“You’re mine now,” Domenico growled against my ear.
My brow scrunched, and then the man who’d tattooed me held up a mirror. My appearance shocked me. Weeks of poor nutrition had thinned out my face and my body. My hair was a rat’s nest of tangles, greasy and knotted (despite my limited efforts), with some of the natural shine missing. Dark circles sat under my eyes, and a light layer of dirt was smudged all over my skin. No matter how hard I tried to bathe, a bucket sponge bath was no substitute for a shower. Even with the makeshift shower I was occasionally allowed, it simply wasn’t enough.
The only clean patch of skin was where he’d cleaned off my right clavicle. The skin there was red from irritation, and in the center, in black cursive lettering, sat one word—Domenico.
I’d been branded with his name. His name.
I was caught between fear and elation and confusion. What did it really mean? What was the real reason behind the new ink embedded into my skin?
Oddly, it gave me back a small spark of the hope that had almost completely left me. If he, the leader, had marked me, maybe I wouldn’t be sold, maybe I wouldn’t have to use the one and only card I had up my sleeve. The only thing I knew that could save me was the same thing I refused to use.
But maybe I’d been handed a new way of survival…at Domenico’s side.
Every day since Domenico had ordered Marco to reduce the amount of crew, the loiterers had decreased. Only the trusted few circulated, and I noticed Roman was not one of them.
The sad-looking rose was a ghost of its former self. The amount of petals that remained was small, and I couldn’t help the hard thump of my heart when I again wondered what would happen when there were no petals left.
Domenico had marked me, but would that save me from whatever fate was only days away? I’d managed to survive weeks. A couple of the guys were watching the news on a laptop and I overheard how Halloween was fast approaching, only fourteen days away.
I’d been in my cell, surviving, beating the odds and keeping my secrets locked tight, for over three weeks. Yes, I’d been violated in many ways, the worst being my dignity over the corruption of my body. I didn’t like what was done to me, but he somehow made up for it. None of it was enough to break me, but it was enough to weaken me.
More than once I almost slipped, the words sitting on the tip of my tongue.
Domenico seemed more on edge since the explosion of testosterone and subsequent culling of men. The fewer there were, the more alert he became, almost like he was waiting for an attack.
Everything was about to change. I could feel it deep in my gut. The only problem was that I didn’t know what that meant for me.
“Ella?” someone called, rousing me.
My eyes tried to focus, but there was no strength in me.
“Ella!” the voice hissed.
In my haze, I heard the door to my cage rattle and groan before creaking open, clanging when it slammed against the wall.
“Come on, we don’t have much time.”
I didn’t move. I couldn’t. Sleep had me, and my weakened state made it harder to comply.
“Get the fuck up!” he growled.
It wasn’t enough.
He stomped forward and gripped my arm tight, rolling me onto my back. Lazily my eyes found his and the sharpness of his gaze forced a shot of adrenaline through me, waking up my tired limbs.
“If you want out of this shithole, get the fuck up,” Domenico hissed.
I stared up at him, my brain trying to process his words. My gaze bounced between his eyes, confusion flooding me. What was he talking about?
I had less than two seconds to decide what my response was. Go or stay? And which was the right answer?
Did I trust him enough to leave? Or was he simply dragging me to another level of hell?
The silence made up my mind. There was nobody around, not even Marco. We were alone.
He slipped my shoes on as I sat up, then pulled me to my feet.
His hand sat in the space between us. I looked from it to his eyes and made my decision—I slipped my hand in his.
“Why are you helping me?” I asked as we raced across the open space to the door leading to the fire escape.
“Because I’m your knight in fucking black armor, princess. Now let’s go before they notice your cage is empty.”
My muscles were stiff, and his arm wrapped around my waist to help hold me up while we descended the stairs.
There were a couple of beat-up cars in the gravel lot, including my familiar sedan. He popped the trunk, and I noted the bags upon bags before he pulled out my duffel and my Louis Vuitton bag.
They had cleared out my apartment. Domenico had packed me a bag in anticipation.
“Did you grab the photo of my mother?” I asked, my chest clenching.
“We didn’t grab any pictures, just some of your clothes to make it look like you bailed.”
I grabbed hold of his arm. “It’s the only thing I have of her. Please.”
His jaw clenched and he growled, “We have two minutes.” He turned toward an older car, one I recognized, and who wouldn’t? It was a black sixties-era Ford Mustang. “Get in.”
He threw my bags into the trunk, and in seconds we were off. The Mustang’s engine roared as he pressed the gas pedal, rocketing us down the street, kicking up gravel in its wake.
“When are you going to tell me what’s going on?” I asked when we were a couple of blocks away.
His eyes scanned the mirrors to make sure we were in the clear. “When we get somewhere safe.”
Somewhere safe. My pulse sped up as a new rock settled in my stomach. Whatever safety being Domenico’s had provided was abolished by his act of freeing me.
I wasn’t safe anymore, if I ever was in any measure.
What unnerved me the most was my calmness. Domenico had freed me. He had stolen me away. The leader.
La Bestia.
And I was oddly fine with it.
Was it shock, or the simple knowledge that I was his and I went where he went?
I didn’t even tell him how to get to my apartment, but after a while the scenery became more familiar. Was there anything left? Were my few prized possessions still there?
My rent was paid up, even with my disappearing for three weeks. His men had emptied a lot of my stuff out. Would they have left the two items I desperately needed? Or were they stuffed in one of the bags still in my trunk?
He pulled into the small parking lot of my building and quickly headed up. The shitty metal steps clanged beneath us with each step up to the second floor. When we got to my apartment, I realized there was a fatal flaw in this plan.
“I don’t have my keys.”
Domenico pushed past me and pulled a set of keys from his pocket. I recognized the yellow leather rose key chain—he had my keys.
Once the door was open, he held it for me while his eyes swept the parking lot one last time.
My apartment was trashed. Books were strewn everywhere, furniture flipped, and my tiny kitchen had dishes everywhere. It felt like a violation worse than what Domenico had done.
I ran in and immediately located a plastic bag on the floor and tossed in a few of my books that were littered around. In the bathroom I grabbed a few missed items and tossed them into an empty makeup bag.
Maybe after over three weeks I could finally have a hot shower. The thought alone felt like heaven, especially after my sponge baths in front of hungry eyes in a dirt-filled cage.