Page 56 of For Cowgirls and Kings

I soak in each of his words, like some kind of clue to a puzzle I still don’t know the image for. But one thing keeps ringing through my head, a small beacon of hope, and even though I know I shouldn’t shine light on it, I ask, “But you don’t?”

He shrugs before stepping behind me, retying each of my restraints. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll suffer regardless.”

His callousness, right when I was feeling a flicker of hope, feels like a knife through the gut, twisting so deeply that my perfectly composed reservoir of anger spills over, racing through my veins.

I know I shouldn’t have let myself feel hope—the fall is always greater than the high. But as I fall, I can’t fight off the overwhelming rage that pools on my tongue like venom.I’m never getting out of here.

“Aren’t you going to ask what I did to deserve this kind of punishment this time?” I hiss, throwing his previous words at him. If he wants to smother my hope, then he might as well not pretend to be anything but the monster he is.

He moves toward the stairs, his back taunt beneath the fabric of his shirt. And then he shakes his head, whispering “No one deserves this.”

TWENTY-ONE

ADALENE

February 18th, 2025

“Marco, this isn’t necessary.”The panic in Rafael’s voice kicks my heart into instant overdrive. I strain against the ropes around my wrists, desperate to catch the rest of their conversation, but I’m met with only muffled shuffling.

It’s mid-afternoon now, the sunshine streaming through the window warming the concrete beneath my bare feet enough to make it bearable. It’s been a warm day, and for the first time since being here, my muscles have relaxed from their constantly shivering and tense state.

But now I know it’s all been a ploy to make me feel safe once more—not only are Marco and his brothers manipulating me, but so must god. Because for the first time all week, I’ve been able to breathe, and I know in my soul, that’s all about to end.

“Marco, enough,” Rafael barks seconds before the door at the top of the stairs slams open. I curl in on myself, the rage simmering off Marco’s body barreling toward me.

“Ya wanted to clean ‘er up, ya wanted to take care of ‘er? Why, Rafael? What purpose?” Marco spits hitting the bottom step.

Rafael and Javier barrel in behind him, and I focus solely on Rafael’s expression. Which seems to only piss Marco off more, his face reddening in the corner of my vision.

“She’s innocent in all of this,” Rafael whispers, and my heart cracks at the defeat in his voice. He doesn’t think I deserve this, and yet there’s nothing he can do about it.

Or rather, will do about it.

My heart shatters farther.

“She’s one of them,” Javier sneers. I blink, willing the tears now gathering anew on my lash line to stay at bay. My eyes bore into the side of Rafael’s face, but he doesn’t spare me a glance.

“Did ya clean ‘er up for me?” Marco spits, and Rafael’s body stiffens a fraction. “No? For Javier?”

Tears start streaming over my cheeks now, the implication in his words obvious.

“No I don’ think so. Ya did it for yaself. Which, I spose I can respect. But now that ya’ve gone to all the trouble, ya might as well make good use of yar efforts.”

Rafael shakes his head, but there’s little heat left in his expression. He’s relenting, and I’ve never felt more betrayed. Rage simmers through me, burning away any remaining composure. My body begins to quiver, tears so hot they scald against my skin falling down my face.

How could he?

“You’re a coward,” I hiss before I’ve had a second to reconsider. But instead of acting angry like I want him to, Rafael finally meets my gaze, and there’s only pity there. Not determination to prove me wrong, not anger and disappointment in being called such a thing.Pity and resignation.

Sobs steal the oxygen from my throat, my entire body rocking with the sudden ferociousness of them.

“Untie her,” Marco demands, and like so many times before, Rafael and Javier jump at his command, pouncing toward me.Instead of remaining docile like I have so many times, I begin to thrash, screaming at the top of my lungs.

Rage and grief punch through me with equal intensity, and I release everything I’ve pent up as they wrestle me to the barely warmed floor. I fight for every time someone used me, thinking I was weak; I fight for every time my mother made me question why I wasn’t enough—for every time I questioned myself for the same thing. I fight for every piece of my soul I sold to the lowest bidder, just to feel like I was important, and for every person I changed myself for just to feel accepted. I fight for every time I didn’t fight for myself.

I fight until my throat’s raw, barely a hoarse cry filling the basement, and my skin is bruised and swollen from the enormous hands working to handle me.

“Rafael, now.” Marco’s voice booms, but I barely hear it above the pounding in my ears.