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  Exercise. If I couldn’t go to the school gym, I would find another way to work off the diet-ruining number of calories I had consumed over the last few days. But crunches and lunges could only occupy me for so long before I got sweaty. I hated feeling untidy, and now I didn’t have the option of a shower or a change of clothes.

  Stupid. Working out had been a bad idea.

  I glanced at the clock. Holy shit, Santiago had only been gone for a little over an hour. How was that even possible?

  Okay, I needed to calm down. Maybe yoga would help. I had gone to one class with Rachel before I decided I hated it; I wasn’t very flexible. But I managed the lotus position and closed my eyes, breathing deeply. Unfortunately, I was not only inflexible, but I was also incapable of clearing my mind. Meditation was a crap shoot.

  I couldn’t stand being alone, trapped with nothing but my own thoughts for company. Without seeing my college-girl persona reflected in the eyes of those around me, I didn’t even know who I was. It was part of what was so disturbing about being around Santiago. Every time I looked at him, I was reminded of the mobster’s daughter I used to be. Maybe that was what I still was. Maybe that was all I would ever be.

  Well, Santiago wants you to be a gangster’s wife. So much better. My thoughts dripped with sarcasm.

  Although, a part of me whispered that it was better. Jonas abused me, but Santiago had sworn he would never hurt me. He had made it clear that he wanted to protect me.

  Too bad his plan to keep me safe was utterly deranged.

  I realized I was rocking back and forth, ruining my supposedly peaceful pose. Opening my eyes with a sigh, I unfolded my legs and got to my feet. Pacing suddenly seemed like an excellent idea.

  As I tread a short back-and-forth pattern over the threadbare rug, my eyes darted around the room, as though it might hold more secrets for escape. Of course, I found none.

  However, my eyes did fall on the CD rack and ancient boom box several times. I grasped at the diversion, stopping my nervous pacing to kneel before the rack. Dozens of albums were crammed up against one another, completely filling the narrow, vertical space. A few even lay on the floor, where Santiago had placed them when he ran out of room on the rack.

  My fingers traced down the smooth plastic spines of the CD cases. The contact soothed me as my mind was finally distracted from my despairing thoughts. As I skimmed over the list of artists’ names, a small smirk twisted my lips. Who would have thought the scary gangster who was holding me prisoner was a country music fan? I was even more amused to find that most of them were female singers. I wasn’t all that familiar with the genre, but I recognized a few names.

  I selected a Carrie Underwood CD and popped it into the player. Her twangy voice filled the room. It was the closest thing I had to human contact. Usually, I kept music on in the background when I was studying, or I was vaguely aware of hip hop beats when I went dancing. Now, I had no choice but to fully focus on it. It was actually really good. I particularly enjoyed one song about getting revenge on a cheater, so I put it on repeat.

  By the time I was on my third listen, I was belting out the vengeful words along with Carrie. It was incredibly cathartic, even though I couldn’t sing for crap.

  “Having fun?”

  I gasped and whirled to find Santiago standing in the doorway, a huge grin splitting his face. It lit up his sharp features. God damn him. He really shouldn’t be allowed to appear so charming when he was nothing but a cruel asshole.

  “Don’t stop on my account. You have a lovely voice.” His eyes sparkled, and one corner of his lips quirked up higher in mocking amusement.

  I crossed my arms over my chest, glowering. “I didn’t have anything else to do. You took away all my things, remember?”

  His pleased expression instantly melted to a frown. “I’m sorry you’re unhappy. I’ll give them back if you agree to my terms.”

  “You can’t just keep me locked up in here all day with nothing to do!”

  “I can, and I will. It’s for your own good. Besides, I was only gone for a few hours.”

  I looked at the clock again and suppressed a groan. How could time pass so slowly?

  “Come on, I’ll make you something to eat.” It really wasn’t fair that he sounded so kind.

  “You mean you’ll let me out of my cell?” I asked bitterly.

  His frown deepened. “You’re not my prisoner, Charlotte. You’re the one who’s choosing to stay here. If you marry me, you can go back to your life. Believe me, I don’t want you to be unhappy. But I’d rather see you unhappy than see you harmed.”

  “You’re hurting me!” I burst out. “I’m going crazy in here!”

  “I’m sorry you see it that way,” he said, implacable. “This is for your own good.”

  Despair settled in my chest, and I looked away from his hard black eyes. “I want to take a shower.” I sounded almost petulant, but I wasn’t about to outright ask for his permission. He obviously wasn’t going to budge, and I didn’t see any point in fighting him. I had learned a long time ago that defying a man who had made up his mind was a bad idea.

  “All right,” he said, sounding suddenly weary. “I’ll cook while you shower.”

  An automatic “thank you” teased at the tip of my tongue, but I bit it back. He didn’t deserve my gratitude, and I knew he wouldn’t hit me if I didn’t offer false thanks. Even if he was torturing me emotionally, I was safe physically. I found little comfort in that knowledge.

  Chapter 7

  The meal he prepared for me – a lightly spiced chicken and rice dish – was exquisite. Despite my appreciation of his culinary skills, I didn’t even look at him as I ate, much less speak to him. As desperate as I was for conversation, I was so pissed at him that I knew I would just spew vitriol if I opened my mouth. I knew better than to do that.

  There was one other recourse: begging. In the past, I had swallowed my pride and begged my abuser for mercy. But for some reason, the idea of pleading with Santiago rankled. Maybe it was because I didn’t fear violence from him. Or maybe I couldn’t face treating him as I had treated my father after my captor had shown me such tenderness. I couldn’t equate him with my father; it hurt too much. I had wanted so badly to believe I was safe with Santiago.

  While he claimed all he wanted was to keep me safe, he was unbending in his insistence to keep me locked up.

  Unless you marry him. Even in my frustration, I could hardly contemplate the prospect. It was simply too insane. I refused to tie myself to a gangster indefinitely. Some part of me still believed somehow all this awfulness would go away, and I could go back to my life as an innocent co-ed.

  Naïve.

  I ignored the cruel little voice that whispered to me. Angry with myself, I shoved back from the table and stood abruptly.

  “Where are you going?” Santiago asked.

  My eyes fixed on the apartment door, and I walked toward it with steady determination.

  He won’t hurt me, I assured myself. If he wasn’t going to beat me to keep me in my place, then he wouldn’t be able to stop me from leaving.

  “I’m going back to my apartment. You can follow me if you want. I don’t care. But I’m not staying here one more second.”

  His chair scraped back, and he was suddenly standing before me, his large body blocking my path to freedom. I flinched, but I didn’t back away. Instead, I lifted my chin and stared at him defiantly.

  “Get out of my way,” I demanded.

  He raised a cool eyebrow at me. “No.”

  “What are you going to do?” I flung at him. “Hit me to keep me in line? Beat me and drag me back to that room? You promised you wouldn’t hurt me. If you really meant that, then you won’t stop me from leaving.”

  I sidestepped to brush past him. He mirrored my movement. His expression shifted to a stony mask. “I don’t have to hurt you to keep you here.”

  His hands closed around my waist, and he lifted me easily. The air whooshed from my lungs when
my abdomen collided with his shoulder. The world turned, and I found myself staring at the floor. The fear that spiked through me urged me to fight. But before I could even kick at him, his arm closed around the back of my thighs, stilling my struggles. My fists pummeled his back, but if I was causing him even mild discomfort, he didn’t show it. He closed the short distance to his bedroom. I twisted in his hold, but he didn’t give me an inch.

  I gasped at the sensation of falling just before my back hit the soft mattress. I blinked and found him frowning down at me with no more than slight disapproval. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even annoyed. Just… disappointed. I instantly withered under that look, feeling like a chided child.

  “I’m sorry, muñequita, but you’re not going anywhere.”

  How could he speak to me so gently when he was making me so miserable? Fury rose up in me, and I launched myself at him. He caught the fist I aimed at his face easily, and his other hand pushed me back down onto the bed. My anger turned to panic, and I thrashed wildly. The weight of his torso settled over mine, and his fingers encircled my wrists, trapping them above my head.

  “Calm down, Charlotte.” It was a cool, clear command.

  I continued to jerk against him. He sighed and gathered up both my wrists in one large hand. His other gently cupped my cheek, his thumb hooking under my jaw and stilling the signs of my defiance.

  “Take a deep breath,” he ordered. “You’re okay. I’m not hurting you.”

  Realizing how useless my efforts were, I complied, sucking in air. He wasn’t hurting me. He hadn’t hit me. His hold on me was firm, but it wasn’t bruising. The lines of his body were relaxed, as though he wasn’t expending any effort at all. His strength should have terrified me, but there was no violence in his bearing.

  As oxygen flooded my lungs, my head cleared, and my body automatically relaxed. His touch shifted, releasing my jaw to stroke my hair back from my face.

  “That’s better,” he said with soft approval.

  I shivered beneath him, but it wasn’t in fear. He had me so off-balance. It would be so much easier if he did hit me. That way, I would know how to put him in a neat little box labeled abuser. As it was, I had no idea how to react to him. He made me so angry, but he managed to calm and comfort me time and again.

  The manacles of his fingers released my wrists, and he stroked his thumbs across the vulnerable spot just below my palms. The tender touch there reassured me he truly didn’t intend to harm me. Still, the action made all my fine hairs stand on end as a primal part of me recognized his superior strength.

  “I don’t want this,” I whispered raggedly. I wasn’t sure if I was referring to our physical contact or my captivity. “Please.”

  The chocolate brown of his eyes had turned so black that I could barely discern his irises from his dilated pupils.

  “I know you don’t. And I’m sorry.” There was a strange, husky edge to his voice. He slowly pulled away from me. If I didn’t know better, I would have said his movements were reluctant. He looked down at me where I lay prone on the bed, my arms still extended above my head where he had placed them. The twist of his lips was regretful. “All I need from you is a simple yes, and all of this will end.”

  “There’s nothing simple about it. You’re asking me to give up my future in exchange for my freedom.” My words were weary; all the fight had drained out of me.

  “Your father surrendered your freedom to me on the night he gave you to me. All I want is to keep you safe. It doesn’t have to be forever, Charlotte. Circumstances will change. It will all be over in a few months, and you’ll be free to leave me.”

  My brow furrowed with my confusion. “How could you possibly know that? What will happen in a few months?”

  He shook his head, refusing to divulge more. “All you need to know is that it will be temporary. I won’t expect anything from you other than you signing some papers and wearing my ring.”

  I wanted so badly to believe what he was saying, but I couldn’t be sure. I hardly knew him; he could easily be lying in order to get me to comply. I wasn’t ready to break just yet. It was my turn to shake my head.

  “No. I won’t do it.”

  “Then you’ll stay in here until you change your mind.” He turned to leave me.

  Desperation clawed at my insides. I didn’t want to be left alone again. “Can you at least give me something to do? I’ll go crazy in here. Just give me my books. Paper and pen. Anything.”

  His jaw firmed, but his eyes were sad. “No. I’ll do what I have to to get you to agree.”

  Tears stung at the corners of my eyes, and I turned my face away. He was so ruthless, yet so tender. It was a twisted brand of cruelty.

  My sob mingled with the sound of the door closing behind him. I didn’t bother to keep quiet this time. What did it matter if he heard me crying? My pride lay in shreds. He had handled me so easily, quashing my defiance with nothing more than a firm hold and gentle touches.

  Several minutes passed before my cries were interrupted by something sliding across the floor. I looked toward the door to find that Santiago had slipped a yellow legal pad and a pen under it. My heart leapt into my throat, and I grabbed it up. Gratitude flooded my chest, even as I recognized that I was completely dependent upon him for the simplest kindnesses. It drove home my powerlessness.

  But I didn’t care. I was too relieved at the distraction to worry about my reaction to him. Within seconds, I was scribbling out the intro to my Med History essay that was due the following week. I didn’t have my books for reference, but I would cobble it together as best I could with what I remembered from lectures.

  My hand was cramped and aching by the time I finally dozed off, still clutching at my pen like a lifeline.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, sitting bolt upright in bed. The feel of Santiago pulling the paper out from under my hand had roused me. He was studying my work.

  “Can you really read this?” He asked, squinting at my untidy writing.

  I snatched my essay away from him. “Yes,” I snapped, annoyed at being woken up so early and at his casual invasion of my privacy. “Well, I know what it says,” I corrected. Then I fixed him with a pointed stare. “If I had my laptop, I could type it out. I haven’t hand-written a paper since middle school.” I furled and unfurled my fingers, working out the tension that lingered in my hand after my late-night writing session.

  “What’s the paper about?” He asked, ignoring my jibe.

  I scowled at him. “As though you care. You don’t want me to go to school anymore.”

  “That’s not true, and you know it,” he said evenly. “I would very much like for you to go back to school. I want you to be happy. And I am interested in your work. What’s the paper about?” He pressed again.

  I turned up my nose at him. “Nothing that would interest you.”

  He frowned and shot me a reproving look. “Now you’re just being rude. I went to college, you know.”

  I blinked, taken aback. Maybe it was judgmental of me, but I hadn’t expected him to be educated. I hadn’t thought a gangster would care about that. Why bother getting a degree if you weren’t going to use it? I suddenly found myself curious about his background.

  “If you went to college, then what are you doing with the Latin Kings?” I asked. “You could have a real job. You don’t have to deal drugs to make a living.”

  His expression closed instantly. “That’s none of your business.”

  I scoffed. “You expect me to marry you when I know nothing about you?”

  He fixed me with a level look. “And if I told you about myself, would you agree to my terms?”

  I cut my eyes away from his.

  “I didn’t think so,” he said. “I wish you wouldn’t be so stubborn. You’re just drawing this out. It’s pointless. I already told you, the arrangement will be temporary, and it will mean nothing beyond ensuring you are protected. You’re making yourself unhappy by refusing me.”

  I met
his gaze again. “And how can I trust that you’re telling me the truth? All I know about you is you’re a member of the Latin Kings. I’m not going to trust a gangster.”

  Anger darkened his features, and I shrank back slightly. “Is that really all I am? Is that what you think of me?”

  I swallowed hard. “You haven’t given me reason to think of you as anything else. I’ve known men like you. You’ll do anything to get what you want, to feel powerful.”

  “Are you saying I’m like your father?” His voice was soft, but it wasn’t soothing. The question was a dangerous challenge.

  Something that felt strangely like shame heated my stomach, and I could no longer meet his eye. No, he wasn’t like Jonas. But he wasn’t a good man, either. A good man wouldn’t keep a woman locked up against her will. No matter how gently he treated me, I couldn’t forget that.

  When I didn’t answer, Santiago moved past the subject.

  “I’m going to make breakfast. You can shower if you want.” His words were clipped.

  “Okay,” I responded meekly. I wasn’t sure why, but I felt guilty for hurting his feelings. What was wrong with me? For some reason, I didn’t hate Santiago. And I should. I really, really should.

  Early that evening, a knock on the bedroom door interrupted my screechy duet with Reba McEntire. I snapped my mouth closed, realizing Santiago had probably heard me singing again. I had been really belting it out.

  It struck me as odd that he was actually knocking for once. And he seemed to be waiting for my invitation to enter.

  “Come in?” It came out as a question. What was he playing at?

  The door swung open to reveal his handsome, grinning face. He seemed to be smothering a laugh. Damn it. He had heard me.