Page 22 of For Cowgirls and Kings (The Trauma Bonded #2)

SEVENTEEN

ADALENE

I know I’ve wished for the end of my existence—or escape at the very least before, but now all of those times, all those reasons, feel like child's play. They feel shallow, weak, and pathetic.

I wanted to die because I was unhappy with my life and the person I’d become.

But if that was my greatest grievance against life, then someone should have hit me with a baseball bat and told me to grow the fuck up.

I’d love nothing more than to go back and hit myself.

But even now, I know that’s not how depression works.

How could I have been so stupid, so naive? Then I at least had the power to change who I was, or who I could become. I was unhappy, but afraid of change. Why was I afraid though? Now I can’t even remember.

Underneath it all, I recognize the untreated depression—it would explain my violent mood swings, and constant need to find artificial means of happiness. But now, now that I’ve suffered something truly horrific, every other “reason” I had for being unhappy with my life burns into a pile of ashes.

I should have been more grateful for what I had—who I had.

None of that matters now. No amount of self-loathing is going to fix this.

I can’t go back. I can’t change who I was before this. I can’t undo what’s been done to me. But I sure as hell can be brave now.

“I have to get out,” I whisper, the sound small and broken, falling on only the ears of ghosts. Suffering the violence I have in the last twenty-four hours hasn’t made me want to die. If anything it’s given me a reason to live. To find vengeance. To find control.

I look around the room, the cracks and crevices almost second nature now.

There’s nothing in here that I’ve found useful, yet, not that it matters because I’m still painfully bound.

The sun has climbed and fallen from the sky, only hazy light filtering through the small window in the corner signaling the end of the first day.

The first day of the rest of my life.

The blood from my lip is dry now, crusty where it lies on my chin and neck. It was the worst of the blows, although not the only one. I can feel my left eye swelling, and my temple aches from the hit I took to my head.

Their attack was violent and angry and full of so much hatred I know it was personal. But I still can’t piece together why. What have I done, or who do I know that would elicit such a violent response?

That’s a problem for another day.

I lean forward, the chair beneath me groaning. I’m careful not to topple over, because I know once I’m over, I’m definitely not going anywhere. I have one shot at escaping, and even if I have to wait for the perfect moment and endure whatever it is they have planned for me, I will.

I look back over at the pile of medical supplies—the bed itself looks like someone just rolled off of it—the covers turned back, and indented where they’d been laying. But I’ve seen no one even go near it. Maybe it isn’t theirs?

If not theirs, is this even their house? I need to give up the weak act the next time they’re around, and actually start gathering information.

If the mouse pissed them off, and disappointed them, I’ll show them how cunning and ruthless I can really be.

The door slams open again, and I cringe, unprepared for another onslaught of fists. I suck in a sob, unwilling to let them see me cry anymore. But only one set of feet bounds down the stairs, almost tapping lightly, like he’s excited to be here.

“Princessa, lookin’ beautiful.” A shiver races through my body as Marco comes into view, his arms full of what looks like clothing, food, and water. “I’m ‘ere ta take care a ya.”

“I’m fine.” I bite out the words, even as my stomach growls in disagreement. I don’t want to eat anything they offer me. What if it’s poisonous? What if it makes me feel better, just so he can beat me down again?

“Now, princessa?—”

“Stop calling me that.” Spit clings to my split lip. He quirks his head, eyes narrowing at me, before he smiles.

It’s a broad smile, filling his face with false sunshine, the corners of it reaching his eyes. He looks delighted, and that is the most terrifying of any look I could have gotten out of him.

“Not so scar’d when it’s you and I, huh? Good.” He sets the clothes and supplies down and walks toward me, not caring that I shy away from him. “My brothers wan’ do horrible things to ya, not that I blame ‘em. Yer too beautiful to not be tempted. But I’d rather have ya to myself than share ya.”

I bite my tongue, swallowing a scream. One, even if it is the most evil of the three, is better than three.

When they were hitting me earlier, it was him that stood off to the side and watched each blow be exacted to my face.

It was his eyes that watched me break beneath his brother’s hands, to beg and scream for mercy.

It was his lips that told them to hold me down.

But it was also his words that made them stop right before they raped me.

I don’t think it was mercy that made him stop. It was calculation—he wants me to know he’s in control, to fear my fate and to know what will happen if I misbehave. Or what will happen anyway, and live in fear of when .

He bends, beginning to loosen the restraints on my arms. He doesn’t seem concerned that I could hit him now, or that I’m free enough to run.

He’s cocky. And he’s proving once more that he’s in control.

Doing the only thing I can think of to show him he’s wrong, I lean forward as he kneels between my thighs, untying my ankles and spit on him.

He freezes, and I instantly regret the action.

What was I thinking? When has spitting on a man ever resulted in something besides anger or arousal? How could I have been so impulsive?

My body begins to tremble anew, fear pouring through me like a tidal wave.

Except his shoulders start to shake, and a low chuckle fills the room. Chills erupt over my body, the hairs on the back of my neck standing at full attention. He tips his head up, his eyes snapping to mine, a wicked smile still on his lips.

Up this close I notice the precise fade of his black hair—thick waves on top of his head, tapered down to razor blade closeness above his ears—and the seemingly fresh tattoo scrawled there.

Jose.

“Do ya’ want to play now, princessa?” His cruel voice is full of something husky and deep. I lean away from him again, and sneer back.

“Not a fat fucking chance, Marco.” I spit his name out like the poison it is.

He tsks, shaking his head, but his eyes never leave my face. They blaze over my skin, traveling down to my split lip, and then before I can scream, he leans forward licking the blood there, his tongue rough on the cut causing it to split again.

With my hands now untied, I shove at his chest, refusing to be meek any longer. “Get, the fuck, off me.”

In another universe, through the pages of a book maybe, this might be hot. Fuck, I think I’ve even read a dark romance where I fantasized about such a thing happening to me.

But I’m in no book, and this is no dark romance where we’re going to fall in love. This is a nightmare I’m fully awake for, and I’m going to be lucky if I even make it out alive, much less mentally intact.

He shrugs, and stands up, seeming unperturbed by my disgust.

“This can be easy or hard, how’er ya want it, princessa. Yer not really the target ‘ere so ya don’t have to suffer if ya don’ want to.”

I eye him skeptically. Could that be true? “You’re going to let me go, after all this, if you get whatever it is you want?”

He snorts, and then turns around, a large jacket in his extended hand. I numbly take it, deciding I have a better chance of escaping if I don’t freeze to death first. “No, but ya won’ suffer if ya don’ make it hard for yaself.”

Assuming it and hearing it are two totally different experiences. The first is terrifying. The second is devastating. Tears gather, hot and heavy, against my eyelids once more but I refuse to let them fall. I won’t give him what he wants—he can’t have more control.

“Come on, eat somethin’.” He points at the tupperware of what looks like cheese and crackers and meat sticks. Strangely decent snack for the scenario.

I take the box of food, my earlier reservation gone, and begin shoveling it into my mouth. I’m starving after all. He watches me, his dark gaze never wavering, and I know he’s busy calculating.

Once I’ve finished the snacks, I set the box down and hug the jacket tighter around me. I ignore the minty smell that fills my nose when I do so. “Will you do it?” I ask, breaking the silence that’s gathered around us.

“D’ya wan’ me to?” He sounds genuinely curious, and I have to ask myself the same question.

“Anyone but you.” I hurl the words at him, the implication heavy.

To my surprise he nods, accepting this as my final request. He steps closer once more, and I cower, terror icing through my veins simply from his nearness.

He freezes for a moment before growling, and lowering to the floor, retying my ankles with the rope—this time tighter, the rough material cutting into my skin.

When he’s finished with my ankles, he steps behind me, retying my wrists, adding a new rope, anchoring my ankle tie to my hands. I’m hog tied around this chair, freezing, desperate to use a bathroom—and completely at his mercy.

Marco moves to stand in front of me once more, his hand running through the hair crusting to the side of my face, his eyes burning over my skin. I lean away from his touch, scrunching my eyes closed. With a heavy sigh, he drops his hand, but I keep my eyes clamped shut.

“Night, princessa, don’t let the boogeyman get ya.” He climbs the stairs, closing the door with a loud click, and then the lights go off.

I’m jolted awake by angry voices, muffled but rising in volume. I blink rapidly, trying to clear the haze of sleep from my exhausted mind. All at once, memories of the last twenty-four hours slam into me, arresting the breath in my throat.