Stealing Beauty (Stolen 1)

“Don’t smile,” he said in a monotone. “This is for your passport.”

The pleasant expression instantly melted from my face. As I heard the camera click, dread stirred in my gut. My ingrained fear response kicked in. I had to smile for the picture. I had to look happy and pretty for Hugo. No one could know my secret misery.

Mateo cursed. “I need one with the flash. I told you not to smile, but I can’t have you looking like you’re scared, either. Neutral expression.”

I swallowed and nodded, struggling to ease the tension from around my eyes and mouth. The flash went off, light popping in front of my face.

Don’t smile. Don’t smile.

“I said neutral,” Mateo said, growing frustrated.

“Valentina.” Adrián’s voice was lower and rougher than it used to be when we were young, but the sound of my name on his tongue still commanded my full attention. My eyes snapped to his, where he stood just behind Mateo.

“Look at me,” he ordered, the words softer than anything he’d said to me since he’d abducted me. His pale eyes weren’t burning with lust or hatred. They glowed with something like concern. For a few seconds, I stared at the boy I loved, the boy who worshipped me in his own harsh way.

The camera clicked, light flashing in my eyes.

“That’ll work,” Mateo said.

I blinked away the bright spots in my vision. When I looked back up at Adrián, his eyes weren’t on me anymore; he was checking the photo on Mateo’s phone.

“Okay,” he agreed, approving of whatever image his friend had captured of me. “You’d better get going. Text me when you have the documents and let me know you’re safe.”

“Of course I’ll be safe.” Mateo shrugged his massive shoulders, shooting Adrián a carefree grin that made him appear far younger than I’d initially surmised. His angular features and coarse black beard gave him a ruthless appearance that added several years to his face.

“Text me,” Adrián repeated sternly.

“You got it, jefe.” Mateo offered a deferential nod and turned to leave. The hotel room door clicked shut behind him, leaving me isolated with Adrián.

The space suddenly felt far too small, the air in the room hot enough to be stifling. I could hear the air conditioner running, but sweat beaded on the back of my neck. I didn’t dare look at him, but I felt his eyes on me, pinning me in place where I remained against the wall. He might as well have pressed his strong body against me; I was effectively trapped by his incisive stare. My skin pebbled with awareness, and despite the heat, I shivered.

“Am I truly so frightening, conejita?” he asked softly.

I flinched at the old endearment. It sliced through my heart as keenly as a knife.

I didn’t have the words to express how he made me feel. How horrific it was to be in his presence again, to be trapped in this twisted version of my girlish rescue fantasy.

I wasn’t allowed words, anyway. He’d commanded my meek silence, and a simple “Yes, sir” wouldn’t be nearly sufficient to explain the depth of my horror.

“You’re pale,” he commented. “You need to eat.”

I nodded mutely. Since we’d been in the car, we’d only eaten snack food all day. I’d barely picked at the potato chips Adrián offered me. The candy bar had been out of the question. Chocolate was strictly forbidden.

“Here.” He pressed the hotel room service menu into my clammy hands. “Pick out what you want.”

I blinked. Pick out what I want?

Was this some sort of test?

I dared to peek up at him, so I could read his expression. At first, he simply stared at me expectantly. After several seconds of silence, his brow furrowed, and his eyes flashed.

“Fine,” he declared, snatching the menu away from me. “I’ll pick for you.”

I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Clearly, I’d made the right decision. I was never allowed to dictate my own diet. Everything in my life was carefully controlled by Hugo—from what I ate to what underwear I wore. Now, Adrián would expect the same level of control. After the way he’d spanked me and demanded my obedience, I wasn’t remotely surprised that he intended to treat me as his possession.

You’re mine. The words that had seemed romantic when we were young now made my stomach turn. I wasn’t his to love and protect. I was his to own and command. To parade around as a trophy, a sign of his triumph over Vicente and Hugo.

I barely paid attention as he picked up the hotel phone and placed the food order with room service. I simply stared at the plush cream carpet, struggling to calm my rising nausea. The full, awful weight of my situation bore down on my chest, making it difficult to draw breath. Just as I began to feel lightheaded, Adrián’s sharp order snapped me back to attention.