Page 25 of For Cowgirls and Kings (The Trauma Bonded #2)

NINETEEN

ADALENE

It’s been days—the longest days of my life—since I was kidnapped from my house. In the darkest hours of the night, all I can think about is Queen Tut—did he stay inside? Did he run away?

Does anyone even know I’m gone?

I suck in a labored breath, my eyes aching as I struggle to open them. I’ve been a no show for work—surely they know something is wrong by now. Someone’s looking for me. Right?

The door creaks above me and I recoil, folding tighter into myself. Every part of my body hurts, and I’m no doubt littered in bruises and cuts, even though I haven’t had the heart to look. It won’t matter anyways.

I should feel lucky they haven’t made good on their threats to rape me yet. But I don’t have the heart for that either—I hurt everywhere. I feel violated, abused, degraded, and threatened in a way I can’t imagine getting much worse. They’ve broken my spirit, and I think that was the whole goal.

Well besides getting whoever they’re after.

Which I still can’t piece together. Nothing they’ve given me makes it obvious, and the more time I spend here, the more I question if they even know what they’re doing.

They aren’t organized, or even methodical.

Like the plan was thrown together more out of need or necessity, than a well-thought out mission.

But who do I know, and what did they do to make three brothers hate them so vehemently that they would seek this kind of action?

Gus? Stetson? Mateo? Faith? Could it have to do with my family? Is it lust, greed, or revenge?

What they don’t seem to understand is that I'm nobody. I have friends that barely know me because I’ve been too afraid to let them in, a family I haven’t seen in ten years because I’m afraid to stand up to them, and a man that—what? That’s my friend when it suits him?

“Mornin’, princessa.” Marco’s voice fills the small basement, and I cringe.

I haven’t decided what’s worse—Marco by himself or Marco with his brothers.

Although Rafael hasn’t hurt me, he also makes no move to protect me.

And I don’t know how much longer his kindness will last. Typically the odds are safer with one than three, but when it’s the most evil of the ones… “Brought ya some breakfast.”

His hand grips my shoulder, pulling my head up, even as I fight to remain as folded away from him as I can.

Long hair pools around me, matted and filthy, full of dried blood and…

other things . I haven’t been allowed to leave the basement in at least three days for anything, and I want to sob simply from the shame of it.

It’s humiliating. And I know Marco loves humiliating me.

“Eat.” He sets a plate on my lap before walking around to loosen my bindings.

I fight off a groan as my fingers begin to tingle, blood rushing to the tips of them as I bring them around to my front, gingerly rubbing my raw wrists.

He points down at the plate in my lap, and my fingers shake as I lift it up.

I smell something sweet, like syrup, and I bravely crack an eye open.

Pancakes—simple, but feels like a luxury compared to what I’ve been offered—and I can’t help the tears falling down my cheeks.

Why pancakes?

“I said eat. Don’ make me tell ya again.”

I trace my eyes to his face, clean shaven and smooth, with several tattoos peppering his skin, my eyes snagging on the name still slightly raised along his hairline.

I have half a mind to ask him who Jose is, but think better of it as his eyes snap into view of my own.

His eyes are hollow and dark, but the remainder of his expression is blank.

Like he’s waiting to decide how to feel, based on what I do next.

I look down at the plastic plate, a single pancake covered in sweet syrup and my mouth waters. “Thank you—” My eyes lift to his hands. “Do you…do you have a fork?”

The sound of the slap fills the room before I register the pain splintering across my face. I don’t cry out though. I bite violently down on my tongue, the taste of copper blossoming in my mouth. Crying out only seems to encourage his violence.

But this outburst is new. One on one, and with no direct reasoning is new. He’s escalating—desperate.

“Eat.” He spits the word, and I blink rapidly past the tears.

With filthy fingers I grab the pancake and bring it to my mouth.

I choke it down, unable to appreciate the small burst of joy that may have filled me, if it hadn’t been for the ache renewed in my face, or the humiliation of eating with fingers that are most likely covered in shit.

As I shove the final bite of it into my mouth, careful to not touch my fingers to my lips, his hand brushes the top of my head. I freeze at the contact. He brushes again—smoothing my hair out as if he’s petting me. Like a fucking psychopath.

I don’t know what to do, so I remain perfectly still, my hand still suspended in midair.

“Good girl, now, clean up ya hands so ya’re not sticky.”

I still don’t move. What the fuck is he asking me to do?

“Princessa,” he hisses the word, full of enough violence and hatred I can feel the burn all the way to my toes.

“How?” I hate the way my voice wobbles.

He growls, his petting halting, and then grips the back of my head, pulling my face up to look at him. Gone is his blank expression, replaced with one I can only compare to murderous. His eyes narrow, accompanied with a sneer that I know I’ll see in every nightmare I’ll ever have if I survive this.

Marco grabs my wrist, and I scream, unable to contain the noise as he twists my arm, the bones threatening to break. “Lick the syrup from ya fingers like the good little slut ya are.”

I stare at him, my chest quivering. Reluctantly I nod, licking my cracked bloody lips, and close my eyes as I lean forward to take my fingers in my mouth.

This is about power, humiliation. And I’ll do what he says if it means he feels powerful.

At this point it’s about survival. I want to survive.

I don’t know how or why, or where I’ll go from here, but for the first time, I know I have a purpose.

I must get out of this darkness, to do the things I’ve always wished to do, to be who I’ve always wanted to be.

He growls, forcing all of my fingers against my lips and into my mouth. I gag, unable to fight off the overwhelming disgust flooding my body. He pushes them farther, my wrist screaming from the angle, and my throat closing off from both fear and disgust.

I gag again, this time causing drool to spill past my lips. It runs down my neck and across the bruised flesh of my collar bone.

“Fuuucckk.”

My eyes snap open. He no longer sounds just hateful. He sounds aroused, and that’s the last fucking thing I want. I’ve made it this far without being violated in this way, and I fear it might be the only thing that’s keeping my soul from completely shattering.

He eyes me hungrily, not looking directly at my face, but at the drool falling unbidden down my neck.

The realization has me crying out, tugging at my arm. I have to get out of this situation. I’d rather him hit me, than be turned on by me. I’d rather him do anything but rape me.

I thought it couldn’t get worse, but this is worse. Seeing him, look at me like this, this is fucking worse.

He grips my wrist tighter, twisting it further and I crumple, trying to tuck into myself. He’s faster, and stronger, staying with me as I fall, and now instead of being farther from him, free from his grip, he’s on top of me, his hand wrapped around my throat.

“This can go one of two ways, princessa.” I don’t have to hear the rest of what he says to know what he means. I can either fight him, or accept my fate. Either way he’ll have what he wants.

I nod once, and he releases my wrist. I instantly pull it to my chest, cradling it against me.

But he doesn’t move from sitting on top of me, doesn’t break eye contact or remove his grip from my throat.

We stay like this for several seconds, caught in this single moment of time between “before and after,” before he shuffles up, pulling me with him.

I scramble to my feet, teetering because I still have ropes on my ankles.

He squeezes around my neck tighter, his eyes burning into my own.

“I’m going to untie these.” He kicks at the ropes.

“But if ya run, if ya even scream, my brothers will be down here. And then it’ll be three instead of one. Do ya hear me?”

I just stare at him, the sensation of floating above my body filling my limbs. My fingers tingle, lungs achy and tight—I’m numb, the realization of just how bad this will get cutting me to my core.

His grip still on my throat, he shakes my head and I snap back to my current reality.

I sob, but nod.

I don’t want to die in this place. Even if I don’t know that I’ll want to live if I ever get out.

Accepting my nod as cooperation, he bends down and makes quick work of the ropes.

“Get on your knees.”

I barely have a second to register his words before he slams a fist into my stomach, causing me to fold over.

I wheeze, but bite my tongue again. Screaming now will do me no good.

Even as I wonder if Rafael would allow Marco to do this to me.

A part of me thinks not, but the greater part—the part ruled by logic and fear—tells me Rafael has about as much say in this as I do.

I get on my knees, snot and tears sticky on my face. He either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care about my appearance, as his zipper drops, the sound sending dread through me like a bolt of lightning.

God, please make this go quickly.

It’s the only thing I can think to pray—the only words that repeat in my mind as he grips the back of my head once more, turning my face upward.

I try to pinch my eyes closed quickly, but not quick enough, as I see his cock, gripped in his free hand, surrounded by black, curly hair, dripping in pre-cum coming towards my face.

Instead of fighting, I open my mouth. What else can I do? I’ve spent my whole life pleasing others—how is this any different?

If I do this, maybe he’ ll stop here.

The first thing I notice is the saltiness that fills my senses—normally I welcome the taste of cock in my mouth, but this is different. Even with my limited experience, this is more acidic, and putrid, making my eyes water and throat constrict.

No doubt seeing my disgust, he growls, trusting harshly into my gaping jaw.

I know he wants me to suck, to do the work, but I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if my body— my pride —will allow me to.

“Fuckin’ suck my dick, ya stupid cunt, or I’ll do worse ta ya,” he whispers the words, but I hear the threat as loud as a siren. Swallowing my pride, and the last shred of dignity I have, I close my lips around his dick, and suck.

I don’t move my head, or flick my tongue the way I would if I was enjoying it. I just suck, like my life depends on it, and he does the rest. Luckily he’s not so big that I can’t breathe around him, but it’s enough to make me gag when he goes especially deep.

It begins with grunts, his fist tangled in my hair as his hips and balls slap against my skin, and quickly devolves into panting.

He fucks my mouth sloppily and roughly, fueled by anger and hatred.

I continue to suck, my cheeks hollow as he fucks and fucks, his chest quivering with the need to burst.

After several minutes, jaw aching, I slacken just slightly, unable to hold it any longer.

Before I can adjust, his free hand smashes against the right side of my face in a closed fist, and then comes across my left side with an open palm. Stunned, I cry out, which gives him enough opening to shove his nasty dick father into my throat.

My jaw quivers, and I fight every instinct to bite down. What I wouldn’t give to bite his dick clean from his body. But I know I wouldn’t get it in the first go, and that’s the only chance I’d have before he murdered me with his own hands.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” He pounds harder, and all I can do is hold on. My fists ball painfully in my lap, my nails breaking skin to keep from clawing at him.

Marco grabs both sides of my face now, and grinds his hips against me, his hair filling my nose and mouth, the overwhelming scent of him, filling my head.

I’ll never forget the smell of him as long as I live.

He stills, and I feel the first ribbon of cum hit the back of my throat.

I fight off a gag, only to be unsuccessful, my body coiling with disgust. This only infuriates him, and instead of hitting me again, he grips my throat in one hand, and pinches my nose with the other.

Suffocating me. Forcing me to swallow him.

After several seconds I start to convulse, my head swimming from the lack of oxygen. His cum keeps filling my mouth, my throat, and I start swallowing, desperate to find oxygen.

He just squeezes tighter and tighter, and stars dance in front of my closed eyes. I open them, looking up at him pleading.

But I’m met with a look so full of hatred, I close them again.

If that’s the last face I see before dying, I’ll never know peace again.

Instead I picture Queen Tut curled up in a sunny spot, Faith and Stetson giggling over margaritas, Stetson and Gus becoming parents, Mateo dancing in the living room…

Unclenching my fits, I start clawing at his legs. As I fade, I know I have to get air, and soon. I feel like I’m floating, falling, barreling towards a bottom that’ll never be reached.

I feel dead—light but heavy, dark and distant from the top or bottom of anywhere or anything. My body’s gone; my pain is a far away feeling. I’m not here or there, I’m just empty and drifting.

And with my last seconds of consciousness, I pray.

God, take me away from here.