THE NEXT MORNING, I wake up in bed alone. I reach over to feel the sheets beside me, and they are ice cold. Mateo hasn’t been here for a while. I vaguely remember our conversation before I fell asleep. He wanted a name, and I gave it to him willingly. And, hell, if he can do something about Constantine, then so be it. Lord knows that monster certainly deserves everything coming his way.
Giving Mateo any kind of information felt wrong, though. But I was so exhausted, mentally and physically, after what had happened, that I gave it up willingly. Also, I knew he would just keep pressing until he got what he wanted. If Mateo is anything, he’s definitely relentless.
My thoughts turn to what else happened last night. I swear I can still feel Mateo’s tongue between my thighs. The orgasm he gave me was so powerful, it felt like my soul was leaving my body. I’ve never felt like that before; and while it thrilled me beyond belief, it also scared the hell out of me. I can’t afford to fall under whatever spell he’s trying to put me under when the crystal-clear, blaring fact remains — he’s my captor.
Clenching my thighs together, I groan out in frustration before tossing the sheets aside and climbing out of bed. I take a shower to clear my mind and get ready for the day, dressing quickly in worn yoga pants and a plain, black t-shirt. I frown at my reflection while I brush through my hair, but it’s not like I can do anything about my wardrobe choices. If I were home, I would have a closet full of dresses, outfits, and shoes that would make even the biggest socialite green with envy.
After my hair is dry, I venture out of the room and down to the kitchen. There are several guards on the way, but they don’t even so much as make eye contact with me. I can’t help but wonder if they were instructed to ignore me by Mateo. I wonder if they would pay attention to me if I ran, though. The thought crosses my mind, but only for a split second before the phantom scars on my back remind me why I will never run or misbehave again.
When I enter the kitchen, one of the cooks is busy making breakfast, and there’s a smorgasbord of food on the center island. When the older woman sees me approaching, a big smile graces her pretty, wrinkled face. “Por favor,” she says, motioning towards the food.
I smile at her and take one of the pink and brown seashell-looking breads from the counter. I tear off a fluffy corner and pop it into my mouth. The flaky, buttery crust hits my tastebuds first and then a sweetness that’s divine, and I hum in approval.
The woman seems pleased by my reaction. “Concha,” she says while pointing to what’s in my hand. “Good?” she asks.
I emphatically nod as I put another piece in my mouth.
“Bueno,” she tells me, motioning for me to say the word.
“Bueno,” I repeat.
She smiles appreciatively. “Muy bueno. Very good,” she says with a thick accent.
“Muy bueno,” I agree.
She points to herself and tells me, “Esmeralda.”
“Aria,” I respond.
She says something in Spanish, but I don’t understand a word of it. “I’m sorry, I don’t —.”
“She said ‘beautiful name for a beautiful girl,’” a deep voice says behind me.
I turn to see Mateo sitting in the corner of the room. I’m not sure how long he’s been here. He looks immaculate in a black-on-black suit, shirt, and tie. His eyes look tired, however, like he didn’t sleep much last night.
I glance back at Esmeralda, but she’s back to busying herself with making breakfast. Nervousness gnaws at my belly as I sit down on a nearby stool and pick at my concha. Just seeing Mateo makes my thoughts turn to last night. I stare at his mouth, the same mouth that gave me so much pleasure. And then I quickly tear my gaze away when he smirks, because I’m convinced he can read my mind and hear all the dirty thoughts I’m thinking right now. I stare down at my breakfast, completely focusing on it while I eat.
“I have a few people coming to see you today,” Mateo explains, surprising me. I’m about to ask him who, but he cuts me off by saying, “They’re going to get your measurements and fit you for a new wardrobe.”
My eyebrows crease in confusion, and I stare down at the clothes I’m wearing. Why would Mateo suddenly care what I wear?
“I’m sure the slim pickings you have right now aren’t up to your standards.”
What would he know about my standards? I think to myself, but I keep quiet. Instead, I simply say, “Thank you.”
He gives me a nod before he stands, his form towering over me. “They should be here within the hour.” And with that, he walks out of the room, leaving me alone with Esmeralda.
The delicious smell of eggs frying in a pan wafts over to me, but I’m suddenly not feeling very hungry. Mateo’s unexpected knowledge of my supposed standards has me on edge and wary. Did he figure out who I am? Did I accidentally let something slip that could have led him to my last name?
Constantine.
I told him about Constantine last night, but how would he link him to my family? Gnawing on my lower lip, I suddenly wish I had a cell phone. Some way to Google his name to see if it leads to anything about me or the Vitale name.
Turning to Esmeralda, I ask her, “Do you have a phone?”
She cocks a brow at me and shakes her head.
Damn. Even if she does understand me and has a phone, I doubt if she would let me use it. And I can’t even think about her punishment if she did help me out. I don’t want anyone else to ever go through what I went through down in that basement. Just the memory of it has my hands shaking. I almost drop the rest of my bread, but I hold on tightly and finish it quickly, not wanting to waste it in front of Esmeralda.
I feel numb, like I messed up. Did I unknowingly put my family in danger by giving Mateo the name of the man who kidnapped and sold me? If that’s the case, then I’ll never be able to forgive myself.
