Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
VALENTINA
“Easy, little girl. Don’t squirm, and it won’t hurt.” His gin-tinged breath fans across my cheek as he leans over me. My heart thunders against my rib cage, and I frantically look around the room for any sign of my father.
He’s not here. He left me, with these men, each one hungrier than the last. They’re all dressed in fine clothes—suit jackets and bland grey ties—with nice faces and grey hairs sprouting at their temples or in their beards.
They look so much like my own father, and my heart sinks.
They might not be my father, but they’re someone’s.
How could they be dads and still look at me like this? Like I’m some kind of meat to be consumed.
And why would my father allow this? Allow them to touch my legs, unbraid my hair, kiss my neck? Does my mother know?
“Grab her legs, Jerry. Susan’s expecting me home in an hour, and I’d like to see what we’ve traded our services for before I go home to the ole ball and chain.” The oldest looking of the three, with almost all silver combed over hair and tanned, wrinkled skin, smiles at me.
In any other setting, I’d think it’s a nice smile—a kind man giving me a kind smile—attention, and I’d grateful for it. But I don’t want his attention. I don’t want anything from him.
Not when the smile comes with a possessive hand that keeps threatening to climb higher up my skirt.
“P-p-please,” I beg, my tongue leaden in my mouth. I don’t know what I’m begging for, but I know I can’t be here, with them.
“You’re safe, pretty girl.” Another man smiles, his eyes crinkling around the corners.
He tips his glass back, draining the amber liquid.
He then steps closer, dropping to his knees so we’re eye level where I sit in the cushioned chair.
He reaches out a sure hand, running it through my curls, admiring them threaded around his fingers.
Leaning forward, he closes his eyes and sniffs my hair, and even though it seems impossible, my heart beats faster.
“So beautiful. So innocent too.” He looks over his shoulder, and I don’t miss him wink.
It sends bone-deep dread sinking though me, and, not for the first time, I try to stand.
“Enough. She better be as fucking innocent as she looks. Her father just traded her for a multi-million dollar deal. I think it was a stupid fucking mistake, but you guys wouldn’t listen to me.
” The third guy, youngest and meanest looking of the group, sneers at me, and I sink as far back into the chair as possible.
“If she’s not innocent, I’ll kill her and then daddy dearest.”
“Shit, Mike. You’re scaring her.”
“Good. And then, I’m going to fuck her.”
November 24th, 2025
ME: Mateo, please answer the phone.
ME: I’d like to talk to you.
ME: McCrae’s fine, thanks for asking.
ME: You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?
I jolt awake, my fingers threaded so tightly through the sheets, my knuckles ache. Chest heaving, I look around the room, searching for the threat lurking—my heart roars, filling my ears, and I can hardly hear my own breathing, much less an intruder.
The darkness in the room seems blacker somehow—like a fog settling over a deserted highway or walking into a deep forest with towering trees covering the midnight sky.
Blinking, I try to clear my eyes of the haze, tears spilling down my cheeks as terror grips her familiar claws deep into my chest and tears, shredding my composure.
“It’s nothi—nothing,” I sob to myself, feeling around for my light switch. When I find it, I click it on with a gasp, half expecting to find the devil himself standing over my bed, ready to drag me to hell. I’m met only with an empty room, not a thing out of place.
But I can’t shake the feeling of danger, my consciousness screaming so loud, my ears will surely burst. I cover my face, sobbing harder into my knees as I bring them to my chest.
It’s not just darkness threatening me now, but the endless loneliness.
I’m drowning once more, sinking farther and farther, no longer able to see the light, no longer able to feel my body.
I’m numb, deaf, blind to the world, and there’s no escaping the voice in my head reminding me just how worthless, how alone I truly am.
I could go back to sleep, roll over, and bury my head beneath the pillows to pray for morning. I’ve done it before—smoked or drank myself to oblivion until I no longer have to think.
Tonight, that won’t fix me. I’m too far gone—already numb. Tonight, I need to feel, anything to keep the monsters out, anything to keep from fading away completely.
I throw back the covers and stumble out of bed. Unable to find my footing, I crash into my bedside table, my lamp smashing against the floor. I stare at it, the navy glass of the base shattered into a million jagged pieces. Just like me—broken, irreparable and useless.
Without thinking, I reach for a particularly large shard, wrapping shaky fingers around its vicious edges. I barely feel it breaking the flimsy skin of my palm, but blood begins to dribble down my arm. I stare at it in fascination, eyes wide, the glass cutting deeper and deeper.
Yet, I feel nothing.
If the blood wasn’t warming my naked flesh, I wouldn’t believe it was even capable of breaking skin.
I continue to stare, in a trance, as more and more races down my arm, forming a small pool around my feet. I’ve always been afraid of blood—McCrae’s blood on my hands was nearly enough to stop my heart.
But this is different. This is proof I’m still alive, even if every fiber of my existence says otherwise. My mind rages at me to slice deeper, deeper, deeper! How far can I push myself? Where else can I make myself bleed?
“What the fuck?” The voice sounds far away, like it’s coming from the other end of a tunnel. I barely notice, the steady thrum of my heart filling my ears as I watch more of my life fill my palm.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I whisper, watching more blood run down my arm.
“Valentina!” the voice hisses, closer now.
Am I dreaming? Am I dead?
I watch as if outside of my own body, a large, callused hand wrapping around my wrist, ever so gently, as if it’s hesitant of the danger lurking right in front of them.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I repeat, offering what comfort I can.
“Drop the glass, V.” Warm air fans across my cheek.
Reluctantly, I flick my gaze to the voice, meeting piercing green eyes, wide with panic as he stares at me and the mess I’ve made.
There’s unfiltered concern filling the lines of his hard, perfect face, and I reach out, tracing the deepest one between his brows with my uninjured hand.
He doesn’t move, his breathing coming in short bursts, lips slightly parted, as if locked in the trance with me.
“Please, Valentina—” He says my name like a prayer, and my heart cracks at the sound. Pain and grief come flooding in with such ferocity, I gasp, dropping the glass with a sob.
“Oh God, wh—what’d I do?” I pull my bloodied palm to my chest, a throbbing crawling up my arm.
Santos releases my wrist, his arms enveloping me. It seems instinctual, and I don’t bother fighting him off. Not this time.
I’m too fucking weak to fight.
“You’re safe,” he says into my hair.
I sob, “I’ll never be safe. Not while the demons still fill my head.”
His arms squeeze tighter, like he’s afraid I’ll slip away. I cry harder, allowing the pain to sweep me under the waves.
After a few moments, Santos gently pulls away, and a chill spreads over my skin at his absence.
“Let’s get you cleaned up and stop the bleeding.” He holds me at arm’s length, looking down at me with pity.
“Don’t pity me,” I bite through a sob.
His face pinches. “I don’t, V. I’m afraid.” The words are a slap to the face, and I try to pull away, but he only grips me tighter. “I’m not afraid of you, Valentina. I’m not afraid of what you might do. I’m afraid for you—I’m afraid you won’t see how strong you really are before it’s too late.”
“I—” There are no words.
He begins tugging me toward the bathroom, not saying anything else, and I follow him.
For the first time since he’s pulled me from my panic, I notice he’s wearing nothing but a pair of tight fitting black boxers, the fabric clinging to him.
His back ripples as he walks, and there’s two deep dimples right above his hips.
Moles splatter across his shoulders, a thin layer of translucent hair on his lower back.
A glistening scar intersects his right shoulder blade, and I wonder how he got it.
Besides the spiderweb tattoo crawling up his arm, ending on his neck, and some kind of writing scrawled over his ear, his skin remains unmarked by ink.
He’s a perfect specimen, all man, and I wish I could lose myself in his arms. Surely I’d be safe there.
“Get in the shower.” He opens the glass door, turning on the spray. He doesn’t look my way, and a wave of uncertainty fills me. After a moment, he looks over his shoulder, confused.
“I don’t—”
He shakes his head. “You’re covered in blood, V. I just meant for you to wash off, and then I’ll look at your hand to see if you need to go get stitches or not.”
“In my clothes?” I look down, only to realize I’m wearing very little. Besides the black cotton panties and matching bra, only blood covers my skin.
“You can strip down if you want.” He smirks.
For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel self-conscious in front of a man.
Skin has been my only currency—my weapon to wield—for most of my life, and because of that, I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be insecure.
“I’m teasing. I’ll go find you something to put on.
You never have to show more than you’re willing. ”
He leaves the bathroom, but not before making sure I get under the spray and that the temperature’s warm enough. His tenderness cuts me far deeper than the glass ever could have. I don’t know how to act around him; I care what he thinks of me, even if I don’t want to.