21. Robin
ROBIN
The words are out of my mouth before I realize I’m saying them.
“I want to stay with him.”
Cruz is staring at me.
So is Senora Valentina.
And of the two, Cruz is the one I can’t look away from.
For one insane second, he looks almost happy.
Heat climbs up my neck.
“That’s not—” I draw in a deep breath. “I mean, I don’t want to sleep alone.”
Senora Valentina’s expression doesn’t change.
Cruz’s does. The brief light in his eyes dims.
I hate this.
I hate the way my body keeps reacting like it hasn’t gotten the memo that Cruz Moreno is dangerous. Like it’s forgotten he worked for Diego Vega until roughly twenty minutes ago.
“I mean,” I continue, because apparently I’ve decided to make this worse, “after everything that happened, I just… I don’t want to be in a room by myself.
” I cross my arms. “Not because I’m afraid of this place, Senora.
I just mean, if something bad happens, I’d rather have someone there who can… you know…”
“Protect you,” Cruz says.
“Yes.” I swallow. “Exactly.”
Senora Valentina looks between us a moment, her forehead wrinkled. “One room,” she says finally, “with clean sheets.”
“Thank you,” I say.
Senora Valentina gives me a small smile. “You are safe here for tonight.” She switches her gaze to Cruz. “You know I keep knives tucked in all corners of this house if you need them.”
He nods. “I remember.”
I swallow. I don’t like the sound of that. If this place is so safe, why does Valentina need to stash weapons?
I take a deep breath in. No matter what, any place is better than that cell.
I’m okay. I’m alive. I’m breathing.
For tonight.
Not forever.
But tonight is more than I had an hour ago.
Cruz shifts beside me. My awareness of him seems to live under my skin now.
Not good.
Because I can’t feel anything for Cruz.
Attraction, yes. Fine. I can admit that, though only because denial would make me a liar and an idiot.
The man is beautiful in that fierce, ruined way women shouldn’t want.
Hard jaw. Dark eyes. A body built by violence and survival instead of gym memberships and vanity.
A voice cold enough to cut stone but low enough to make my thighs quiver.
But feelings?
No.
Absolutely not.
He helped me escape.
He put his own life on the line.
He walked me through that labyrinth and lied to Zabala’s face to get me out of a prison, saved me from being beaten bloody for ransom photos.
But one good deed does not erase a life.
It doesn’t wash the blood off a man’s hands. It doesn’t turn a criminal into a hero. It doesn’t undo Cruz working for Diego Vega, the man who turned my family’s life into a nightmare.
Everything circles back to Vega.
Falcon’s prison sentence. Raven’s suffering. Belinda and Daniela. Vinnie. The lies. The bodies. My father in a hospital bed after trying to take his own life because some invisible hand closed around his throat.
Vega.
Always Vega.
And Cruz belonged to him.
Maybe not in his soul. Maybe not anymore. Maybe never in the way men like Zabala belong to cruelty because it gives them pleasure.
But he belonged enough.
And maybe that makes him useful. Necessary, even.
But I don’t trust him.
Still, I’ll keep him close.
Because Cruz is attracted to me.
More than attracted, maybe. And I can use that.
I’ve done it before.
Romania.
Cold room. Concrete floor. A lightbulb swinging overhead. Four other girls huddled near the wall, none of them looking at me directly for more than a second at a time.
Elena.
Andreea. With two E’s, she told me.
Denisa.
Ioana.
No last names. No histories. I don’t know where they live or what they were doing before they woke up here.
They’re all Romanian, and all college aged like me. All terrified.
I’m Colette.
That’s what I tell them, anyway. Colette from a small town in rural France.
Not Robin Bellamy from the United States.
Not a rich girl.
Not a ransom jackpot.
I’m putting my high school French to the test. I just used it in Paris, where I did pretty well.
Je n’ai personne.
I have no one.
Je suis seule.
I’m alone.
Denisa speaks some French. She’s the bridge between me and the others. She translates my broken sentences into Romanian.
The five of us pieced it together in whispers when the men weren’t close enough to hear.
Different schools. Different neighborhoods. Different lives. Elena has a boyfriend who wants to marry her.
Andreea has strict parents and a scholarship she’s terrified of losing, even while chained in a room.
Denisa has a younger brother she practically raised.
Ioana barely speaks.
And me?
Colette has no one.
But after talking in hushed tones, we find a common ground.
Belly dancing. We all took belly dancing classes with Irina. She told us all to go to the same bar.
Elena says her boyfriend will pay. Ioana’s mother is selling jewelry to get the ransom. Denisa’s father is trying. Andreea can’t get hold of anyone.
Me? I have no one.
“You lie,” one of the captors says to me. “You lie, you fucking cunt.” He says the last two words in heavily accented English.
“I’m not lying. I have no one.” The words become my mantra.
Until I realize…
A useless girl is a burden. A mouth to feed. A body taking up space. A mistake.
They could easily dispose of me.
So I try a new tactic.
?tefan.
He’s not the leader. But he brings food sometimes. Water. Cigarettes for Denisa. And he stares at me. Lets his fingers linger a little too long when he hands me bread.
?tefan has pale eyes and a decent smile. He looks at me a lot. Mostly at my hair—it’s longer and thicker than the other girls’—and my legs. He likes how long they are.
But mostly he stares at my mouth.
So I stop looking away when I catch his gaze on me.
?tefan may be my ticket out of this hellhole. A ticket I can’t waste, because sooner or later, the others will realize I have no value.
And they’ll get rid of me.
A few days later, ?tefan comes into the room alone with a bag of bread and a bottle of water. He tosses the bread toward the others but keeps the water.
“Colette,” he says, crouching in front of me.
I lift my head.
“You understand me?” he says in English.
“A little,” I say, thickening my fake French accent.
He smiles and holds out the water.
I hesitate just long enough to look afraid. Then I take the bottle.
“They say you have no one,” he says to me.
I look down at the bottle. “No.”
“No father? Mother?”
“No.”
“Boyfriend?”
I shake my head.
He leans closer. “Pretty girl like you?”
I run my hands through my stringy hair. “I’m not pretty now.”
He laughs softly. “You are.” He taps a finger against the side of the bottle. “If you have no one out there… Maybe you look for boyfriend, yes?”