Page 34 of Blurred Red Lines

I didn’t expect him to walk out on me, although I kept myself under no illusion that he’d let me go. I wasn’t stupid. The man I thought could be my savior was one of my captors. I just didn’t know how he ranked in the hierarchy.

Still, I thought maybe he’d turn around when I threw his shirt and at least give me some form of common comfort.

A real room. Fresh clothes. Another caress of his hand.

His touch had been the only thing in the past twenty-four hours that remotely came close to easing the ache where my heart used to be. The thought totally mind fucked me, because his hand had a part in its removal in the first place.

Every time I thought of being in the cantina, I felt sick, so I forced myself to concentrate on pumping life back into my cold and pale skin. Wiggling my fingers, pins and needles shot through my arm, and I winced at the sensation. I’d never been so uncomfortable in my life as I sat upright, my stiff body screaming in protest. A quick glance at my wrist confirmed that the bleeding had stopped, so at least I knew I wouldn’t die of blood loss.

Small favors.

The sound of keys rattling in the door pulled my attention away, and I balled myself up, not sure who’d be walking into the room. Out of the two, I’d prefer Val over Emilio. The dynamics of my relationship with my boss had been forever altered. Besides that, he seemed more of a loose cannon.

I held my breath until the door creaked open, and a young man about my age with a strong muscular build and shoulder-length, dark hair slipped through carrying a plastic tray. He eyed me curiously but glanced away once our eyes met.

“Boss says you need to eat,” he said, placing the tray in front of me.

I ground my teeth and turned away from him. “I’m not hungry.”

That was a lie. I was starving. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten.

He ignored me and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I’d eat, if I were you. You don’t want to piss him off.”

I shifted a glare toward him. “Who is ‘him’? Emilio? Val? Some other Carrera man hiding in this house who’s yet to make sure I’m being a good prisoner? Tell me.”

His fingers tightened in his pockets, and he paused a moment before answering. “You really don’t get it, do you?”

“There’s not much to get. Chains. Blood. Inhumanity. It’s pretty self-explanatory.”

“What?” His handsome face contorted in disgust. “No. You should be thankful he didn’t leave you to those assholes. You’d definitely get a taste of inhumanity then.”

I pulled on my cuffed wrist for emphasis. “Gee, thanks.”

Shaking his head, he walked the few steps remaining from the door to the bed and arranged the plastic cup of water next to the tray.

No glass.

Smart.

I watched carefully as his gaze shifted to my wrist, the lines in his forehead deepening. Something in this man struck me as more rational than the other two. He seemed more human and more easily manipulated.

“Do you have a name, or do I just call you my personal chef?”

He chuckled and scratched his temple with his index finger. “Boss said you were a handful. Nice try, but your trick isn’t going to work, lady.”

“No tricks. And my name is Eden. Do you have one?”

“I don’t need to throw tricks. I’m not the one cuffed to a bed.” He grinned, his smile fully amused at my expense.

“Nice.” Turning inward, I closed my eyes and waited for him to leave. Moments passed with only silence in the room.

“Mateo.”

Popping an eye back open, I stared at him. He still stood in the same spot regarding me curiously, with a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. I had no idea why he hadn’t walked out, but I wasn’t about to let the opportunity pass.

“Excuse me?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Mateo,” he repeated. “My name? You asked my name.”