Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Elaina
Ibared my teeth at my father when he stepped into the old, abandoned warehouse he’d trapped me in.
I’d done damn good at hiding from him for weeks.
Fucking weeks. I’d had a bus ticket booked to get me the fuck out of Texas and into New York City, where I could blend in easier, but I’d been caught on a security feed outside of a business one of his “colleagues” owned.
It’d taken them mere hours to find me after that.
When I’d tripped the alarm in that expensive, snazzy hotel, I’d been running from one of my father’s henchmen. I thought the crowd would deter him long enough for me to get the fuck out of San Antonio and on the road to another city. But I hadn’t been fucking quick enough.
And now, I was on the chopping block once again. Tied to a chair and stripped fucking bare like a goddamn prize horse on sale, I awaited my new fate. A fate I’d spent days upon days running from.
I was no stranger to sexual abuse. It’d happened to me so damn much, I’d become used to it. I was a master at dissociating while I was tied to a bed and some sick, depraved fuck used me. But being sold? Permanently? Going to someone who could be much worse than my father?
I’d puke at the thought of my new future if I had anything in my stomach to throw up. But I hadn’t eaten in two or three days now, so my stomach was empty.
“He’s here,” one of my father’s men announced as he stepped into the building.
“And we are armed,” a Hispanic man in a black button down and slacks just as dark announced.
But he wasn’t the man that commanded my attention.
It was the one who stepped in behind him wearing a suit so expensive, I’d be scared to even breathe near him in fear of ruining it.
Power emanated from every pore, and when he stopped, the entire room fell so silent, I could hear a fucking roach scurrying across the floor.
The man who was clearly in charge, even though he had yet to say a single word, looked at me.
Nothing showed on his face or in his eyes as he raked his eyes over me like I was nothing more than a gallon of milk and he needed to check the expiration date on it.
Was he taking in the scars that covered me?
The bruises from the beating I’d received once I’d been dumped at my father’s feet? Was my worth somehow connected to that?
I didn’t even dare breathe as he took me in. While he was easily the handsomest man I’d ever laid my eyes on, something about him had alarms blaring in my head.
He was dangerous.
“You have the money?” my father asked, looking at the man in the suit.
The man slowly dragged his eyes away from me, then nodded once. With a simple little crook of his finger, two men stepped forward and dropped two duffel bags at my father’s feet. “There’s one and a half million in each bag. Feel free to count it out, if you’d like. But I am a man of my word.”
It was clear my father wanted to count it, the greedy son of a bitch. But I could also clearly see he was afraid of the man standing in front of him. For some reason, he didn’t dare do something to disrespect the wealthy man.
“Take her then,” my father said, waving his hand toward me dismissively. “She’s your problem now.”
The man who’d spoken, announcing they were armed when they walked inside, strode over to me. Wordlessly, he untied me from the chair, then gripped my arm much gentler than I’d expected him to. Silently, he led me from the warehouse and out to a large, shiny, expensive SUV.
“Get in,” he murmured as he opened the back door, abruptly releasing my arm.
Trying to keep my dignity intact, I slid onto the large, comfortable bench seat naked and crossed my arms over my chest, staring pointedly ahead.
Another couple of minutes later, the man in the suit slid in beside me and shut the door.
“To the address I gave you,” he ordered, his Spanish accent thick but his English impeccable.
Then, he shrugged out of his suit jacket and handed it to me.
I slowly curled my fingers around the warm, silky fabric, my heart skipping a beat in my chest at the uncharacteristically kind gesture.
“Cover yourself,” he said quietly. “Your misery ends here.”
My throat closed up with tears. He couldn’t mean he’d bought me just to rescue me, could he?
“Do you remember me?” he asked when I only stared at him.
Frowning, I shook my head. He sighed. “You crashed into me outside of the Mokara Hotel.” My lips parted in surprise.
“I had Miguel track you down.” He inclined his head toward the man who’d led me out to the SUV.
At some point, he’d climbed into the front passenger seat and was silently working on his tablet.
I looked back at my new owner. “Why?” I croaked.
“I’m not a fan of the skin trade,” he informed me.
“And your father is so deep in it, there’s no way out for him, even if he wanted to get out.
” He nodded his head toward his suit jacket I was still clutching.
“Cover yourself, pequena luchadora,” he gently ordered.
“I will get you clothes once we get to our destination.”
I quickly pulled on his suit jacket and almost cried at how soft and comfortable it felt against my abused skin. Fastening it closed, I looked at him again. “Where are we going?”
“To the Sons of Hell MC,” he informed me. “I’ve struck a deal with the president to keep you safe. And I’ll be there as well. You’ll need protection while I work on taking down your father and his trafficking ring.”
I swallowed thickly, and before I could stop them, tears flooded down my cheeks. I buried my face in my hands. “I’m so sorry,” I cried. “I don’t mean to cry.”
Reaching over, he tugged a handkerchief from the breast pocket of the suit jacket I was wearing, then handed it to me. “Cry if you need to, pequena luchadora,” he urged. “You’ve been through quite the ordeal. I’d be more alarmed if you didn’t cry.”
Sniffling, I dabbed at my bruised, sore face with the silk handkerchief. “What’s your name?” I asked him.
He smiled at me then—just a tiny one. A barely-there curve of his lips. But it still made my stomach flip.
“Alejandro Garcia.” He inclined his head to me. “The head of the Mexican Cartel at your service.”
My breath stalled in my lungs, and my eyes went wide.
At your service.
The Mexican Cartel.
Alejandro fucking Garcia.
Oh, fuck.