Zachary studied the wound across his abdomen. After applying antiseptic and ensuring the gash was dry and clean, it had healed well. It still brought pain, of course, but it had scabbed over and was starting to turn pink around the edges.

His eyes moved to the burn marks over the left side of his body. He traced a finger over a ridge of pale flesh just above the place where his nipple had been, and forced himself not to shudder. It had happened more than a decade ago, but the skin was still tender. It was as if his body retained the memory of that excruciating pain, keeping it just below the surface.

Some days, clothes would chafe him so that he’d have oatmeal baths drawn for him. It could have been easier, of course. He could have smoked cannabis, or taken pain killers, or even drowned himself in scotch…but he would never again allow himself to become inebriated. For he knew, just a taste of that bliss would bring back his cravings. His addiction. That shadow that clung to his back, tugging his arms and working his mouth like a puppet master.

It had made him do things he never wanted to think about. And, sometimes, when it felt as if the cravings would come back unbidden, he forced himself to recall those memories. A particular one, in fact. The one that had been the cause of his scars.

There was a peremptory knock on the door. “Come,” Zachary called out, his attention turning back to the healing gash in his side.

Large, calloused hands that could only have belonged to Ailin—those course red hairs on the back were a dead giveaway—ushered Angel through the door. His lieutenant had seen his scars many times, but Ailin seemed more appalled by them each time he laid eyes on Zachary. The man hurried out, closing the door quickly behind him.

Zachary studied Angel in the mirror before turning to the young man. Angel wore a bandage around his left hand. That hand looked a little swollen, too, but reports from the woman who’d attended to Angel’s injuries had told Zachary that he’d be fine with some rest.

Of course, she wasn’t just talking about the knife wound in the young man’s palm. When Ailin had found out what had happened to Angel, he’d come to Zachary on his knees, begging to pummel some respect into Angel. To make him pay for the boy’s grave show of dishonor.

At the time, the wound on his stomach had been aching quite fiercely, so he allowed it. But only if Ailin didn’t bruise Angel’s face, or leave him incapable of walking. Ailin hadn’t seemed too happy with the instruction, but had kept his word.

Angel’s skin was sallow, his eyes shadowed.

“Have a seat,” Zachary said, sweeping the room with his arm. Angel turned stiffly, and then frowned at him.

There was no place to sit other than the bed. “I stand.”

“No. You sit.” Zachary ran the pad of his thumb over the wound Angel had inflicted and, as if it were a sign, the young man thinned his mouth and went to perch on the edge of the bed. “I feel terrible about what happened, Angel,” Zachary said.

The man’s eyes darkened as if he could hear the lie. Zachary shrugged. “I do. I lost my temper, and that’s inexcusable.”

Angel’s eyes flashed to his burn wounds, to the gash along his abdomen. If he was pleased with his attempt at gutting Zachary, he didn’t show it.

“It’s better to use a carrot than a stick.”

Angel’s eyes crinkled with confusion, and Zachary said, “A fuerza, ni los zapatos entran.”

The young man immediately straightened, his jaw jutting out as he clenched it. “Give me back Marco. We go over border.”

“Now that you know where I live?” Zachary made as if to think, and then gave his head a slow shake. “No. You must know that is not an option.”

Angel’s shoulders slumped. “Then kill me.” His voice was so empty, so lifeless, it was like he was already a corpse.

“No, my dear Angel,” Zachary said as he stepped forward. “That would be a terrible, terrible waste.”

He laid a hand on the young man’s shoulder. Angel wore a gingham shirt, freshly laundered and still stiff with starch. He’d rolled up the sleeves, but one of them was higher than the other, sitting a few inches above his wrist where the other was almost to his elbow.

Zachary slid his hand down Angel’s arm and began rolling down the sleeve until both sides matched. Angel let him, but the young man’s breathing hitched every time his fingertips brushed skin.

“No, it would be a waste,” Zachary murmured. “But, perhaps, if I were to sweeten my offer, you’d reconsider. Something to show you that, for my most loyal, the rewards can be great.”

“No,” Angel said, but his voice quavered something terrible. “You kill me, or you let me go. I—”

“Enough,” Zachary said quietly. Then, raising his voice, he called out, “Ailin?”

The door opened. Ailin walked inside, and immediately glanced away from Zachary. Fixing instead on Angel. With his hand back on the young man’s shoulder, Zachary could feel how Angel tensed.

What was the boy expecting? He almost wanted to laugh, but then remembered when he’d once been approached by a man like Ailin—tall and broad, face as blank as his was now. That had been the first of many violent rapes he’d experienced in his early twenties.

Perhaps he and Angel had that in common. Abuse at an age when the world should have been as shiny and new as a freshly minted quarter. But, instead, he’d come to expect a penny green with age, smelling like copper and the gutter where he’d found it.

“Bring her in.”

Angel flinched. Ailin gave him a nod—still not looking in his direction—and leaned out the door to let out a low whistle. Zachary shuddered. Ailin was as rough as they came, and nothing he’d done had been able to break the man from some of his more vulgar habits.

A young girl stepped into the room, eyes as skittish as her hands. He’d seen her around a few times, cleaning pots or hanging laundry. She might have been one of his sicarios daughters, or a niece. He didn’t keep track of everyone living on the property—that was a task delegated to Ailin and Rodrigo.

So when he’d asked Ailin to find him the youngest, prettiest, unmarried woman on his land, Ailin hadn’t even hesitated. He’d left straight away and returned a few minutes with this same diminutive girl trailing in his wake.

Her wide, bright eyes were wet with fright above a trembling mouth.

Zachary smiled, and he could see her throat move how hard she swallowed.

Perfect.

“Leave us,” Zachary said, tipping his chin in Ailin’s direction, but leaving his eyes on the girl. The man left with a duck of his head, and closed the door quietly behind him.

Silence filtered down in the room.

The only light came from the stand lamp in one corner. It cast a warm, orange glow over the sparsely furnished room. On his ranch, he didn’t allow for gratuitous shows of wealth. Everything was plain and functional. The bed had a thick, rustic frame of cheap, unpolished wood, if neatly made. The colorful Zapotec rug under it could have graced the floor of any middle-class Mexican home.

The only luxury he allowed himself were his clothes. Plain looking as they were, they’d been hand-tailored from Egyptian cotton. They wore like silk, breathed like a sieve.

Yet even that fine cloth would chafe his wounds like sand paper.

“Undress her,” Zachary said.

Angel seemed incapable of taking his eyes off the girl. Confusion, curiosity, anguish—they swirled in those eyes like water making its way down a drain.

“No. Por favor, Senor,” Angel murmured, holding up trembling hands.

Zachary liked the way that phrase rhymed. He’d heard it often. People pleading for him to stop the pain. Others begging him for more pleasure.

“Either I do it, or you do it,” Zachary said. He could hear the coldness in his own voice, and so had Angel.

The young man reached up almost apologetically, and began unbuttoning the girl’s blouse.

She wore her finest—a pale satin blouse with frills down the front. A knee-length, cotton skirt; black. Her hair had been done up in an elaborate knot that glistened as if she’d had her hair washed and treated. But she wore no make up, no jewelery. Too poor to afford it? Perhaps word had spread just how Zachary enjoyed his women…and men.

Had her mother or caretaker dressed her like this? If word had spread about his preferences, so would his compensation for whoever he chose to share his bed.

A fuck was one thing that should never, ever be taken without compensation.

Angel finished with her buttons. His hands had stopped shaking, but his mouth was still set in a thin, pale line. His eyes flashed to Zachary’s as if waiting for his next instruction. Or begging Zachary to stop.

He said nothing, waiting for Angel to continue on his own. When he didn’t do anything, Zachary touched the wound along his stomach again. It was starting to itch—a sign it was healing—but Angel must have taken it as a threat.

The young man reached up and slid the girl’s blouse from her shoulders. She shivered at his touch, and then glanced over her shoulder at Zachary. He stood by the full-length mirror, a few feet away from them, but almost hidden in the shadows.

Until he stepped forward, into the light.

The girl’s eyes widened, and a small gasp escaped her mouth before she could press her lips closed. Her eyes flickered over Zachary’s ruined flesh.

It was like a physical touch, those horrified eyes. She barely seemed to notice when her blouse slid down her arms and gathered in a heap at her feet.

Zachary glanced at Angel. The man was waiting again, eyes staring a point somewhere past the girl. But, unless it was just the way his jeans folded when he sat, he could see an erection forming in Angel’s lap.

With a girl so pretty, half naked and willing—if terrified—to do anything they required…his own manhood was beginning to stir.

“Is my gift not worthy of you?” Zachary asked quietly as he stepped up behind the girl.

He laid his hands on her shoulders and urged her a foot forward, until her knees bumped against Angel’s. The man shifted, but didn’t look at her. Didn’t look at Zachary. His eyes were fixed on the mirror. On his reflection? He’d placed it there with meticulous care, making sure it reflected as much of the bed as possible…Did Angel see that now?

“Por favor…” Angel’s voice was ragged.

“Have you forgotten what to do with a woman?” His voice was cold. “Or would you have preferred a man?”

“No,” came Angel’s quiet protestation.

“Then do you still know how to fuck, or must I show you?”

Angel’s cheeks glowed with what could have been embarrassment or anger as he fisted his hands in his laps. Was he trying to hide his erection, or keep himself from punching Zachary?

The boy had already had his chance at revenge. He’d told Angel he would only get one chance at killing him.

Zachary slid his hands down the girl’s arms, and then cupped her breasts. He squeezed them hard, and she cried out in surprise, instinctively grabbing Zachary’s wrists as if she wanted to tug him away. But she never did. As soon as she touched him, she whipped her hands away again, holding her arms stiff at her sides.

He could feel her trembling under his hands, but her nipples didn’t harden. She didn’t like pain, or hadn’t experienced enough of the good kind to have it excite her. She was already of marriageable age—he couldn’t conceive she hadn’t had some experience with the opposite sex, not as pretty as she was.

Angel’s face contorted in anger, but he smoothed it a second later. He spread his legs open, grabbed the front of the girl’s skirt by the hem, and yanked her forward.

Closer to him, but out of Zachary’s grasp at the same time.

Maybe the young man now understand how this game was played.

Zachary gave him a slow smile that the young man didn’t return. Angel’s hands appeared around the girl’s waist, fumbling for the zipper at her back.

“Allow me,” Zachary said, opening the tiny pearl button with a twist of his thumb and forefinger and dragging down her zipper.

The sound seemed too loud in the confines of the room. It was a quiet night—most of the staff had gone to bed early on his request, and it meant the farmhouse was empty except for them and Ailin, standing guard by the door. The staff quarters were a quarter mile away, and even their occasional music and laughter that played out over his land some nights wasn’t in evidence.

Angel worked his fingers around the waistband of the young woman’s skirt, tugging it down. Zachary had a clear view of Angel over the girl’s petite frame; if he were to pull her into an embrace, her ear would have been on his breastbone.

She wore a frilly underthing—lacy and translucent—and this seemed to shock Angel more than her appearance a few minutes ago.

Zachary ran his thumb around that garment’s waistband, and then flicked it against her belly. The girl jumped, and then let out a tiny giggle.

“See, Angel?” Zachary said, rubbing his palm over the girl’s smooth stomach. “She has accepted her role in my house. Why can’t you do the same?”

Angel’s eyes flared wider as they settled on Zachary’s. “You want me to hurt. To kill. I won’t! I am not a killer.”

“Not yet,” Zachary mused. “But I have an excellent eye for talent. And you, my boy, can be a lieutenant one day.”

“Que?” Angel frowned.

Zachary held out a hand to the bedroom door. “Like Ailin and Rodrigo. My right-hand men. Business partners. Friends.”

“We never be friend.” Angel’s lip curled with contempt. “You are a horrible man.”

Zachary stared at Angel as the burn wounds on his body began writhing like something infested the flesh beneath. Suddenly, even the air weighed too heavy on his skin. “You truly think—”

“I hate you!” Angel tried getting to his feet, but the girl was in his way. She cried out when he bumped into her, and would have gone sprawling if Zachary hadn’t still been a foot behind her. She fell flush against him, her smooth skin as coarse as a metal brush over his wounds.

He hissed, grabbed her by the hair, and shoved her away from him so hard that she screamed when she struck the bed. She scrambled onto it, spinning around with big eyes and a shivering mouth as if ready to kick out if more violence was on the way.

Angel had gone pale. He held his bandaged hand out to the girl as if begging her not to run, and one hand to Zachary as if to placate him.

He drew air through his nose, pushed it out through his mouth, and tried to ignore the throbbing sensitivity of his wounds where the girl had touched him.

“Lo siento, Don Zachary,” Angel murmured. The fright in his eyes was palpable.

Zachary took a step back, and gave the young man a tight smile. “I’m not.” Another deep breath pushed the pain away long enough for him to gather his senses. “Last chance, Angel.” He swept a hand to the girl. She was massaging her scalp where he’d tugged at her head. Such a sensitive little filly, wasn’t she? How darling.

His saliva turned to acid, and he forced a swallow. “Accept my gift.”

He sensed the boy wanted to ask what would happen if he didn’t. He stormed toward the bed, the girl scrambling away from him like he’d known she would.

“¡Pare!” Angel stuck out a hand, not touching his wounds, but close enough that he could feel his warmth. “Por favor! Lo acepto.”

Zachary pushed back his shoulders and then took a slow step back. “Good.” But his voice was emotionless now. The game had come to a grinding halt. The fear in the girl’s eyes was bringing back unpleasant memories and unwelcome empathy.

He despised empathy.

Angel didn’t undress. He tuned his back to Zachary, paused, and then worked at the fly of his jeans. The girl was blocked from Zachary’s view by Angel’s body, but he was still close enough to hear the sound of her underwear sliding down her legs.

The girl didn’t protest when Angel moved her closer to the edge of the bed where he stood. Her legs flashed out to either side of Angel’s waist. She’d painted her toenails bright pink, and they flexed as if she wanted to grip the edge of the bed with them when Angel slid her hips closer to his.

Angel spat into his palm. Zachary watched her feet jerk and then flex as he worked his saliva over her cunt.

A soft murmur from Angel—asking permission, or apologizing?—and then the young man dipped his hips.

The girl cried out. Her hands appeared in Zachary’s view, gripping the sheets to either side of her.

Usually, he would stand to the side, or even move to the other side of the bed. But he’d been soured of this evening by Angel’s reluctance to do what any red-blooded man would have done. He turned, walked to the door, and wrenched it open.

Ailin had been staring up at the ceiling, and didn’t look surprised to see him. Then again, the man was rarely surprised by anything these days. Zachary sometimes wondered what Ailin thought about—he was never one to read or play cards by himself when he was on guard.

“Cigarette,” Zachary snapped.

Anyone but him would have given him a double-take. Ailin drew a crumpled soft pack of cigarettes from his pocket, hesitated, and then brought out a shitty plastic lighter.

He would have to purchase something more elegant for the man. God knew what he spent his paycheck on each month, but it was never on himself. Perhaps he had a lover Zachary didn’t know about. He might even have a family.

Zachary hadn’t closed the door behind him; from inside the room, came a girl’s breathy cry. Ailin shook out a cigarette, and then held out the lighter for Zachary. He pulled hard at the cigarette, coughed just as hard, and then took a second drag and held it in his lungs. It tasted foul, and hot, and too thick. But it was glorious. He took another drag, turned at the sound of the bed moving over the floor, and patted Ailin on the side of his arm.

“Thank you, my friend.”

Ailin said nothing as he put his smokes back in his pocket, and then returned to his inspection of the ceiling.

Angel glanced up when Zachary came back into the room. His jaw was tight, his right hand white knuckled where he gripped the top of the girl’s thigh. His bandaged hand hung limp at his side, as if his wound hurt too much for him to use it. From his new vantage point, Zachary had a better view than before. The girl seemed oblivious to everything except Angel’s dick. But he didn’t watch Angel fucking the girl…he watched Angel watching him. Disgust slowly replaced Angel’s vapid concentration. The young man tipped his head down, spat down on the girl, and then rubbed in that lubricant with furious intent, eyes never leaving Zachary’s.

Something twisted inside Zachary. He took another long pull at his cigarette before dropping it to the floor and grinding it out under the heel of his shoe.

“Don’t come inside her,” he said levelly. “I don’t want to have to pay for another abortion.”

A look of obtuse shock flashed over Angel’s face. Then he groaned, pulled out of the girl, and jerked himself off until he came all over her belly and breasts.

She lay panting under him, mouth wide and eyes confused. Then she tipped her head back and looked at Zachary upside down, as if wondering if he was going to take his turn with her now that Angel was done.

And the mood he was in, she might just be in luck.

Angel used the girl’s pretty underwear to clean his dick, and then awkwardly zipped up his jeans with his bandaged hand. When he stepped back, he closed her legs for her. They just fell open again, the girl seeming still trapped in some pleasure-wreathed dimension.

Zachary slowly walked over to the bed. His mouth tasted like ash, and it was beginning to make him feel nauseous. He leaned down, and kissed the girl until she kissed him back. Eventually, when the taste of cigarettes had been replaced by her sweet saliva, he straightened again.

Angel’s mouth had twisted as if he’d bitten into something sour.

“I don’t surround myself with frivolous things,” Zachary said as he tugged the girl’s underwear over the bed. He urged her into a sit, and then spread her legs open. “If you can’t do what I need you to, when I ask it of you…what use are you to me?”

Angel looked away, but then his eyes were drawn back when Zachary began fingering the girl.

He seemed transfixed by what Zachary was doing. The girl moaned, writhing and twisting her hips. Eventually bucking against his hand to drive his fingers deeper inside her. One finger became two, three. Her moans turned to gasps, then whimpers.

“So, I’ll ask you one more time, Angel…” He slid her underwear across her throat, catching hold of both ends in a hand. “Will you kill for me?”

Tightened it.

Angel leapt forward the same instant the girl gasped.

The young man grabbed at her underwear with both hands, trying to rip it from Zachary’s hands. But he’d twisted it around his thumb to secure it and the girl began to thrash.

“It becomes easier with time,” Zachary said, his voice tight with the effort of keeping the girl from breaking free. Her eyes bulged, and her face became red. Zachary yanked his fingers free of her, and used that hand to grab hold of Angel’s throat. The young man grunted, but didn’t bother trying to free himself; his clumsy fingers tried to tug away the underwear strangling the girl. A pinprick of blood stained the back of the bandage over his left hand.

“Some would say addictive, even.”

Angel went for Zachary’s hands instead, scraping his nails over his wrists. That dot of blood became the size of a quarter.

With a twist, Zachary caught hold of Angel’s fingers and tangled them in the underwear. When he pulled away, it was Angel strangling her, not him.

Angel froze. His face turned pale as the girl’s struggles rapidly ceased under them. He tried yanking his fingers free, but her head just bobbed forward. She twitched violently, catching him in the stomach with a perfectly manicured foot—bright pink toenails gleaming in the low light of the stand lamp—and then she was still.

A sob escaped Angel. He finally managed to shake himself free, and tugged away that slip of fabric. Bright red weals painted the girl’s throat. A few spots showed where blood had almost come to the surface.

Zachary grabbed the dead girl’s hair in a fist and shoved her toward Angel. He fell back with a hollow cry and seemed to notice that he’d opened his wound again for the first time; he cradled his blood-soaked bandage against his chest.

“Fuck her again,” Zachary said. “She’s still wet.”

Angel turned and retched on the floor.

A sneer tugged at Zachary’s mouth. The taste of ash had come back twice as strong, and his mouth filled with saliva as if his stomach wanted to empty itself too.

There was a first for everything in this world. And this was the first time he’d ever been wrong about someone.