Page 55 of For Cowgirls and Kings (The Trauma Bonded #2)

I fight off a shiver as he continues to describe his mother’s illness, and how his brothers worked to protect her.

There’s love thick as clay in his voice, and for a moment I forget my circumstances and my hatred for my captors.

They’re just boys heart broken over their dying mom.

And then the memory of everything they’ve done flashes through my mind, like a TV show, and bile crawls up my throat once more.

How can they have love that runs so deep, and yet violate me so completely?

Without thinking, I open my mouth, hissing, “what would your mother think of what you’ve done to me?”

Rafael stops mid-sentence, his face contorting into a look of pure rage as his lips rip apart in a snarl.

“She’d be ashamed. She’d never forgive us.

Is that what you want to hear? I picture her rage and disappointment everyday, but I don’t know what to do.

Marco makes the rules, and we follow them. ”

I cross my arms, but say nothing else.

Rafael sighs, continuing his story once more,“So when Marco couldn’t get any more pain medicine from our normal guy, he started stealing.

And then he started ripping off casinos to pay for it, and her other supplies, making me and Javier work with him.

We did it, of course. Anything to help Mama.

” His voice wavers, Adam's apple bobbing, “Our last job went bad. I refused to go—Mama didn’t want us to anymore. She wanted to pass on, but Marco wouldn’t listen. So he took Jose for the first time.”

“And he got caught,” I say, putting the pieces together.

His eyes harden. “He was a lookout, not even actively stealing. But she caught him, and wanted to use him as a message to us. We’re no one—poor as they come with no real goals besides keeping our crumbling family from falling apart further. But she caught him, and had him killed not far from here.”

My breath feels strangled in my throat as I stare at him, the question I’m desperate to ask teetering on my tongue. Because once I ask, there’s no going back, no imagining her to be someone better.

But everything he’s said points in one direction.

“Was it Valentina Reyes?”

Instead of answering me, he leans forward, his voice dropping. “Could you ever forgive me?”

I lean back, caught off guard by his question.

He stares at me expectantly, and I suck in a deep breath as I toss around his question.

Could I ever forgive him? If I saw him after this—if I magically escaped—could I see anything but my captor?

Could I imagine him as anything besides the man who “helped me” while those he loved tortured me?

In all honesty, I don’t blame him. After everything I’ve seen, I think Rafael is as much of a prisoner here as I am. But I don’t know if I could ever look at him and feel forgiveness, not really.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever have the chance,” I finally say with a shrug.

His eyes soften slightly, and he stands. “I don’t believe the innocent should pay for the crimes of the evil—I never have. Just like Jose, I don’t think you should pay for her crimes. But make no mistake, I will make her pay. No matter what I have to do.”

April 8th, 2025

The sound of crunching gravel outside sucks me out of another nightmare, and I jolt upright. The sheets cling to my sweat soaked skin, the white fabric almost translucent where it’s suctioned to me.

I look over at my phone on the nightstand and it reads 6:00 a.m. Who the fuck could be here at six in the morning ?

Gus must be thinking the same thing because I hear heavy stomps descending the stairs, their pace rapid, a similar rhythm to my pounding heart. Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I stand up and creep to the window.

Mateo’s tall frame steps out of his black pickup, the soft streaks of pink in the sky illuminating a kind of warm glow around his frame.

He looks exhausted, and disheveled; there’s bags under his eyes that I can see from here, and his hair is greasy and mussed like he hasn’t washed it in a day or two.

I check my phone again. 6:00 a.m? He had to have started driving here between two and three in the morning. But why? We haven’t spoken since he left the other morning, the space feeling more and more like a valley forming between us. I didn’t know what to say, and maybe he has nothing he can say.

So where does that leave us? I don’t know if I’m ready to give him up—I don’t know if I ever will be.

Without thinking about it, I race from the small guest room, hitting the kitchen right as both guys come in, their voices hushed.

“What’s going on?” I ask, the panic clawing at my stomach, filling my voice. Both heads snap to me, as if a couple of kids caught by their parents drinking or something. And then Gus cusses, looking away almost as quickly.

Mateo on the other hand, doesn’t even blink. His eyes rove over my face, my head—like he’s counting each hair on my head to make sure I’m still safe—and then venture south. With each inch they drop, my skin ignites and I realize what I’m wearing.

Or not, wearing, I should say. I yelp, trying to cover my naked bottom half, the T-shirt I borrowed from Stetson falling right at my waist.

“Uh, I—” I stammer, my face flaming. Mateo growls, stomping towards me, ripping the buttons off his shirt, and wrapping it around my waist in the same movement. It leaves me utterly breathless, and when I do finally find my ability to breathe again, my lungs are filled with the potent scent of him.

I try not to stare at his very hard, and very bronzed chest now only inches from my face, the small black hairs dusting his pecks curly and soft. I ache to run my hand over him, to pull him to me like I would have only three short days ago. Is that truly how long he’s been gone, only three days?

“Are we finally having that orgy I dreamed about?” Stetson asks, her voice falling from the stairwell behind us. It’s Gus’s turn to growl, stomping for her and grabbing her hand before she even has a chance to get to the bottom step.

She’s not showing a ton yet, but in her mumu, it’s obvious. The soft fabric melts over her skin—her bump, small but mighty, sticks out farther. And to Gus’s frustration, so do her pert but round breasts.

I snort, surprised in the best way that she was so witty with that one. It feels like something I would say.

“Nice tits.” I decide to go with instead, which only makes Gus snarl more. He flashes me a vicious grin, and I flash one back. His eyes widen a fraction, as if surprised.

“You did see her pussy,” Mateo states dryly, and I whirl on him, my hand connecting with his arm.

“Gus! How could you?” Stetson screeches, all teasing. Gus looks up at her, his face growing redder by the second.

“Fuck! It’s like six in the morning. And for the record, I didn’t. I fucking looked away. It’s not my fault she walked into my kitchen butt-ass naked.”

“I don’t know, I’m pretty sure you were checking—” I start.

“Dale.”

I turn wide eyes on Mateo, the authority in it making my pussy clinch. Fuck, I’ve missed him. His face, his teasing, his dominance, his mouth, his affection, his dick.

“Get your woman on a leash,” Gus huffs.

“Gus!” Stetson snaps, her own hand connecting with his bicep.

“So much for coming in quietly,” Mateo huffs, the words quiet enough that only I’ll hear them. He leans his hip against the counter, his hand never leaving its grip on the shirt around my waist. “Always making a scene aren’t you, cowgirl? Naughty girl.”

Naughty girl —the two words race down my spine and goose bumps erupt in their wake.

I don’t miss the way his nostrils flare or his eyes dilate.

Like he can smell the arousal slickening the inside of my thighs at those words.

We have so much unsaid between us, and yet being around him feels as natural as breathing.

But then he blinks and I’m reminded about how tired he looked when he got out of the truck.

And up this close, it’s worse. His face is covered in a thicker stubble, unkept and grown out.

The bags under his eyes are purple, and sag, big enough to pack a week long trip in, and the whites of his eyes are lined in red.

He looks so exhausted I’m questioning if the hip on the counter is for relaxation, or because he physically can’t stay upright.

And he just drove here in the middle of the night.

That thought alone fills me with fury—how could he risk himself like that? Why isn’t he taking better care of himself? So many people need him.

I need him.

“Why are you here so early?”

His brows pinch together in confusion, the fire in my voice clearly throwing him off. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Yeah, and when was the last time you slept?” He sighs, like I’m being an annoying mother hen and it only pisses me off more. “You need to take care of yourself, Mateo. People rely on you.”

His eyes flicker with anger, but it quickly sputters out, like he’s just too tired to care. And I want to rage.

Before I can blow a fucking gasket, Gus clears his throat, and we both look towards him. His brows raised, mustache twitching to the side.

“You do look like shit. Why don’t you go sleep, and discuss—” He waves his hand in the air, indicating the tension that’s all but a living, breathing thing pulsing between Mateo and I. “And then you can figure out what’s next.”

Mateo nods, his head hanging as if it’s too heavy to hold up. And then he turns, moving toward the room at the end of the hall I’ve been staying in, his grip on the shirt around my waist still tight, tugging me along. I move behind him, pausing only to look over my shoulder.

Stetson smiles at me, a small, sad, knowing smile, like she can hear my insecurities and the questions. I know her and Gus went through their own struggles on their way to find each other, but there was never any question if they would fit into each other’s lives.

Mateo and I? There’s only questions on how we can navigate this inevitable end without hurting each other. The more I look at it, the more I don’t see any other options.

So as he tugs me to the room, his head hanging between his shoulders, a sudden burst of anger flares through me.

I want my happy ending, and I want it with Mateo Reyes, but the fucking universe is determined to make me suffer in every way it can. Why? Why me?