t figurative. My heart races. A familiar sensation churns down my spine, and I welcome it like an old friend. Fear. After viewing the cruelty he is capable of, Julian Domingas has become a familiar monster I’ve faced countless times before—but he doesn’t even measure up to the real thing. Diego has done far worse to me than trying to feed me to an animal.
Far, far worse.
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I croak. Adrenaline alone makes for one hell of a drug. I don’t feel a damn thing though I know I should be writhing in agony. I must be delirious. Or insane. Whatever infects me, I’m grateful as hell for it as it gives me the strength to incline my head and meet his stare head-on. “Next time, you should aim to draw more blood. It will better satisfy those sharks you keep at your beck and call, and a nastier scar makes for a far better war story to tell.”
Don’t I know it. Diego, for all the violence he inflicted on my body, was rather stingy when it came to the marks left behind to remember him by. My collection of scars is small but grisly. I look at them and shudder every single time. In my nightmares, I relive the infliction of each one, and they feel as real as the day he made them. Oh yes, Jaguar is off to a rousing start, but even this doesn’t come close.
I tell myself that over and over.It doesn’t.I’ve survived worse—I can survive this. I will survive him.
“Your magic tongue gets sharp when you’re angry,” Jaguar scolds. He crosses to a mini bar in the corner of the room and pours himself a shot of whiskey. Rather than drink it, he spins the liquid in its glass and eyes me from over the rim. “Have a drink. Have a seat. Let’s discuss this proof you planned to gather for me.”
A ragged sound rips out of me that I barely recognize. A laugh. A genuine one. “Oh, but I’ve already failed you,Jaguar,” I say, rolling the moniker around my tongue. It’s rude as hell, but I don’t feel one ounce of regret. Instead, I feel hysterical. I’m high on pain after years of withdrawal. I’m even smiling as I face him with dried blood still encrusted on my skin. “I won’t dare insult you by lingering to remind you of that shame. I’ll be leaving now. Give Gatita my warmest regards.”
“Oh no, Lupe.” He chuckles, shaking his head. Then he downs his shot in one go and pours another. “You aren’t going anywhere. Do you understand? You owe a debt to me, chica. From now on, you don’t do shit unless I tell you to. You don’t leave unless I grant you permission. You won’t even take a shit unless I allow you to.Claro?”
“You think you can control me?” The taunt is out before I can bite it back. The scary part? I don’t want to. I square my chin and stand ten toes down in the rebellious rage creeping beneath my skin.
“I don’t control you,” he says, his eyes unreadable. “I own you.”
A tendril of unease runs down my battered spine. He’s saying all the right things, but his tone is off. He’s too angry. There’s none of that violent, wild instability that warns he means every word. He’s not interested in me enough to put fire behind those threats. This is him merely going through the motions.
And some of my resolve cracks. I’m used to facing down a full-throated monster. Not a bored one.
“I respect you, Jaguar,” I tell him. Maybe I even do. “But don’t waste your time playing with a toy you don’t want. It demeans us both. Thank you for a wonderful evening, but—”
