Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
He just left me in this room. His room. What the hell is this guy’s problem?
I consider walking out, just going right out the front door.
The issue with that is the horde of armed men who will be there to stop me.
I’d have to go past them. And honestly, that’s not something I want to try to do on my own. Without Emmanuel standing beside me.
I shouldn’t find comfort in him. Yet his presence makes me feel almost untouchable. Stupid. It’s probably my subconscious’s way of trying to cope with the fact I’ve basically just been taken hostage by a psychopath.
No, not basically. I have been taken hostage.
He wants to know what happened to me. He’ll be waiting a long-ass time before I give up that information. It’s not something I talk about. It’s bad enough that Rachel and Charlotte know a little of my story. No way does anyone else need to know too.
Charlotte. I could call her. Surely, Louie knows where Emmanuel lives. They could come and get me. But it’s her first day of being married. I don’t want to make it about me, when it should be about her.
What the hell am I supposed to do?
When I accept I don’t have an answer to that, I sit on the floor. Right at the end of Emmanuel’s bed, because like hell am I sitting on it. I scrunch up my nose. God only knows how many girls he’s had up here.
Argh, why the hell did he have to leave me behind. I’d rather be fighting with him than sitting here by myself.
About ten minutes into my protest (is that what I’m doing?) Maria knocks on the open door. “Oh, mija, why are you on the floor?” she asks, a tray resting on one arm while she balances the rest on her hip.
“It seemed like the safest place to sit,” I tell her.
“Mr. Lopez would not like you sitting on the floor, Miss Evie,” she says.
“Yeah, well, Mr. Lopez needs to learn that he can’t always have everything he wants,” I fire back.
Maria smiles at me. And I realize how rude I was.
“I’m so sorry. I did not mean to be rude to you, Maria.”
“Never mind that. You’re not wrong.” She sighs. “I’ll just leave this over here for you. If you need anything else, just call down to the kitchen.” Maria places the tray on a table in the corner of the room, where two small chairs are set up beside it.
“Thank you.” I smile. It’s not this poor woman’s fault she works for a kidnapping asshole.
I don’t get up and check out the tray, even though it smells so good. It appears I’m on a hunger strike as well. Because about an hour later, when Emmanuel steps back into the room, I’m still sitting on the floor in front of the bed.
He stops when he spots me. “What happened? Why the fuck are you on the floor?”
I look up at him, and my mouth drops open. Emmanuel reaches down, scoops up my arms, and lifts me to my feet.
“What happened?” he repeats. “Why are you on the floor? Are you hurt?” His eyes travel all over my body, and I could almost fool myself into thinking he actually cares.
He doesn’t. Why would he? He doesn’t know me.
As soon as the shock wears off, the sudden spark of him touching me, my eyes catch on the blood on his hands. On his shirt too.
“What happened to you? Are you about to bleed out?” I shake my head. “No, I wouldn’t be that lucky.” I don’t think it’s his blood anyway. He doesn’t appear injured.
Emmanuel laughs, and I swear the sound goes right to my core. He really needs to stop doing that. “I’m okay. It’s not my blood. Thanks for the concern, though, mi alma.”
“I’m not concerned,” I say, taking a step backwards.
“Why were you on the floor? You don’t belong on the fucking floor,” he grunts.
“I’m protesting,” I tell him.
“What are you protesting?” he asks as he starts undoing his shirt, revealing more of that tanned, inked skin with each button.
My mouth goes dry, but I manage to reply, “Being held captive.”
“You’re not captive. We’ve discussed this.” Emmanuel drops his shirt onto the floor, and my eyes feast on his bare torso.
Holy shit, I knew this man was dangerous. But this? The way my panties dampen at the sight of him? This is way worse.
Emmanuel turns and heads through an adjoining door. I follow him. I don’t know what else to do. Bad decision, because it’s a bathroom. I’m frozen to the spot as he drops his pants and steps into the shower, totally unbothered by being completely naked in front of me.
He glances over a shoulder to look at me. “You wanna join?”
“Nope, I’m good.” I lean against the cabinet and watch him. If he’s not bothered by being naked, then I’m not going to be bothered by looking.
“You sure? I’d make it worth your while.” He smirks.
“I’m sure.”
“You don’t look sure. You look like you’re about to pounce, mi alma, which I’m not opposed to either.”
“I’m just admiring the art,” I tell him. Not only is his skin covered in ink, but his body itself is a work of art. “You have a good tattoo artist. Think they’ll do something on me?”
“Not if they want to keep their hands, and I hear those are useful to artists.” Emmanuel picks up a loofah and squirts a bunch of shower gel on it before rubbing at his arms and torso.
Fuck, I should not be in here. I should not be watching this.
My eyes follow his hands down, down and farther down, until he reaches his dick. There’s a nice little V that leads you right to it. He’s hard, really fucking hard.
“That looks like it hurts.” I grin.
“I’ve been hard since I first laid eyes on you,” he says.
“Good thing your hands work. Want me to leave you to it?” I offer.
“I’m not jerking myself off, mi alma. When I relieve myself, it’ll be inside you,” he says.
“Well, I hope you look forward to a lifetime of celibacy then, because that’s never going to happen.” I walk out of the bathroom, for my own sanity, before I take back what I said and join him in that shower. I really do want to experience what he could do with that dick of his.
I’m stubborn, though. So if I say it’s not happening, it’s not happening. I return to my spot on the floor. I don’t know what else to do.
Emmanuel walks out of the bathroom, a billow of steam trailing behind him. “Get up,” he growls at me.
“Excuse me?” I raise a brow. I’m not a dog. He can’t just bark an order and expect me to follow it.
“I said get off the fucking floor.” He stomps towards me and drags me up by my arms again. “You do not belong on the goddamn floor, Evie.”
“What is your problem with the floor?”
“It’s for people beneath us. You are not beneath us.” He guides me over to the little table with the tray. “Sit,” he says, pointing at the chair.
“No.” I cross my arms over my chest. “I happen to like sitting on the floor, and people are not beneath me. I’m not better than anyone else.”
“Yes, you are,” he seethes. “We have chairs. Sit on chairs. Sit on the bed. Anywhere but the fucking floor.” He stalks towards another door.
I don’t move. I consider sitting on the floor again. That’s what protests are about, aren’t they?
If I’m honest with myself, I don’t particularly want to risk making him any angrier than I already have, though. I don’t think he’d hurt me.
I’m a fucking idiot. He’s a cartel boss. He’d hurt me if he had to.
Emmanuel comes out in another perfectly-fitted black-on-black suit.
“Do you buy those suits from Costco? Like in bulk or something?” I ask him.
“You own a boutique, Evie. Tell me, do you really think my suits are from Costco?” He raises a brow.
“They could be,” I say, even though I know damn well those suits are custom-fitted.
“Sure. Why didn’t you eat?” He eyes the untouched food.
“Hunger strike,” I tell him.
“Yeah, that’s not fucking happening. Come with me.” Emmanuel grabs hold of my hand and drags me out of the bedroom.
“Where are you taking me?” I huff behind him.
“To the kitchen. You’re going to eat.”
“No, I’m not,” I spit.
“I’m not about to sit back and let anyone hurt you, Evie. That includes you,” he says.
“Why do you even care?” I don’t understand this guy. What is his deal?
Emmanuel stops. We’re halfway down the stairs when he turns around to face me. “Why wouldn’t I care?”
“You don’t know me?”
“Mi alma, I don’t need to know you. I know that I want to keep you. That’s enough for me.”
“What does that mean? Mi alma?” He keeps calling me that, and I have no idea what he’s saying.
“It means… mi alma.” He smiles. “You are mine now, Evie. You are my soul.”
“Yeah, I’m not.” I shake my head.
“I’ll give you time to get used to the idea.” He nods. “But right now, we’re eating dinner and you are going to tell me what the fuck happened to you.”
I keep my mouth shut, sitting when Emmanuel pulls out a dining chair for me. And I continue to keep it shut when he positions himself across from me. Two plates are brought in and placed in front of each of us. I pick up a fork and stare at it.
“Out of curiosity, how hard would it be to kill someone with this?” I ask.
“You want to stab it right here.” Emmanuel points to a spot on his neck. “Make sure to get it as deep as you can, then give it a little twist,” he says.
“Seems messy.” I shrug.
“It is,” he tells me.
Instead of trying to make conversation, I eat. My hunger strike lasted right up until I needed a distraction from the man across from me.
“What do you want to do tonight?” Emmanuel asks. “I know you won’t sleep, but we can do something to pass the time.”
“I want to go home. I want to be in my store.”
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll take you home, right after you tell me what happened to you and who did it.”
“Why are you so interested in my past?” I grumble and regret the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth.
“Because I plan on being your future, and for that to happen, I need to know your past.”
“You’re not going to be my future, Emmanuel. This? It’s not happening. You can keep me here forever, and it’s still not happening.” I gesture between us. Mostly because I’m never going to tell him about my past. And if I did tell him, he wouldn’t want me anyway.
Huh, maybe that’s my ticket out of here. Letting him see all the ugliness inside me.
“What would you do? Say someone did hurt me, what would you even do about it?” I ask.
“I’d bring you their heads on a silver platter,” he replies without hesitation.