Standing in the warm shower with Andre was an odd, soothing experience. His hands expertly slid over me, gliding the soap into every nook and cranny, not leaving anything to chance, and as I braced my hands on the tile I wasn’t sure I could really challenge him. Part of me craved his touch, the gentle, soothing strokes of his palms over my soaped flesh… but the other part wanted to shove him away, scream and rail at him until he left me alone.

I felt better when I plucked the soap from his hands and returned the favor. Gliding the stiff soap over all of his hard muscles, feeling his chest and the ridges in his abs, slipping my fingers between his thighs to move the suds over his cock and balls. His soft groan had me hiding a smile in my wet hair. Even flaccid he was impressive, which made me wonder how I’d ever taken him into my ass. Every inch of him was muscular and intimidating. So much of his chest, neck, back, and arms covered in ink.

Dragging my thumb over a scar across his ribs, I looked up at him and broke the stoic silence. “What is this?”

“A scar.”

“I know that. What’s it from?” I asked, running my hands across his back, pulling him closer even though I wasn’t completely sure I wanted it. The dull sound of the shower filled the silence for a moment as he closed his eyes, and then opened them to stare down at me.

“It was a knife. Someone pulled one in a fight, cut me to the bone. Twenty-two stitches.”

I couldn’t help but gawk at him, my eyes glued to the long scar over his ribs, extending over the top of his ripped abs. “But you survived,” I whispered, using his word from the day before, and his hand cupped my chin to make me look at him.

“Yes, I did. The pinche pendejo didn’t stab me, he cut at me, but I killed him.” Andre had a slight tilt to his lips, a hint of pride, and then he shrugged. “And pain is just pain.”

“Is that why you do all of this? Because you don’t care about pain?” I kept my eyes on him as he flinched a little, those dark brown eyes averting for a moment as he shifted me under the showerhead.

“I do what I have to do, belleza. Right now, I need to wash your hair.” Without another word, Andre leaned away to snag a bottle from the corner of the tub. I couldn’t deny the pleasant sensations as he turned me around and started to shampoo my scalp, working the lather to the ends of my hair before sliding back up. He massaged, fingers digging in to relieve the tension at my temples, caressing the base of my skull until I felt my body turn to liquid.

“That feels so good,” I murmured, and he huffed.

“Bueno.” When he shifted me again, putting my head under the stream of water, he was sure to brush the water back, washing the suds from my hair, squeezing as he went, and after a few movements he tugged me out of the stream. Pressed against the tile, I could only open my mouth and breathe in the steam as he looked down at me. So much taller than me, so muscular and broad, I didn’t understand why he’d chosen me. I was no one special, not very interesting, and I came with the baggage of my little brother so most men didn’t bother with more than a fuck. Yet, Andre hadn’t just fucked me — he’d paid off my debt, protected me, kept me from the others.

And hurt you.

My head focused in on the pain. How rough he was, the way he bit and hurt me over and over, and I couldn’t deny how much the assfucking had hurt… but he’d also made me come, held me as I cried, kissed me softly, and now he was gently showering me like we were lovers. It was confusing, and weird, and there was no way I could make sense of it.

The whole situation was mad.

“Do you hate me?” I whispered, and his hands froze as they glided across my waist, his body keeping me against the wall.

“No…” Andre caught my chin again, forcing my face up so I looked at him. “Why do you think I hate you?”

“Because of… how you were before. Because I showed up and yelled at your boss, caused issues… and because I cost you five grand.” The weight of that debt settled on me, and regardless of how many times he’d fucked me, regardless of everything he’d done, I still felt like I owed him. How fucked is that?

Andre’s lips tilted into almost a smile. “I don’t hate you. Actually, I’m enjoying myself, belleza. I can’t control everyone else, or what they do, but I can make sure I enjoy you, and I can try to make you enjoy it too.”

Because I don’t have a choice in the matter.

“Right.” Swallowing, I pulled my chin out of his grip and nudged him back to step to the other end of the tub. “I’ll get out while you finish your shower.”

“Nicky—” He caught my hand as my other reached for the shower curtain. For a moment we just stared at each other, and then he clenched his jaw and let me go. “Don’t leave the room.”

“I’m not an idiot,” I muttered as I stepped out, snagging the towel from the rack. “You’ve only got one towel out here, by the way.”

“There’s more in the left cabinet under the sink.” A low chuckle echoed from inside the shower. “And I’m not so sure you’re as smart as you think you are, belleza.”

Rubbing my skin dry, I glared at the shower curtain. “You’re an asshole.”

His laugh was a little louder. “You were the one that stormed into Paulo García’s house like a fucking Valkyrie. Not many people would call that smart.”

“And you fucked me without a condom. How smart are you?” His silence had my anger snapping back, all of the soothing caresses evaporating from my mind. “I swear, if you gave me any kind of—”

“I’m clean,” he answered in a rough tone, all of his laughter gone.

A frustrated scream escaped me as I stomped out of the bathroom, shouting over my shoulder, “Yeah, sure, Andre. I believe that, because I have so many reasons to fucking trust you!”

Scrubbing at my hair, squeezing as much of the water out as I could with the towel, I stared at the ripped scraps of my underwear on the floor. The memory of the rough way he’d taken me on the bed, of the pleasure and the pain… it brought back the tingling heat between my thighs, but the anger I felt was inextricably wound up in it.

I heard the water turn off, and the metal scrape as he yanked the shower curtain back. Wrapping the towel around me, I listened as he slammed the cabinet door, and then he stepped out of the bathroom, rubbing the towel over all that gorgeous, toned flesh. Fuck, he’s hot.

And a total bastard.

“You don’t have to trust me, but I didn’t lie about that. I get tested because I’m not an idiot.” He growled. “And not using a condom was a mistake I won’t repeat.”

Rolling my eyes, I muttered under my breath, trying to bite my tongue and ignore the way his muscles moved under the ink on his skin.

“Want to yell at me some more?” he asked, and I actually did, but his tone was dangerous. Borderline threatening.

“You ruined my underwear.”

“You don’t need underwear.” Andre rubbed the towel over his hair, leaving all of his skin on display. I shouldn’t have stared, definitely shouldn’t have stared at his cock, but I couldn’t stop myself.

He was a walking, talking, seriously attractive specimen of pure alpha male. In another life he could have been some kind of model. A scary one… maybe for motorcycles or something.

Get your head on straight, Nicky. He’s the fucking enemy.

I growled, gesturing at my clothes scattered on his floor. “I don’t have any clean clothes, and sorry, but I actually like to wear underwear.”

“You can wear mine,” he gruffly answered, digging in a drawer of his dresser to pull out a pair of boxer briefs.

“I have a feeling we don’t wear the same size, and you probably don’t have a clean bra in there.” It was meant to be sarcastic, but as he turned around I saw the hunger in his gaze.

“You don’t need a bra either.”

“So I’m just supposed to walk around this place in one of your shirts, and nothing else?” Another thing meant as sarcasm, but it only made his eyes darker, hungrier. “Andre, I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” He took a step toward me, the towel over one shoulder, and the boxer-briefs still in his hand, leaving him very naked, which made it very clear that his dick was about to re-join the party.

“Stop!” I raised my hand and he actually stopped, barely two steps away with his long legs. “I have clothes at my apartment, if you would just take me—”

“Not a chance,” he growled.

“Then what the fuck am I supposed to wear, Andre? I can’t just stay here forever, never wearing clothes!”

“I don’t see why not…” He trailed off, tongue tracing his lower lip as his eyes moved down my body, sending a shiver through me, but I pushed back the arousal and stood my proverbial ground. There were a million good reasons, but I knew what would make him listen.

“Diego.” It was just one word, but the way he jerked it was like I’d hit him, or called his mother a whore.

“Fine,” he growled. “I’ll go to your apartment and get you clothes.”

“And my toothbrush!”

He smirked a little. “Don’t like using mine, belleza?”

“Please.”

Sighing, he turned around and pulled the boxers on. “Fine. Make a list of what you want, and write down your address.”

“My keys are—”

“I know where your keys are. Marco moved your car last night.” There was a dark edge to his voice, and the words brought back the reality that I was a prisoner here. In this room, this house, and Andre was my jailer.

No matter how hot he was, or how good in bed. He was still dangerous, he’d still hurt me more than once, and no matter how many orgasms he gave me… there was nothing good about this situation. It was fucked. Totally fucked.

Just like me.

“Wear this for now.” He tossed black fabric towards me, and I spread it out to see what looked like a t-shirt for a giant with some logo on the front. Still, it was clean. Turning my back to him, I dropped the towel and pulled it on, feeling the hem brush the tops of my thighs. Andre was staring as I faced him again, but then he nodded and pulled his own shirt on. “Make the list, I’m going downstairs to get us something to eat. I’ll drive to your apartment this evening. Okay?”

“Okay,” I agreed, because it wasn’t like I had any other options. Moving over to his desk to grab a pen from the coffee cup on it, I couldn’t find any other scraps of paper. “What do you want me to write it on?”

He muttered under his breath as he walked over to the closet and opened it, digging through something before he came back with a sheet of paper he’d torn from a yellow notepad. “Use this, and don’t forget to lock the door.”

“Right.” I swallowed, and stood back up to follow him to the door.

“Listen, Nicky…” Andre started to talk, but then he trailed off and just stared at my face, dark eyes flickering over me before he clenched his jaw and turned away. “Just don’t leave the room.”

“I’m not going to, trust me.” Not after Diego tried to get in here.

“Good. I expect a list when I get back up here.”

“You expect a—”

“Yeah, I do, because if I’m going to run errands for you, I’m going to fuck you again before I leave.” Without another word, Andre unlocked the door and stepped out, slamming it hard, and I was left staring at the wood.

That shouldn’t have turned me on. It definitely shouldn’t have turned me on.

So… why was I so wet?

* * *

Andre

I cursed myself as I stomped down the stairs barefoot. What the fuck was that? It was like every time I tried to be nice to the girl, I ended up being more of an asshole. But staring at her wearing only my shirt, hanging barely to her thighs, I’d almost snapped and taken her on the floor.

Nicky was every temptation I was supposed to avoid. She was every dark thought, every fucked up thing I’d wanted to do since I got to this hellhole, and now she was mine. I’d lied to myself saying I wanted to save her, bullshitted myself about protecting her from Diego — no, I had just wanted her.

And isn’t the road to hell paved with good intentions anyway?

She’d never had a chance, and neither had I. Cursing under my breath as I stormed into the kitchen, I heard the clatter of a pan and looked up to see Teresa wide-eyed and terrified. Standing by the sink, the older woman dropped her eyes and turned around quickly to keep washing dishes, and I forced myself to breathe.

Teresa was one of many beholden to Paulo García, and it was her day to cook meals. Tomorrow would be Laura, the next day Anna Maria, and then Teresa would be back. Then there were those who cleaned the house, ran the errands, did the laundry, did the shopping. It was a fully functioning estate, only none of them slept here.

Which was a blessing to them.

I walked to the counter that separated the kitchen from the dining room, giving the woman some space from the aggression I knew was radiating off me. Then, I did my best to speak softly. “Teresa, is there anything left from lunch?”

“Claro, Señor Andre.” She stood still at the sink for a moment, and then she pulled off the gloves and wiped her hands on a towel to move to the fridge. “How much you want?”

“Enough for me and the girl, and some silverware, por favor. We’ll eat in my room.”

Teresa nodded and moved silently, opening containers and taking down plates, but when I saw her turn the stove on I spoke up.

“No, Teresa. Just microwave it, you don’t need to heat it on the stove.”

“Si, señor.” Clicking the stove off, I watched as she portioned out the meat and veggies onto two plates, adding a spoonful of elote that had my stomach growling. I bit back a smile when I saw her add a second helping of it to one of the plates.

Her elote was a house favorite.

Popping the plates one at a time into the microwave she still ignored my comment about the stove and heated up a pan to spin the corn tortillas around in. She used her hands, like my mother used to, and if I squinted I could almost imagine the woman was my mother. If her hair were darker, and her waist a little wider, and if she had the radio blaring, singing every song that came on.

I shook my head, breaking away from bitter memories and the distant echoing laughter of my siblings. Too much darkness separated me from the cramped, sun-drenched kitchen of my childhood, and there was no use remembering something so lost. It took a few more minutes before Teresa had the plates settled on a tray, two glasses of water balanced on either side, with a nest of napkins and silverware in the center. I nodded at her and took it. “Gracias, Teresa.”

“De nada, señor. Do you need anything else?” Her accent was thick, but she spoke English as much as the rest of us in the house. A skill Paulo insisted upon. Glancing up at her face, she looked almost concerned before the expression was wiped away.

“No. This is good.”

“Cuídese, Señor Andre,” Teresa replied as she moved back to the sink to continue cleaning. For a moment I was too surprised to move, but then I forced myself to walk towards the stairs.

In all the time I’d been staying at Paulo’s house, I had never, not once, heard Teresa tell any of us to take care. The fact that she’d used it with me was even… stranger. Something felt off again, that same feeling that had crept up my spine in the SUV with Paulo and José that morning, and I didn’t like it.

Detouring to the front room, I thought it was empty until I walked toward the bar and caught the shape of someone in the same chair Nicky had been put in. I relaxed a little when I recognized Marco, but his stillness unnerved me. Never one to break a silence, I let him have his as I grabbed a bottle of rum and two short glasses to add to the tray.

“José and Paulo listened to you.” His words came out quietly, slightly slurred, and I glanced over, catching the glint of light on a bottle between his legs. He was drunk. Perfecto. Marco tilted up the tequila, swallowing before he hissed between his teeth as he set it back down. “They laughed when she screamed.”

A purr rumbled through the darkness inside me remembering the way she’d cried out under me, but I also remembered the fear in her as Paulo had traced the knife over her throat, remembered how I’d wanted to be the one holding the knife. The one feeling her tremble. I was no better than him, just a different brand of monster.

“Guess you proved them wrong, eh, cuadro?” Marco was still talking, having a one-way conversation because I wasn’t planning on responding. Not about Nicky. He laughed roughly, low and without any real humor. “Not a maricón, eh? Is that why you hurt her? To prove it to them? Prove you didn’t want to fuck men?”

I clenched my jaw, moving my gaze to the floor because getting into it with a drunk Marco wasn’t going to do anyone any favors. Mostly it would just end up with him bleeding on the floor, and me having to explain it to Paulo. The tile was shining with the afternoon light coming through the windows, almost that perfect burnt orange that would appear in a couple of hours. She’d dropped her empty glass just there yesterday when Paulo had ripped her from the chair. It had shattered, but the glass was cleaned up now, which meant the cleaning crew had been by while we were out.

Everything pristine again, smooth and shiny. Just like Paulo liked.

There was no erasing her bruises though, or my bloody knuckles, or the things I’d already done to her. No denying the things I’d still do either.

You’re still a monster.

Lifting the tray, I made sure it was balanced as I walked toward the doorway, but he stood as I approached, holding onto the chair with one hand to keep his balance.

“What did you do to her, Andre? Why did she scream like that?”

“Move,” I growled.

“Did she tell you Diego tried to get in your room? Tried to break down the door? He wanted to hurt her. Hurt her just like you did.” There was accusation and disgust in Marco’s tone, still trying to be the knight for her, but the fact that he was shitfaced and sitting in the chair she’d been in was just proof that he couldn’t have protected her anyway. He was too weak. Too weak for this fucked up world, no matter how many times he’d pulled the trigger at Paulo’s command. Nicky needed someone strong, someone that the others actually feared, and no one feared young and friendly Marco.

But they were afraid of me.

And you really think you’re protecting her? I wanted to tell my own head to fuck off, I wanted to find Diego and dig his spine out of his fucking body for even trying to get to her, but the surge of rage came out against Marco instead.

“Listen to me, cabrón, the girl is mine, and if you don’t want me to remind you why jefe takes me on the meets instead of you, I suggest you shut the fuck up, sit back down, and keep drinking.” The words had come out calm, deadly quiet, like I’d taken a page out of Paulo’s fucking book, and I saw a flash of something in Marco. A hint of the soldier, the man who had killed just as willingly as the rest of us at Paulo’s orders — but he also knew my reputation. Knew what I was capable of.

“Chingate, Andre.” His face contorted with anger as he glared at the tray in my hands. “At least you’re feeding her, pendejo.” Marco was already walking away when he finished the insult, muttering under his breath as he left the room with the tequila at his side. Black rage flickered inside me like flames, and I had to fight the urge to follow him and put him on the fucking floor for challenging me, for getting in my face about Nicky.

He wanted her. I’d known it since he’d watched her sitting in that same goddamned chair. But she was mine. I’d made sure Diego knew it, and I could help Marco learn that lesson if he needed it.

They laughed when she screamed.

His words echoed in my head, and the fact that my cock twitched against my thigh told me more about how far I’d fallen from the boy who used to watch his mother sing and cook than anything else in the world could have.

“Fuck,” I growled, walking toward the stairs with my eyes glued to the bottle on the tray. I needed a fucking drink, and I needed it now.