Page 27 of For Cowgirls and Kings (The Trauma Bonded #2)

TWENTY-ONE

ADALENE

“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.

“I won’t,” Rafael states, even as his hands grip my hands, pinning them above my head. I continue to thrash my head, my body, my legs. Anything to make it harder for them—to fight for me.

“I will,” Javier sneers. The sound of his zipper lowering is like a death knell ringing through the storm consuming my mind, and I freeze, slumping against the floor.

I fight, until I can’t fight anymore.

“Only her mouth. The rest we’ll save until he’s here to watch us ruin her,” Marco states, his voice bordering on uninterested.

Javier grunts, dropping to hover above me. I pinch my eyes shut, thinking about anything other than what comes next.

Even as I want to fight, I know there’s no point. I can’t take all three of them, and even if I don’t want to survive through this , I don’t want to die.

So what’s left?

A fist lands against my jaw, making me cry out in pain once more. As I do, Javier pinches my jaw with his meaty hand, making it impossible to close it without breaking the bones.

I don’t bother fighting anymore, instead I stare at the light swaying slightly from the ceiling. Its warm glow filters through the rafters, illuminating the cobwebs gathering there. I’ve always been afraid of spiders, but surprisingly since being here I’ve never once thought about them.

Have they been privy to every one of my punishments? Do they sympathize or hate me as I’ve always hated them?

My eyes snag on a small black and white photo wedged in between a rafter and a ceiling board.

It’s small, and the light barely illuminates it, but from what I can see, it’s four little boys.

They all look unique, and similar, their features all dark, their eyes all rounded and excited.

There’s goofy, boyish smiles on each of their faces, and I begin to cry anew staring into the innocence of their faces.

They don’t look like they know the evils of the world. Yet, here they are, watching the most kind of evil things happen to me.

I focus on their faces, even as my body begins to numb, my jaw aching to a nearly unbearable level.

And just when I feel like I might drift off completely, my arms begin to tingle as blood rushes to each of my extremities—my toes, to my fingers, my lips and nose. My head swims with the rush of it, the pressure from before lifted, the light dim above me.

Are they gone?

Am I?

“Sit up, princessa.” The words are tender, but I don’t have the will to find the kindness in them. Not anymore.

After several seconds, a hand slides beneath my head, lifting me slowly until I’m sitting up, propped against a firm chest. My own head feels empty, my body and mind separate and far away.

But I can hear the rapid thumping of the heart beneath my ear, and I focus on it, willing myself to stay here, fight to stay here, even if every part of me wants to fade away completely.

Cool liquid spills across my lips first, running in rivulets down my neck, a hand quickly following and I recoil at the contact. He freezes, raising his hand.

“I was just going to dry you off so you didn’t get cold.”

“I don’t feel anything,” I whisper hoarsely, my voice a raspy, weak version of its previous self.

He sighs, his body tensing beneath my head before he shifts, his hand lowering toward me. “Can I clean you off? Can I put you in something warmer?”

“What’s the point?” I ask. Some far away part of me knows I shouldn’t be fighting him. With his help, I have the best chance at surviving.

Or is it false hope once more?

He didn’t assault me, but he did hold me down. He didn’t hit me, but he didn’t fight for me.

“You have to keep fighting, princessa. Just a little bit longer,” he whispers, his hands now full of a warm cloth as it passes gingerly over the broken skin around my nose and mouth, and down my neck that feels caked in something sticky and dry.

“I’m so tired.” My eyes drift shut, emphasizing my point.

“I know. Let me take care of you, so you can fight another day.”

And so I do. I don’t fight Rafael as he cleans away the physical reminders of today. But with each tender pass of the cloth, the emotional reminders press deeper and deeper beneath my skin. Branding me in a way I know I’ll never be free of, even if I live through this.

February 14th, 2025

Tut meows, his head lifted from its spot on my lap, his tail flicking angrily through the air. I look to where he’s staring, his eyes glued to my front door once more.

“What is it?” I grumble, running my hand over his fur.

He’s been doing this every night for the last week—just staring and meowing at the door, agitation radiating off him.

It’s not normal—Queen Tut is the easiest going cat alive.

He shifts, his feet positioned beneath him like he’s preparing to pounce toward the door, and whatever might be on the other side.

Seeing him so on edge set’s the hairs on my neck at full attention, and even though I know it’s going to be nothing, I stand up to open the door. I won’t be able to go to bed if I don’t at least check.

I take a step forward, and Tut’s soft meow turns into a yowl—a menacing sound that I’ve never heard come out of him, and I freeze.

“What’s wrong, Tut?” I reach out to pet his head, if only to comfort him, but he jumps from the couch, prowling toward the door. I watch in horror as he side-steps forward, each paw closer making the hair along his back and tail stand straighter.

Something’s definitely wrong.

“It’s okay,” I coo, even as an overwhelming sense of dread settles like a brick in my stomach. Setting the half-eaten bowl of ice cream I’d just started down on the side table, I straighten, looking around for anything that I could use as a weapon.

But Tut howls again, his fear ripping through my little cottage, making me forget my own safety and I rush the door, pushing him out of the way to rip it open.

Tut hisses behind me, but I barely notice as three shadows loom outside of the door, their eyes wide as if they’re caught off guard by my opening the door.

It takes them all of a split second to orient themselves—much faster than my own shocked brain—and they charge at me, pushing me into the house.

I scream for a split second before a hand clamps down over my mouth, and a fist meets my stomach, knocking the wind from my lungs.

I wheeze, my eyes watering as I fold over.

Blinking rapidly, I can hear their hushed voices, but I can’t make out the words over the roaring in my ears.

A bolt of orange fills my vision a second before hissing and howling ensues, Tut jumping onto one of the intruders, his small claws cutting into the exposed flesh at their necks between their tops and masks.

My heart drops as the man cusses, grabbing Queen Tut roughly, throwing him across the room. He crashes against a shelf, and I scream once more, rushing in his direction. They can’t hurt Tut—he’s my ray of sunshine and I won’t survive without him.

“Grab ‘er!” one of them barks, and a set of rough hands grips my biceps, yanking me backward against them. I thrash, sending the end table over with a crash.

“Tut!” I scream, but there’s no sign of him, and even though I’m being dragged backwards, I can’t think of anything past my brave little savior who’s probably hurt and terrified somewhere.

One hand slips on my arm and I yank from the other, scrambling on the floor on all fours to get away. If I can just get to my room, maybe I can lock the door and keep them out. But I have to find Tut first.

“Fuckin’ get ahold of ‘er!” Hands grips me once more, and then the world goes black, my breathing instantly smothered. A mask— they covered my face.

I thrash against my restrainer once more, knocking over something, the sound of glass mixing with the ringing in my ears.

“You’re gonna hold still or imma find that cat and skin it alive, ya’ here me?

” I freeze, the voice close enough to my ear to send the small hairs at my neck to flutter.

The image of Tut being tortured fills my mind and the fight flees my body in one single wheeze.

“Good. Now grab ‘er feet and get ‘er in the suit.”

Hands roughly pull clothing around me, and I remain perfectly still, focusing on my breathing so that I may calm it enough to hear above it.

“Let’s go.” They start dragging me, and I hear my front door open with a creak. I strain for any other sounds—someone out walking, a car driving by, anything—but am met with only silence.

“Please close the door,” I beg.

No one responds, and as we retreat farther and farther into the darkness, all I can think about is Tut.

Will he be okay? Will I?