I'm not sure how much time has passed since I first woke up. Days. Weeks maybe—I don't know. But I do know that although my body may be slowly healing, at the same time, my soul is dying. Piece by piece, day by day.

Jésus allows me to roam the house, but I don't. I stay in this room as much as possible. I'm here because I need to be, but it doesn't mean I have to pretend I like it.

"Chiquita."

I turn away from the window and find Jésus standing in the doorway, shirtless, wearing only a pair of linen trousers. A slight smile shapes his lips as he approaches me, his eyes slowly dragging over my body until my skin crawls under his scrutiny. He makes me feel like property, something to be possessed and desecrated all in the name of some twisted form of revenge. I've realised that my grief isn't enough. Jude's death wasn't enough for him. He wants to shit on Jude's memory, take what was once his. And I'm left with no choice but to allow it. Because Cayla is all that is left of him. She is Jude's legacy.

Dominance and lust pour from him, the same as always, and then without warning, he grabs my jaw and pulls me against his body. The heat of his chest seeps through my dress. His thumb strokes over my skin as his eyes drop to my lips. Jésus has made it very clear this is what I am now: his.

He slams his lips over mine, and I don't fight it. I simply go numb. After all, without Jude, what is there to fight? I can barely feel enough to even identify the trace of disgust that rises under his touch. But my purpose now is to keep him happy so he leaves Cayla alone.

His tongue slides between my lips, and his grip tightens. "Oh, Victoria, you can do better than this," he says against my mouth. I open my eyes and look at him. Really look. His features are chiseled, his oil- black hair thick with a slight wave. He would be handsome if it weren't for the coldness in his eyes. He holds himself with an heir of power and authority, but he lacks the absolute resolution that Jude did. Jude walked into a room like he owned it, and he didn't care about a single person in it. He made people feel like they were inconsequential to him. Except me.

He made me feel like the world began and ended with me. With us, and then Cayla. He did stupid things. He was a criminal, a bad boy, but I never doubted his love, not for a second.

Jésus is sadly lacking. He wants to be like Jude but he never will be, even with an entire cartel behind him. But, nonetheless, I need to convince this man that I want him. And perhaps...perhaps if I accept that this is my life, things will be easier. I muster as much feeling as I can and, taking a deep breath, I kiss him. I imagine he's Jude for second, but my mind quickly coils away in horror. He groans into my mouth before he scrapes his teeth over my bottom lip.

"You taste like victory, Victoria," he says, laughing as he steps away from me. "And soon, I'm going to take my prize. I find myself quite taken with you." His eyes roam over my body in a way that has bile rising in my throat. "Consider yourself lucky." He turns away and walks towards the door. "Oh, and you're moving to a new room," he throws over his shoulder casually.

"What room?" I ask nervously.

He pauses in the doorway and turns to face me, a satisfied smirk on his lips. Of course, I already know what he's going to say.

"My room."

My stomach knots tightly because I know exactly what that means. With that he walks out of the room. Leaning against the wall, I slide down it until I hit the floor. I wrap my arms tightly around myself as tears fall freely. This is what I am now: a cartel whore. The sooner I accept it, the sooner I let go of Jude, the sooner I can do what I need to protect my child. If I have to fuck Jesus for the rest of my life to keep her safe, I will.

For her.

*****break***

I sit on the edge of Jésus' bed, my stomach knotting horribly. The white gauze curtains catch on the breeze as the night air blows the scent of jasmine through the open balcony. My nails cut marks into my palms as I clench my fists in my lap. Anxiety has me so tight in its clutches that simply breathing is a struggle.

The distant sound of voices in the hallway sends my heart into a sprint. I try desperately to pull the front of the white maxi dress a little higher, but it's pointless. It dips to the bottom of my sternum, leaving my breasts partially exposed. This is all I have to wear. Jésus has an entire wardrobe of them, the same dresses that Camilla once wore. It's as though he wants us to look like something pure and innocent, carbon copies of each other. The dress may as well be prison chains because it does nothing but remind me that I am indeed a prisoner, not even allowed to cover myself. I've wondered often what happened to Camilla. I hear whispers from the guards that the Russian stole her, but I don't believe it. I picture Jésus breaking her like an unwanted doll, replacing her with something new, something easier to manipulate. Me.

The door handle clicks, and I hold my breath as Jésus steps into the room, talking to one of his men outside. The door closes and silence descends ominously. He stares at me as he crosses the room, and I shrink away from his gaze.

"You look so perfect, waiting for me, Victoria."

"You ordered that I be here," I say, lifting my gaze to his. I may have to be here, but I can make it known that this is not a choice.

With a sigh, he takes a seat next to me. I tense, waiting for him to touch me, or remind me that I'm a prisoner. Instead his fingers gently trail down my arm, which is even more disarming. I'd rather he just hurt me. These games are the hardest part of being with him, because honestly, he's yet to hurt me. He's never forced himself on me beyond a kiss, and it throws me off. There's nothing worse than not knowing what your enemy's play is.

"The bookie is dead," he says.

"I know." I still try not to think about Jude, but with so much free time, it's hard. Strangely, my times with Jésus are an odd salvation. When I'm with him, I think only of myself and Cayla, and our safety. I don't have the ability to dwell on Jude.

He gently grasps my chin and twists my head towards him. His eyes search mine before flicking to my lips. "You are safe here," he says quietly, sweeping his thumb over my chin. "I would protect you, chiquita, from all who would harm you."

I stare at him for a beat. His expression is softer than I'm used to, and there's almost a vulnerability in his eyes. "Except you," I whisper.

His lips curl up into a small smile. "I do not want to hurt you." His eyes drop to my lips again. "Quite the opposite. I could give you everything."

"Why?" I frown. "Why would you want that?"

His thumb drags gently over my bottom lip. "You are an extraordinary woman, Victoria. You impressed me when you came here for your daughter. Women of such strength are hard to come by." He drops his hand from my face. "Your man is gone. Your daughter is safer away from you. I ask only that you join me." He holds out his hand and I stare at it. "You can be a prisoner, or you can be a queen. The choice is yours."

"Queen of what?"

He smirks. "The Sinaloa cartel, of course. Prove your loyalty, and everything you've ever wanted could be yours."

Everything I ever wanted is gone, but I don't say that. This could be an opportunity.

I stare at his outstretched hand. If I take it, I'm betraying Jude. I know that. But can you betray a dead man? Or do you do whatever you can to avenge him, to protect his daughter? Jude would hate this, but he understood revenge in a unique way. He would hate it, but he would understand, so I tentatively take Jésus' hand.

He grins, his fingers wrapping tightly around mine. "You are a woman that will bolster a powerful man. Stand beside me." His hand cups my cheek and he leans in, pressing his lips over mine. The kiss is gentle, yet probing, as though he's trying to coax more from me. I reluctantly part my lips. I feel myself folding in, imploding and crawling into this dark hole inside the deepest recesses of my soul. His fingers wind through my hair and he tilts my head back until my lips break from his. "I want you, Victoria."

I don't know how to play this yet, so I say nothing. His fingers glide beneath the strap of my dress, moving to flick it from my shoulder. I panic and grab at the front of the dress, holding it in place. "I..." I look up at him. "I'm not...I can't." I stumble over my words because honestly, I don't know how to rebuke him without angering him. I don't know if there will be consequences, and I'm sure if I don't give him what he wants, he'll simply take it.

He smirks and pulls back slightly. "Sweet Victoria, you will come to me willingly." He leans in, whispering in my ear. "And I can wait." He stands up and pulls his shirt over his head, before undoing his trousers. He stands in just his boxers, and my gaze drops, my face heating in mortification. He rounds the bed and gets in, pulling the sheets up to his hips before he turns the lamp off. I sit rigid still in the darkness, listening to his even breaths against my racing pulse. "Chiquita, lie down," he orders.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to calm myself and steady my breathing. His fingers brush my wrist causing me to jump before lowering myself onto the mattress. Every muscle remains tense as I lie here. Jésus lets out a low chuckle, but makes no move to touch me. And I think this might be worse. The not knowing, the waiting. This is the worst part. I'd rather he just got on with it, whatever it is he has planned for me, because I don't believe that he's looking for some girl to meet his cartel wife criteria. This is a ploy of some sort; I just don't know what yet.

As hard as I try, I can't find sleep, so I just lay here, listening to Jésus' deep breaths. I remember when this was once Jude and I, captor and captive sharing a bed. Did I ever fear Jude the way I fear Jésus? Did I ever hate him like this? Jésus took everything from me, but I remember when I thought that Jude had taken everything too: my life, my career. How ironic that those things feel so insignificant now. But what Jésus took will never be insignificant. No, I never hated Jude like this. Honestly, I can't really remember a time when I didn't love him, even when it was so damn wrong. He always felt like something right, something true. And this...this will never be right.