Crux Untamed (Hades Hangmen 6)

His hands ran down my arms. Then, he took a deep breath and firmly said, “Turn your head.”

Too frozen too move, I couldn’t do as he asked. Tired of waiting, Juan spun me around. I kept my eyes downwards, and I heard the smile in his voice. “Look up, bella. Don’t force me to hurt you.”

His thick Mexican accent felt like thorns stabbing into my ears. Nevertheless, I raised my eyes. Pure fear ran through my veins when his face came into view. I sucked in the breath that I thought would never return. He smiled, his eyes glazed. I knew that look.

It was the look he gave me when I first met him on the beach.

But I had been mesmerized by his eyes when I was seventeen. By his smile and lean, toned body; his accent that, at the time, I believed was the most beautiful accent in the world . . . until I heard Cajun French sailing from the mouths of two men whose smiles were genuine and pure. One free, one guarded, but both striking lightning into my soul.

“Where is he?” I tilted my chin in defiance.

Juan’s smile fell. His head tipped to the side, assessing me. He ran his tongue over his teeth and shook his head. “I see,” he said and got off the bed. I kept my eyes on him. I never let them move. I knew how he worked. One moment he was nice; the next, a true monster. He dusted off his jacket. “I suppose you are asking about the biker in the Stetson?” It felt as though my heart stopped beating as I waited to hear about Cowboy. As I waited, watching Juan’s eyes for any sign of deception, to find out if Cowboy was alive. I nodded, and waited . . . Juan leaned forward, and the devil he disguised with good looks and designer suits flashed through. “Detained for now . . .” He stood and straightened his tie. “But won’t be breathing too much longer.”

Before I knew what I was doing, I shot off the bed and raised my hand to strike his face. Juan caught my wrist in his hand and began to squeeze. I cried out, my body buckling under the pain. He brought me to my knees, exactly where he liked to keep women. His eyes flashed. He spun me around, and I cried out when the back of my dress was ripped in two. I cried out as his finger traced down my burns . . .

“You defied me,” he said as he laid me on my front on the small bed. I was shaking as he rubbed his hands down my wrists. And then I jumped, panicking, when two cuffs were locked into place, keeping my arms strapped to the bed. I thrashed wildly, but Juan cut down my dress, exposing my back. I moved my head from side to side, trying to see what he was doing. Minutes passed, and I collapsed onto the bed, face to the side, chest and arms exhausted. I felt liquid hit my skin . . . then pain, so much excruciating pain that I screamed. Screamed so loudly that I heard people’s shocked murmurs coming from outside. I clawed at the bed, needing to move, yet every movement I made set my skin alight. I screamed until Juan crouched down, his face meeting mine. He ran a hand down my face as I cried out until my eyes felt like they would bulge from my head. As I took a breath, he said, “Try to leave me again, and I will douse you in this.” Tears poured down my face, my body beginning to convulse. My temperature plummeted as my body writhed of its own accord. I clutched the white sheet that covered the bed, trying to breathe through the pain.

He had ruined me.

He had ruined me so I would never leave him.

He had ruined me for anyone else . . .

His hand moved to my shoulder. His mouth came to my ear. “You had it taken off?”

The black rose. The brand he marked all of his girls with. Their brand, like a rancher brands his cattle. On his “girls” the tattoo was burned onto their hips. On me, he made it large enough and visible enough that everyone knew to whom I belonged.

“I wanted nothing of you left on me. Wanted no trace of this place . . . of the hell on earth you’ve created. Your empire built on pain.”

He lifted his eyebrows and then leaned in close. His hand traced my burn scars, then his nails dug in. I stifled a scream. I refused to give the sick fucker the pleasure of my pain. “Too late,” he whispered, and in the simple act of clawing at my desecrated skin, he reminded me how scarred onto my soul he truly was.

He got up and walked toward the door. “Where is she?” I demanded, swinging to face him.

He stopped and glanced at me over his shoulder. “Around.” A wave of relief crashed through my body.

She was still alive . . . after all this time.

“And where is he?” My voice cracked.

Juan tensed and then came toward me. He crouched down, looking as impeccable as always. “Tell me, Sia.” His tone was cold and cruel. “You left me because you refused, as you put it, to be a criminal’s whore.” He left those words hanging between us, until he tipped his head to the side. “I have it on good authority that you are now whored out to two men, and bikers, no less.” As quick as a viper, Juan gripped my cheeks in his hand. I winced, crying out at the flash of pain that shot through my jaw. “Bikers, Sia . . . something you neglected to tell me you were a princess of, didn’t you, bella?”

I pulled my face back and spat in his eye. “As fucked up as they may be, as my family may be, they don’t deal in trafficking women. They don’t sell slaves for profit.”

“Just their sisters to a black bastard and a redneck who fuck each other as much they fuck you.” He pressed a bruising kiss on my lips. I pushed him back. “If I’d known what a slut you were, I might not have been so delicate with you.” He sighed. “It is something I will be taking full advantage of from now on.” He went to stand, but just before he did, he sliced the back of his hand across my face. My head snapped to the side with the force of the unexpected blow. I scurried off, afraid he would come for me again. “That’s for spitting in my face.” He walked away. When the door shut, I staggered to my feet. I ran after him, to the door I once escaped through.

There was no way out.

Slumping to the floor, my burns against the wooden door, I thought of Cowboy, of what Juan would do to him. I thought of Hush, wondering if he was okay. And I thought of my brother, and what could have been the last conversation we ever had.

Only then did I let the tears fall.

*****

It was the next day before someone came into my room. I lay on the bed, my eyes fixed on the door so I would know the exact moment he came back for me. Because I knew he would. I was starving, thirsty, and I ached all over. Whatever his people had injected into me was messing with my muscles.

When the knob of the door turned, I pushed myself up and braced for Juan. A man I didn’t recognize stood in the doorway. “This way,” he ordered. He was big and intimidating—like most of Juan’s men. He was dressed in a black suit with a silver tie. I hesitated, enough for the man to narrow his eyes. “I won’t ask again. If you don’t move, I’ll come and move you myself.”

With shaking limbs, I stood from the bed. I felt like Bambi when I walked, my feet taking tentative steps as I made my way to the door. When I reached the man, he took hold of my arm and led me through hallways that brought back too many bad memories: of my first steps after the acid burn, the excruciating pain as my taut skin stretched with the movement of my legs, the night I fled from the house and into the woods that kept it hidden . . . running until Ky and Styx found me.

I prayed someone would find me now.

I was forced into a car. I wrapped my torn red dress around me. It was hot, but I was freezing as we drove, and drove, until the place I’d never wanted to see again swung into view.

My breathing quickened. My palms started sweating and my body shook. The man pulled us to a stop in front of a far building. Dozens of men were milling around. Truck after truck was leaving this fucked-up place. Nausea swirled in my stomach when I realized who would be in those trucks. And worse, where they would be going. Auctions, to sell them off to men and women, their new owners . . . people who could make them do anything they wished.

Bile rose into my throat as the last truck passed us. The place was quiet . . . eerily so. Once the gate was closed, the man Juan had sent to retrieve me got out of the car and came

to my door. Grabbing my arm, he pulled me violently from the backseat. My bare feet hit the sandy dirt. I stumbled after the man as he pulled me through a building, down cold dank hallways, until we arrived at a door at the end.

He pounded on the door. Another faceless, nameless man opened it. I was handed over without ceremony. The new man led me further into the room, a single lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. I squinted, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dark . . . and I saw something. A chair, with a man sitting upon it.

My heart began racing so fast I was sure it would burst free from my chest. “No,” I whispered, taking in the beaten mess that slumped in the chair. A familiar plaid shirt torn into strips, revealing the lashes on his skin. His hat was missing, and his blond hair was tinged with red from the blood that I guessed had spattered from his face. His hands were tied behind his back, and his ankles were tied to the chair legs.

“Cowboy,” I whispered, my voice carrying on the stale air that clogged the small room.

He lifted his chin, slowly, as though the movement caused him too much pain. I cried out, sobbing when his eyes looked to me. They were bruised and swollen.

I needed to hold him.

I tried to pull away from the man, but he wrenched me back and slapped a hand across my face. My legs buckled, still weak from the kidnapping, dehydration, and the after-effects of the sedative.

Cowboy let out a vicious growl, his chair moving on the concrete floor. The man lifted me up and tied me to a chair opposite Cowboy. I kept my eyes on him, ignoring the throbbing of my cheek. Tears stung the skin, but I kept my eyes on Cowboy. Even as beaten and hurt as he was, Cowboy smiled as best he could and gave me a wink.