Page 26 of For Cowgirls and Kings (The Trauma Bonded #2)
TWENTY
ADALENE
“Adalene Maria, you come back here right now.” The harsh shrill of my mother’s voice sends goosebumps skittering across my skin, the exposed flesh of my arms pebbling. I halt, the command in her voice making it impossible to do anything but turn around.
My heart instantly kicks up, the familiar rush of fear coursing through me at the impending lashing I’ll inevitably get.
What did I do wrong this time?
I face her, the anxiety coursing through my veins like a thousand racing horses, each one kicking my heart into higher gear. One of these days, it’ll surely burst. And when it does, it’ll be a mercy.
“Mama?” I ask, forcing my voice to sound confident even as it quivers.
Her eyes zero in on me, her face twisting into a look of disgust. Gone is the impenetrable mask of poise and lady-like dignity.
In its place is the face reserved only for me— disdain and disappointment.
Her lips pull back into a snarl, and that ever familiar rush of heated anger splotches across her face.
“What are you wearing, Adalene? This is absolutely inappropriate.”
My eyes instantly drop to my clothes, scouring for the offending piece or pieces. Did I forget a bra? Did the seam in my butt rip out? Is something see-through?
Seeing nothing out of place, besides the color—today I exchanged my usual whites and pinks for purples—I raise my eyes to hers. Her arms cross over her chest, eyebrow raised like whatever it is, is so obvious, it’s embarrassing.
“I’m sorry, I don’t?—”
“That color is absolutely disgusting on you. And the fit of that shirt and pants…Adalene, are you wanting people to think we overfeed you?”
I straighten. The words aren’t unfamiliar—I’m used to being too much, too big, too loud. But the older I get, the closer I get to freedom, the more they cut through the composure I used to pride myself on.
Why does she have to be so mean?
“I’m still perfectly covered, Mama. It’s just purple—our school colors are purple and gold.
I wanted to fit in for the pep rally today.
” My chest begins to quiver, the wave of repressed emotions rushing me as they always do when in confrontation.
The truth is, I’ve never stood up for myself, but the more I get beat down, containing these feelings, the more they fill up every open cell in my body with hatred, anger, sadness, guilt—each one heavier than the last and threatening to burst.
But I refuse to cry in front of her. It’ll only make me weaker in her eyes, and just once I want her to see me as the daughter worth something.
Her scowl instantly drops, her expression perfectly neutral even as her eyes glitter with anger. She steps toward me, but I remain perfectly still, knowing that if I back up, that too will make me look weak .
“How dare you speak back to your mother. Now, go change.”
I bite my lip, bracing for impact as I open my mouth to say the one thing I’ve never once said to my mother.
“No, Mama. I’m late for school and I’d like to wear this today.”
The instant tingles spread through the side of my face as her hand lands with a crack on my cheek. I twist away from her, but remain rooted to my spot, more afraid of avoiding her wrath than I am of enduring it. At least if I endure it, maybe she won't be as disappointed in me.
“Go upstairs and change now. You look like a slut, and I will not have any sluts in this house. Do you hear me?” Her voice is deathly quiet, the volume not needed to convey her complete disgust.
“I don’t understand,” I whisper.
“If you look like a slut, you’ll be attracting attention. And if something happens to you, it will be no one’s fault but your own. Do you want to be an embarrassment to our family? A disgrace?”
“You really think some people deserve the horrible things that happen to them?” I know I shouldn’t be pushing her, but just this once, I want her to admit the deep rooted hatred she keeps so well hidden.
“I think if you don't change your clothes, and your attitude, you’ll deserve whatever comes your way.”
I shiver, the hatred burning through my veins before I relent, turning toward my room to change. As I do, the door bangs open, my little sister racing in, in a cloud of pink tulle and shiny black pigtails.
I pause, aching to pick her up and take her as far away from here as I can. I want to protect her from this feeling, this life, but I wouldn’t know where to go. I wouldn’t know how to take care of her, raise her any better than my mother raised me.
In the end, I know my mom is doing what she thinks is right, and I just have to endure that. Even if every cell in my body screams at me to run.
“Mama, mama!” She holds up a small drawing, her face beaming with innocence, and the heat of my mothers gaze lifts from my back, falling on Daniella’s face.
My little sister—the whoopsie as my dad calls her, being almost twelve years younger—is the sunshine to my moon, the light to my dark, the good to my bad.
My mom calls her the second chance at getting it right.
Part of me is grateful that my family has a second chance to have the daughter they can be proud of. I clearly never was. But I also want to protect Dani—I know the pressures of those expectations.
“Wow, it’s beautiful, princessa. Just like you!” My mom coos, and it’s enough to sever my mind from my body, allowing me to walk away from the moment that feels pivotal somehow.
Daniella will be okay—she has to be. But I won’t be. Not if I stay here, with her.
February 18th, 2025
Icy water splashes across my face, my heart instantly skyrocketing as I sit up, eyes flying open.
“Keep quiet,” Rafael hisses, his familiar voice filling the hazy early morning light. I groan, leaning forward in the chair, the ropes around my wrists biting against the raw flesh there. I barely feel it though, the adrenaline racing through my veins filling my body with a numbness.
Or maybe that’s just the cold.
But I do as he asks, remaining quiet, as he takes a warm cloth across my face, his tenderness so at odds to the anger radiating off his body. He moves around me, making quick work of my bindings, but I barely move as he frees me, the blood rushing to my fingertips making them tingle.
“We have to hurry. Marco won’t like me cleaning you up.” His voice quivers—with fear or hatred though I can’t tell.
He points toward a bucket near my feet, and a bar of soap, and I instantly know what he’s not saying. The action sends tears racing to my eyelashes, and I furiously blink them away.
Standing for the first time in what feels like years, my muscles instantly seize and I plop back down, the chair creaking beneath me. We cringe in unison, but instead of anger like I expect, Rafael wraps a hand around my bicep, slowly and tenderly helping me stand up. “Slow.”
I nod, not having the strength to disagree as I hobble toward the water. Sinking to my knees, tears threaten my eyes once more as I take the bar of soap between my fingers, only this time I don’t stop them. Why bother?
Silent sobs wrack my body as I scrub the filth from under my nails, washing them over and over in the bucket until the pads of my hands are rosy pink and raw. My mind screams at me to keep scrubbing— maybe if I wash off my skin, I can wash off the memories of the last week with it .
“That’s enough. You’ll have no hands left if you continue,” he hisses, his hand wrapping around my arm to help me up once more. But I shake my head.
“Can I…can I wash my face?” I don’t look at him as the humiliating words tumble from my mouth. What has my life co me to that I have to ask someone for such a basic need? And yet, here we are.
His fingers relax and I feel his nod, even without seeing it.
The soap, something harsh only a man would pick out, will surely peel the skin off my face, and even though my inner girl rages at putting something so strong on my skin, the survival part of me is grateful for this small mercy. It’s not great, but it’s better than anything I’ve had.
Once I’ve finished, Rafael extends a small white towel toward me and I take it, reluctantly wiping at my face and hands. What if it still comes off dirty? What if he’s still all over my skin?
But as I pull the cloth away, it’s still white, and a fresh wave of tears presses in.
“We have to hurry, princessa. I brought you water and some food.”
I nod, standing up and quickly walk back to the chair, which I notice is clean—the mess around it, washed away too—and sink back into the unforgiving wood. It’s a simple act, and yet I’ve never been more grateful to another human being in my life.
Why is he helping me?
He hands me a plate of beans and some kind of saucy meat, but I barely notice as his free hand extends a clean fork in my direction.
I stare at it for several seconds before he grumbles something unintelligible, placing both items in my lap and stepping backward.
With shaky fingers, I grip the utensil, taking the first bite, but barely tasting the rich flavor as I stare at Rafael’s face, his eyes looking anywhere but at me.
Breaking the silence, I shift in the chair, and speak between bites, “why’re you guys doing this to me? ”
Rafael’s eyes snap to my face, his mouth popping open before slamming shut, clearly thinking better of it.
He stares at me for several seconds, his face twisting farther into a scowl with each passing second.
Right when I think he’s going to ignore me completely, his eyes flick to the corner of the basement where the hospital bed sits.
“They have to pay for what they’ve done to my family. ”
“Who?” I plead, my snacks all but forgotten.
But instead of answering this time, he shakes his head, reaching for the food. “The innocent shouldn’t pay for the sins of others, and yet, she didn’t take mercy on him. Marco and Javier feel that we can’t either.”
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.”