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I could play dumb, but that’s more Oz’s role than mine. And for once, he’s being serious.
“Yeah. I felt it. I just hoped it was indigestion,” I admit, which makes him grin.
“Indigestion of the dick, maybe. Because I’m sure my loins were burning.”
I shove him off the bed and ignore him while he laughs, opening my sock drawer and tossing a few pairs into my bag.
“What is wrong with you?”
“Lack of oxygen to the brain, probably from sharing a womb with your fat ass for nine months. All jokes aside, do you think she’s still alive?”
I think back to the picture of Salem Harries, the woman with the fascinating eyes, and find myself hoping she is.
“I don’t know, Oz, but there’s a chance.”
“Yeah. I guess so, even if that chance is one in a million.”
CHAPTERTWO
Salem
Ilean my head against my knees and sing softly to myself, focusing on the words instead of the screaming around me.
I’m dissociating. I’ve read enough self-help books to know. I just don’t care. We all have coping mechanisms, and if pretending I’m somewhere else, far, far away from the cell I’m currently sitting in, keeps my mental breakdown at bay, then so be it.
Laughter threatens to pull me back to the here and now, so I slide my hands over my ears and close my eyes tightly. Like a toddler, I almost hope that if I can’t see or hear them, they won’t be able to see or hear me either. I know that’s just wishful thinking. I can obscure my sight by closing my eyes, but I can’t block out the sounds. Still, when I hear the clank of the lock, I keep myself small, hopeful they won’t spot me in the corner.
When a rough hand grabs my arm and yanks me to my feet, I don’t put up a fight. I don’t have the strength anymore, and fighting never worked out very well for me before. I let the angry man yelling at me in rapid Spanish drag me from the room, wincing when the darkness gives way to blinding light.
More Spanish, more yelling, and then I’m tossed to the stone floor. I scrape the skin off my palms, catching myself, but I don’t react, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.
“Look at me,” a soft voice laced with mockery commands.
His voice doesn’t go with his face, I think as I lift my head and stare into the eyes of a man I loathe with every fiber of my being.
Alejandro Ortiz may have a softly spoken voice, but that is the only thing soft about the man. He is evil to the core. He’s seven years younger than me, but when I’m in his presence, I’m the one that feels like a scared, vulnerable child.
“Salem, Salem, Salem. You know it doesn’t have to be this way.” He lifts his hand in awhat you gonna dogesture.
“If you become my wife, you will never know a day of poverty again. I will provide for you.” He slams his hand against his chest. “I will fight for you. I will protect you.” He thumps his hand against his chest each time he speaks.
“You know why I can’t,” I whisper, feeling the coils of his anger whip through the air. The others in the room tense in fear as they watch and wait.
He won’t punish me for my insolence. He’ll punish someone else and make me watch. And then the cycle will repeat—the push and pull of captor versus captive, weaving a horrific pattern of pain and torment—until one day, my soul will be stained darker than his. The only thing stopping me from agreeing to sacrifice myself to save the others—others who would never try to save me—is that our marriage will make Alejandro Ortiz even more powerful than he already is. Power that is as dark and corrupt as nothing I’ve ever seen. This city will seem like a small pond when he realizes just what kind of weapon he has at his fingertips.
“Yes, yes, your no-sex thing. I respect that. But I don’t need a wife to fuck. I have whores for that.” He snaps his fingers, and the same guard who brought me here grabs a woman from the crowd of onlookers and drags her toward Alejandro, ignoring her whimpers.
I swallow the wave of revulsion but keep my eyes locked on the scene in front of me. I ignore the man watching me, waiting for me to break, which would give him exactly what he wants. He’s waiting for me to scream and cry. To plead for this woman’s life. But I can’t. I have no power here, and my pleas would only fuel his pleasure, which I fear would be even worse for the woman.
The guard drops her at Alejandro’s feet, a foot or so in front of me, before moving to stand at my back once more. His role now is one we are both familiar with. He won’t touch me as long as I watch. The second I look away, he’ll grab my hair and yank my head back around and hold me in place until Alejandro gives him the signal to release me.
“Strip,” Alejandro commands the terrified woman. He doesn’t look at her; he looks at me. It turns him on. Sometimes I think it’s the depravity that gets him off instead of the sexual act itself.
The woman makes quick work of unbuttoning her dress, even though her hands shake. She slips it off her shoulders and lets it pool at her feet before removing her basic white bra. She cries softly, but her actions are methodical, knowing that she, like me, has no choice but to comply.
Once she is completely naked and standing before him with her hands fisted at her sides, he looks at her with disdain on his face for a moment before he looks back over to me. “Kneel,” he orders her.
When she doesn’t move quickly enough, he kicks out her knee, making her drop to the ground with a scream. Grabbing for her hair, he yanks her to him and tugs on his pants to free his dick.
