Hands fisting, he took a step forward.
“Carmen!” he shouted, chin jutting.
The sound of my name on his lips gave me both strength and courage, two things that, just like my parents, had been stolen from me the moment I was forced to bend, quite literally, to Carlos’s will.
Fingers curling against the glass, I closed my eyes and worked to numb my mind from the horror currently being perpetrated against my body, chipping away at my pride and melting my sanity one savage thrust at a time.
I will not shatter, I told myself.
I will fight to hold on.
At my thoughts, Carlos’s words from minutes before echoed from through my head. I shall enjoy breaking you, Miss Colombia.
Like magic, determination rose inside me.
The demonio was wrong.
In the years to come, all of which I would spend enduring his repeated vicious attacks, my knees would bend at his command, my heart would crack with sorrow, and every ounce of fight that my scarred soul possessed would waver.
But I would not break.
At least, not until the very end.
Thirteen
James
The morning sun had begun to rise.
Over six painstakingly slow hours had passed since I’d checked into the rundown motel near the center of Toluca. In that time, Carmen still hadn’t woken.
Much to my dismay.
She’d grown restless at certain points, groaning and turning her head from side to side on the lumpy pillow I’d propped her up on, but that was it.
It was twisting me up inside. I wanted her enthralling eyes open, not to mention, focused on me. Frustrated as hell, I’d worked to pass the maddening time by completing one task after another.
I’d started by spending the better part of an hour wiping her down, removing the grime and dirt from her gorgeous face and fragile body as best I could without undressing her, something I sure as fuck wouldn’t do without her permission.
Then, after checking her improving vitals for what seemed like the tenth time, I’d taken my time and gently disinfected the superficial laceration marring the right side of her gorgeous face before applying a generous layer of the cherry-flavored Chapstick I always kept in my pocket to her full, cleansed lips.
Even dry, they were tempting, and I’d be a lying bastard if I said I didn’t want a taste. But it was the fresh cut on her cheek, one that had obviously come from a well-delivered punch, that gave me something to focus on other than the primal need that clawed at my spine.
The sight of it heightened the rage festering like a rancid boil in my chest, erasing my desire to learn her taste. If I ever got my hands on her pimp, I’d kill him with neither a second thought nor moment of remorse.
For all he’d done to her—most of which I wasn’t even aware of yet—he deserved to be snuffed out. Permanently. Lifetime imprisonment wouldn’t be a harsh enough penalty.
Not in my book.
Muscles tight, I stood from the rickety wooden chair where I sat next to the full-sized bed and checked the fluid bag hanging from the grimy wall fixture above Carmen’s head.
Delivering a slow drip saline solution, the IV I’d inserted into the back of her frail hand moments after initially examining her was working quickly to help rehydrate her, a step crucial to helping her heal.
The problem was, other than cleaning her up, which I’d already done, it was all I could do. It was a fact that put me on edge since unassisted withdrawal could be dangerous, especially when a person was addicted to a hardcore narcotic like heroin.
Truth be told, my pretty little pixie should’ve been resting in the hospital where she could be monitored around the clock by qualified doctors, instead of a shitty motel efficiency with a medic possessing limited supplies.
Swear to Christ, it had taken everything in me not to drive her straight to Toluca Memorial instead of the motel.
The only reasons I hadn’t done it were because one, she’d already made it through the first four or five days of detox, which were the most dangerous.
And two, the fallout from checking her into a hospital carried the possibility to be hard-hitting, and for some—Faye mainly—maybe even deadly.
It was a risk I wasn’t willing to take.
Not unless I had to.
Seeing that it was almost time to change her fluids, I turned and reached for my medic bag, one that my kid had quickly stuffed with extra supplies, most of which I rarely carried.
But I stopped short, body freezing when an unintelligible curse, followed by a pain-filled groan echoed through the nearly silent room.
Heart hammering, I jerked my head down.
When my wide-eyed gaze met Carmen’s half-opened one, I almost hit my knees in relief.
“Dios mío,” she moaned, shaky hands slowly going to her head. “I must be dead…” Voice barely audible, she visibly swallowed, then flinched in pain. “And in Hell.”
My brow furrowed. “You trying to say I’m the devil, sweetheart?” I sure as shit hoped she wasn’t. Was I an asshole most days? Yes. But was I Satan? No.
Her eyes flared the slightest bit at my question. “No,” she whispered, unfocused gaze on me. “You’re not El Diablo. Trust me, pendejo, I am well acquainted with the likes of him.”
One corner of my mouth tipped in what I’m sure was an idiotic looking smile. But it couldn’t be helped. As dumb as it may sound, I was ecstatic she’d cussed at me. It meant she was getting better.
“What am I…” Another swallow, more cringing. “Doing here?”
Needing to be closer to her, I sat on the mattress, making sure not to touch her, even though that was precisely what I wanted to do. “Faye brought you to me.”
“Faye,” she whispered, grazing her busted cheek with her fingertips. “How did she…”
“I don’t know,” I answered, already knowing the question she was trying to ask before her hoarse voice failed her. “All she told me was that you were sick from withdrawing and that you’d been hurt by your pimp for turning down his
