Raw, A Dark Romance (6 page)

I stood in that room, chained to that big X, for what seemed like a lifetime. The whole time my ears pricked, my heartbeat raced. That horrible man would come back, and when he did, what would he do next? Would he whip me until I screamed in agony? Or would he caress me where I ached to be touched until I begged him to take me?

Either way, I was screwed. Perhaps literally.

Footsteps. I heard footsteps.

My spine tensed. My heart raced. My fingers curled. He was coming.

My breath caught in my throat as the sound grew closer, louder. He was in the room now. Almost within touch. I tried to twist my body, to look back.

I couldn’t see him yet.

Closer. Closer.

I strained. I stretched.

At last I saw someone. It wasn’t him. Oh God, it wasn’t him.

A red-hot wave of shame raced through my body. Someone was seeing my bare ass and back. That someone clasped the buckle of one of my wrist cuffs and unfastened it. My arm fell limply to my side, the blood having drained from it, making it heavy and numb. I shook it out as I watched my savior unbuckle the other wrist.

She was a female, dressed in a simple uniform, similar to the plane’s flight attendant. Black pants. White button-down shirt. Black jacket.

She was attractive. Slim. Petite. She had a friendly face.

She was the woman who had greeted me when I’d first arrived. The one I’d assumed was the concierge.

As the blood returned to my arms, I was able to cross them over my body, one holding the front of my  tank top against my chest the other pressing the remains of my skirt over my nude mound.

“Come with me,” she said, her words in a heavily-accented, but completely understandable, English.

“Thank you.” A little wobbly, I shuffled after her, letting her lead me through the enormous house.

She said nothing as we traveled down wide corridors and through rooms full of gorgeous furnishings. At last I recognized where I was. She opened my door for me, stepping inside before shutting it behind her. “There are fresh clothes in the closet.” She opened the door to show me. One look at those clothes and I knew they weren’t mine.

“That’s not my stuff,” I told her.

“Yes. Your things have been stored for safe keeping. They will be returned to you at the end of the week.”

My things had been taken away? Why? What the hell did he do that for? He’d taken my clothes? My underwear? My make up?

My phone!

My ID.

My passport.

My teeth gritted. I couldn’t stop myself; my anger blasted out. “He stole my things. Why? Why would he do that?” I demanded.

Unfazed, the woman motioned to the closet. “
Señor Ramos has provided ample garments for you to wear during your visit.”

“That’s not the point!” I quivered as another fresh wave of rage smashed through me.

That bastard had stripped me of everything. My freedom to leave. My clothing. My phone. My dignity. I despised him more than I’d ever hated a human being before.

My eyes began to burn. I lifted my trembling hands to hide them. I didn’t want this strange woman to see me cry. It was bad enough she’d seen me practically naked. I was humiliated enough as it was.

A second later soft and warm draped across my shoulders. Without opening my eyes, I grabbed the front of the garment, a robe, I imagined, and clenched it tightly in my fists. I could hide my body. But I couldn’t hide my shame, my confusion, my anger, or my fear. I felt hands smoothing my hair back from my face, tying something around the long tresses.

“Come, sit.” The woman used gentle hands to steer me toward the bed.

I was blind, tears blurring my vision. I blinked through them, gaze fixed to the floor, as I let her guide me to the bed.

“Sit. Please,” she coaxed.

I sat. My nose was burning now too, and runny, thanks to the tears leaking from my eyes. I dragged my hand across my face, under my nose.

The soft scuff of a tissue being pulled from a cardboard box raked over my raw, frazzled nerves.

“My name is Adela.” She placed the tissues in my hand. “I have been in your position. A long time ago. Señor Ramos’s father brought me here, just like you, to be his
puta
, his whore. I was afraid and ashamed at first. But it was okay. And once he died, his son set me free. Yet I have stayed. All this time, many years. Señor Ramos is a good man. He will not scar you. He will not break you if you don’t let him. You will go home whole.” She slid to her knees, positioning herself in front of me.

I didn’t meet her gaze. I was too confused, too lost in emotion to look her in the eyes. But I appreciated what she was trying to do. She had confessed something very private. And she’d done it to show I could survive this.

I swallowed the big sob clogging my throat. “I don’t know how to deal with this. I don’t know how this happened. There was a mistake. I thought I’d come here to go on a date with a billionaire. I didn’t know…”

“See me.” The woman cupped my face in her hands and forced me to look her in the eye. “Do you see any pain in my eyes? Do you see any fear?
Señor Ramos is a good man. You can believe me.”

I dabbed at my soggy face again. “If he’s so good, why does he do this terrible thing? Why does he buy women?”

“He has his reasons,” she answered, patting my knee. “It makes him no less honorable or respectable in my eyes.”

“But it was a mistake. Shouldn’t he let me go?” I insisted.

She gave me a friendly, reassuring smile and stood. “Just as he has his reasons for buying you in the first place, he has his reasons for keeping you. Trust him.”

Trust him?

Was she insane? I was supposed to trust a strange man who lived in a strange country, who supposedly bought women so he could beat and whip and rape them?

Maybe this kind woman was wrong? Perhaps she was so broken she didn’t even realize it. And that was why she was willing to come to his defense.

That had to be it. She was brainwashed. She’d lost touch with reality.

I didn’t even know how to respond to her crazy suggestion. It was so out of touch with reality, I couldn’t do anything but shake my head.

Trust him? She had to be joking. Clearly I couldn’t trust him, or her. Or probably anyone else in this house of horrors.

Or that bitch,
Fallon Franchot.

When it came down to it, Fallon Franchot was responsible for my predicament. Clearly she’d made arrangements neither I nor Sidonie knew about. Sid couldn’t have not known what kind of man
Señor Ramos was, and what kind of demands he would make.

But
Fallon Franchot did. The bitch.

Blind date, my ass.

Fallon Franchot was a madam. A pimp. No better. And as soon as I had feet back on U.S. soil, I was going to tell my bestie to quit that job and find something else, anything else. Flipping burgers at a fast food restaurant was a more respectable way to make a living than working for a women who sold innocent girls to psychos like Señor Ramos.

My mouth tasted bitter with hatred. I ached to talk to someone who would understand, who would help me get the hell out of this nightmare. But the asshole had taken all my things. My phone was in his possession, not mine. And my credit cards and passport, too.

Feeling unsettled, I ran to the bathroom and cranked on the water as hot as it would go. Then I stripped off the robe and shredded scraps of my clothes, tugged out the red ribbon Adela had tied in my hair and threw it on the countertop, and stood under the scalding stream until my skin was numb. While I stood there, I let all the pent up tears flow. And did they ever flow.

I was terrified of the unknown. There were so many things I couldn’t be sure of. What if he didn’t let me go at the end of the week? What if I was kept a prisoner here forever? Or what if he sold me to someone else after he grew bored of me?

And…ohmygod, what if Sid hadn’t been sick? What if she was poisoned by Fallon Franchot so she couldn’t interfere? What if I never saw or talked to her again?

I didn’t feel much better by the time I finally cut off the water. Pruney, I toweled off and got dressed. After having been stripped of my clothes and my pride, I wanted to wear a lot of clothes, despite the warm sea-scented breeze wafting through my open French doors. I dug through the contents of the closet.

Truckloads of expensive clothes hung on hangers and lay folded neatly on shelves. The panties and bras were all beautiful, lacy and delicate. And all of them had tags. They were all brand new, never worn.

That should have made me feel a little better, knowing he’d bought them for me. At least I wasn’t forced to wear some other woman’s clothing. Or plural, women’s clothing. Evidently he’d gone out and purchased all new, in preparation of my arrival. But I still despised the fact that I wasn’t stepping into my own panties or clasping my own bra, or tugging on my own t-shirt.

There were no pants, so I had to be satisfied with a skirt. At least it was long. The silky material draped over my hips and skimmed the floor as I walked to the French doors. Barefoot, since I hadn’t found a single pair of shoes in the closet, I peered outside. The sun was a fireball, perched high in the sky and dousing everything in brilliant light. The rolling sea flashed as the beams reflected off its surface. The sand glimmered. The green leaves of the plants and trees shone brilliant emerald.

I stepped outside, onto the cool, shaded patio and a thought passed through my mind. How far would I have to walk to find a neighbor? A few hundred feet? Farther?

I padded around the swimming pool and went down to the beach. The warm sand sank under my feet, squishing between my toes. I peered to the right. Waves battered the huge jutting tumble of rocks, sending glimmering sparkles into the air. If I followed the shore, I would have to climb onto those rocks. Those steep, slick rocks.

Probably not the best idea.

I looked to the left. The sandy shore arched for roughly a quarter mile then ended at a steep ledge, identical to the one on the right.

Fuck. I was, for all intents and purposes, caged in.

Caged.

Like an animal at the zoo. Exactly like an animal at the zoo.

There I was, surrounded by spectacular beauty. Brilliant blue freedom stretched out in front of me for hundreds of miles. And yet I couldn’t get away. There was no chance I could swim to safety.

Behind me was the house.

Trapped.

My nerves got twitchy.

I started back toward the patio and swimming pool, wondering if I might be able to circle around the side of the house to the road. Baked by the hot sun, the stones beneath my bare feet burned. I hopped from one scalding stone to another, seeking relief in the shade whenever possible. Eventually, I found the far end of the gargantuan house and turned the corner, but almost instantly I ran into a soaring stone wall, hidden by a line of thick shrubs and trees.

Dammit. He’d thought of everything. The bastard.

Angrier than ever, I marched back down to the shore.

Fuck this. I was determined. I’d find a way out of this gilded cage, so help me God. I ran down the shore to the massive pile of rocks and looked up. The waves crashed against them, battering them with no mercy. Little crabs skittered across the lowest boulders, dumped there by the sea. I placed a foot on a flat spot and reached up to climb. It slipped right off.

Damn, it was like climbing an oil-slicked wall.

Bastard.

I glanced over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching then tried again. This time I held my footing. I found a toe-hold and moved up, ducking and praying when a wave slammed into me. By some miracle I wasn’t knocked off. Sputtering, I reached with my hand, found a little outcropping, grabbed hold and climbed higher. No sooner did I secure my foot than I was looking for my next move. It was up there. I could see it. But it would be a reach.

I stretched my arm, fingers extended as far as they would go. Just a little farther, less than an inch.

A huge wave rolled up the coast and smashed into me, water filled my ears and nose, twisted my skirt around my legs, and tousled my hair. My fingers found purchase, but just as they did my foot slipped. I clung to the ledge, legs swinging. Finger muscles strained. They weren’t used to holding my weight. In one, two, three seconds, they spasmed from exhaustion and I slid down, down, down, the lumpy, bumpy surface before smashing into the rocks at the bottom. Pain razored up my leg, from my ankle to my spine, and I cried out. My voice echoed across the empty beach.

I had failed.

And now, making matters far worse, I was hurt.

Pain was beautiful. My pain. Their pain. It made me feel alive. It didn’t matter. Pain made my heart beat and my nerves fire. Pain was beautiful…except for hers. --Kace R
.

Seconds after I’d fallen strong arms scooped me up.