“Let’s go.” He took three steps toward the room and stopped with his back to her. “Start walking, Gina, or I will rip off your pants and blister your ass.”
Tomas stood off to the side, his expression blank. No one moved.
He set a toe behind the opposite heel, pivoted, and stalked toward her. With her legs sprawled and chest heaving, she thrust up her chin. It was all she could do before he was on her.
Flipping her to her stomach, he set a knee on her back and shoved a hand beneath her waistband.
A button flew. The zipper broke, and the thin cutoffs ripped like tissue paper. Her panties followed, and he tossed the shreds aside.
Nude from the waist down, she clenched a firm, round, tanned backside.
Lust hit his circulation like a crackle of fireworks, lighting him up from the inside out. But he couldn’t enjoy this. He shouldn’t.
That was the real bitch of it. He had to behave as if spanking and touching and fucking this woman was pure goddamn bliss without taking real pleasure in it. Without becoming the monster he pretended to be.
She’d been violated and abused in unspeakable ways. No matter what he did with her, to her, he couldn’t forget that.
So as his hand came down on her ass, he made her feel it without feeling it himself. He wailed on her, avoiding her injuries smoothly enough that she didn’t notice the mercy. He hit her just enough to make her fear him, and she took the punishment without making a sound.
When he was sure his point was made, he threw her over his shoulder and hauled her to his room.
She didn’t cry or struggle, didn’t try to hide her red backside from the men he passed. But she didn’t just hang there, either. Her muscles contracted against him, bracing for war, biding time.
She was plotting a way out of this. If she wasn’t, she fucking well should’ve been.
Tomas opened the door with his key reader, and Luke carried her directly to the bathroom.
Placing a chair beside the tub, he dropped her there and got in her face. “Don’t move.”
She gave him an unblinking stare, looking pissed and miserable beneath all those bruises.
He cranked the faucet for the bath, tested the water, and let it run. Then he strode behind her, out of her range of sight.
Tomas joined him at the vanity across the room, monitoring her as Luke doused cold water on his face. In the mirror, he watched her, too, stealing glimpses between splashes of water.
His hands were shaking.
Shoving them under the faucet, he tried to calm himself. Except he didn’t feel nervous. No panic or dread. Could’ve been the lingering effects of adrenaline. But there was something else. He felt different. Dazed. Empty.
“I’m losing myself,” he whispered.
I killed an innocent girl.
Tomas leaned in while keeping his golden eyes laser-focused on the woman’s back.
She couldn’t hear them, not over the water spraying from multiple faucets.
“You’re still you.” Tomas gripped the tie at Luke’s throat, loosening and removing it.
“I feel numb. Cold. Really fucking cold.”
“It’s temporary. Embrace it for just a little longer.” With steady hands, Tomas unbuttoned Luke’s collar and spoke in his ear. “I know it doesn’t feel right, but you’re doing a good thing. Focus on the big picture, the end goal, and remember, I’m here. If you fall too deep, I’ll pull you back.”
Too late.
Luke shrugged out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, his movements wooden.
Tomas placed a supportive hand on his neck and gave him a look that had been forged in trauma, friendship, and solidarity.
“You’re John Smith. A slave buyer.” Tomas shored up his grip, squeezing painfully. “Act like it.”
“Done.” He knocked the hand away and shed the remains of Luke Sanch.
Then he turned toward his newly acquired slave.
Her lower half was naked, but she hadn’t consciously registered that detail until his eyes latched onto her in the mirror. Green eyes, glowing like toxic fire as they licked across her battered body.
With her back to him, she didn’t need to turn around. The full-length mirror near the door hung at a convenient angle, giving her a direct view of him with his bodyguard. And what a strange bromance they shared.
First off, why were they both so damn good-looking? That wasn’t normal. Not in this cesspool of pervy sadists. In the years she’d been imprisoned here, she’d never seen an attractive guest.
It was surface-level bullshit anyway. Every man here was hideous at his core.
But what struck her was the way these two interacted. A moment ago, the golden-eyed bodyguard seemed to console his boss, whispering sternly while helping him undress.
The boss—a sickeningly gorgeous redhead who called himself John—certainly didn’t look like he needed comfort. Especially not now as he swung his searing gaze around the damage splotching her skin.
God, she hurt. Her head pounded, and her face felt like an overinflated basketball. Her mouth and cheeks throbbed, so hard and swollen she couldn’t even scowl. Or cry.
The pain in her ribs indicated more bruising. Last year, they’d cracked during a fight and hadn’t felt the same since. Then there were the degrading welts on her ass, which burned each time she shifted. He’d enjoyed that particular torment. No noticeable bulge in his pants, but his eyes had dilated the moment he’d hit her.
He didn’t take those eyes off her now as he prowled closer, all hard angles and long, muscled legs, eating up the distance. He hadn’t known she’d been watching him with his employee and didn’t look happy about it. Whatever. It didn’t change her outcome.
She knew why she was here and what he expected from her. If she fled, he would punish another girl. Even if she could physically run to the outside perimeter, Marco’s men would capture her, drag her back to the basement, and torture another captive.
Like today.
That poor, innocent girl. Viciously butchered and killed. Because of her.
Every time she closed her eyes, she relived that horror. She still couldn’t believe John had the balls to end the girl’s life. Despite what he’d said, he hadn’t done it out of cruel annoyance. Marco might’ve bought the act, but the conflict in John’s eyes hadn’t lied. He’d hated doing it and suffered for it.
Circling her chair, he stopped before her and laid his gaze boldly on hers. He didn’t move, didn’t blink, as if caught in a trance. Or maybe she was the one entranced. His stare wasn’t a stare. It was a labyrinth. All high walls, dark corners, and confusing dead ends.
No way out.
She spent a week in the maze of his eyes. At least, that was how long it felt before he released her and shifted his attention to her lap.
He lingered on the shallow gashes, the dirt caking her knees and feet, and the patch of trim black hair between her legs. Despite the conversation in the elevator, he wouldn’t find a drop of come on her body.
Marco and Omar usually fucked her after a fight. But tonight, they’d punished her in the worst way possible.
Her chest squeezed, and a thousand needles stabbed the backs of her eyes. She would mourn the nameless girl who’d bled for her. But not now, not here. She couldn’t let the sorrow cripple her.
Anger was her only friend. “What are you looking at?”