Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
VALENTINA
I stare through my bedroom window, the glass shimmering as the darkness hugs the glittering moon, its rays fracturing around my enormous room in silky, pale ribbons. The light cream paint around the windowsill has started to peel and fray from every time I’ve opened the glass to let smoke out.
My skin’s drenched, my sheets sticky and transparent where they cling to me. There’s a bite in the air, a chill settling over the early morning outside, filling my room with a feeling of restlessness I can’t seem to shake.
Most people would want to bury themselves beneath the covers, brace from the chill of the outside world. But I welcome it. Ice and darkness are where I find my own likeness—impossible to withstand, impossible to fully explore.
I like the bite in the air—I feel alive even as the rage within me threatens to burn so brightly, I combust.
No one cared I was there. No one cared that I left—not even Faith.
I thought she might call after I disappeared, but hours later, and my phone’s remained as silent as the miles of land surrounding this prison.
For a little while, I allowed myself to see this ranch as a place I might be happy in—a place I could find solace and peace in, with people who made me feel like I mattered.
Now, I remember the pure desperation I felt the first night I moved here—the hopelessness that settled over my bones like the weight of a brick tied around my ankle…
Santos was nowhere to be found when we returned, just another person indifferent to my existence, even if he likes to pretend otherwise when it suits him. I’m simply a means to an end, for everyone.
I sit up, a light flickering through the thick blanket of early morning darkness outside my window. Who would be out there at this time?
The mystery shooter? My fiery blood instantly chills.
Peeling the covers from my skin, I slink to the window, gulping in the cool air. I need to shut my window and go wake up McCrae before the person gets away.
As I pull the glass down, sealing the world out, I pause. The figure looks a lot like McCrae pushing his bike into the barn. That would explain the light. But at this time?
Driven by pure curiosity and not desperation—I refuse to be desperate, even when my very core pulses with the kind of ache I can never fully rid myself of—I decide to go out and see what he’s doing.
At worst, he tells me to leave him alone.
At best? Maybe he’ll finally let me have him, quenching this thirst of need to be wanted. Just for the night.
I’m not desperate.
I’m just curious. Really curious.
It’s what I repeat to myself as I skip the clothes, throwing only a button down shirt over my red panties, and tip toe out the front door.
I race toward the light, breathing so heavily, it fills my ear with a roar that seems impossible to think over.
And think I don’t, because if I do, I’ll talk myself out of this.
A girl can only be rejected so many times. One more rejection today, and I may never recover.
I try to quiet my breathing as I slip into the barn, the stalls and center lane lit up like mid-day. The horses are all quiet in their stalls, no doubt asleep, and there’s no one to be seen.
“McCrae?” I whisper shout.
There’s no response, and suddenly, I feel very, very stupid.
Stupid and afraid. Those will be the two markers on my tombstone when they bury me six feet under tomorrow morning.
I should’ve brought a gun, or put on a pair of shoes at the very least. Instead, I ran out here, blinded by my need to be wanted, likely right into the trap of the person who wants to kill me.
“Fucking stupid,” I hiss, backing slowly toward the barn doors.
“Why’s that?”
I freeze, my stomach bottoming out at the voice. Whirling around, I raise my hand to hit the person—catch them by surprise, if nothing else—but my assault’s stopped when a hand wraps around my wrist.
“Santos?” I don’t mean to pant his name. I’m simply out of breath. Not because as my gaze pinballs around his face and figure—all of which is bare beyond a pair of low slung jeans and the half-skull mask—and I like what I see. “Wh-what are you wearing?”
He doesn’t answer right away, his head tipping to the side in a predatory way. I only remember his grip around my wrist, my hand still balled into a fist, when he tightens it, pulling me forward. I crash into his bare chest, my free hand slapping against stone-like flesh.
He’s hard everywhere, chiseled flesh befitting a god, and there’s a burning in every place our skin touches. He hisses, as if he feels the same heat, before lowering his face mere inches from mine. “What are you doing out here, dressed like this? Hoping to find trouble?”
My mouth flops open. He’s stolen every fleeting thought I might have or ever have.
He chuckles, the mask rising and falling as his cheeks round into a smile—an evil smile that has the hairs on my neck standing to full attention.
“Are you looking for McCrae, little rabbit?”
Annoyance flashes through me at the nickname. “I’m not a little rabbit.”
His free hand reaches out, a single finger pushing a curl from my face. He watches his finger, continuing down until it reaches the only button keeping the poor excuse for a cover up closed.
I don’t mind being exposed around McCrae—with him, it feels safe, platonic. I suppose that’s why it’s always been so maddening. It means nothing to him whether I’m clothed or not.
But with Santos, I feel like he’s looking at me with the indistinguishable heat of hate—like an enemy, someone he wants to break and destroy by any means necessary.
He’s not indifferent to me. If his heated gaze is any indication, Santos couldn’t be indifferent to me even in the coldest, darkest place.
“Looks like a rabbit. Acts like a rabbit.” He leans forward, inhaling deeply and my toes curl. My heart thunders in my ears and I can barely hear his next whispered words. “Smells like a rabbit.”
“What’s—what’s that even mean?” I squirm in his hold. Damn him—I’m whimpering like an animal in heat.
His nose flares as his finger drops from the v of my shirt. “Like fear.”
My jaw unhinges. Rage pumps through my veins at the implication, but no words come out. I feel trapped by his gaze, frozen by his touch.
He reaches out again, running his thumb over my bottom lip, dipping it into my mouth before I gnash my teeth together in silent defiance. His eyes blaze as they meet mine. “Why are you here, little rabbit?”
I lick my lips, my previous reasons feeling like shriveled excuses at this point. Even though this is my ranch, my body, my mind, I feel like Santos controls it all. In this moment, I’ve never felt more lost at sea, turbulent waves dragging me under.
“Because I can be,” I bite, fueled by my fear and anger. How dare he make me feel small.
He snickers, the sound out of place in the quiet of the barn. “You tough, little rabbit? Did you come looking for someone to love and protect and whisper sweet nothings to you?”
I seeth. “Fuck no.”
“No?” He tips his head the other way, and I see his green eyes flash beneath the mask.
“I prefer to be degraded than coddled.”
Why do I always goad those around me?
Because even though I fear pain and torture, I revel in it too. When you’re as numb as I am, it’s the only way to feel something.
The hand wrapped around my wrist drops, and regret instantly consumes me. Does he not want me either? Am I too much and yet not enough for him too?
I expect him to step away and act disgusted, the way everyone does when they see my true colors.
Instead, he watches me, something passing in his eyes I can’t decipher, before he smiles, a full watt grin.
And then, his fingers wrap around my throat.
Not tightly, but tight enough that my panties instantly moisten.
“Get on your knees, Little Rabbit. Show me what a good whore you can be.” His voice doesn’t quiver—there’s only demand there, and even though every fiber of my being tells me I should turn around and run for the fucking hills, I can’t.
I’m ensnared by this stranger, a man I know nothing about but feel connected to in an inexplicable way.
I can’t fight him as his enormous hand presses on the top of my shoulders, and I don’t try.
Dropping to my knees, I grip the insides of Santos’ legs, prying them open to make space as I settle between them.
He chuckles, stepping wider at my incessant but silent demand.
He’s getting pleasure out of seeing me submitting to him.
I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t exactly what I wanted.
Something about my past has ruined me for anything soft and gentle. It’s ruined how I see myself, my body, my soul. The only connection I truly have is with pain—degradation is my secret, my weakness.
He doesn’t say a word as my eyes flick to his—so full of perplexing hatred, I burn anew, my ice melting from a flame wholly unique to this man. I grip him, pulling his zipper down. I move quickly, tugging on the waistband of his pants and briefs until they’re over his hips.
I don’t moan as his cock springs free from the confines of his clothing, but I do bite my lip.
I refuse to admit I’m getting any pleasure from this—this is about power, about a balance that exists in my universe.
Because the only time I feel truly powerful is when I’m back in the darkness, broken down into the shreds of the girl who died twenty years ago in that boardroom.
I’m the most powerful fucking person here, no matter what this man thinks.
“You just going to stare at it, slut?”
I look up at him, running my tongue over my bottom lip slowly. His eyes track the movement. “Is that the best you’ve got?”
He can pretend he doesn’t want me, but his cock is hard, already leaking pre-cum as his hips shift beneath my hands like he’s desperate to be closer. Santos quivers under my touch, and I know beneath the surface, he’s a beast raging to be let out.