I braked hard a few blocks away from the house, pulling to the side of the road to turn the fucking truck off. My hands would have been shaking, but I was too practiced in hiding everything I felt for something so physical to occur without my permission.

Still, I could feel the urge.

Everything was crumbling, falling the fuck apart, fraying at the edges, and I had no control over it. I wanted to help her, but I wanted to keep her. I wanted to call Nathan back and explain it all, explain it right fucking now, but I knew he wouldn’t care. There was no hope for Nicky. Or, rather, I was Nicky’s only hope — which was actually worse.

“Fuck!” I slammed my hand against the steering wheel and leaned back to the headrest, forcing breaths that didn’t smell like her, because everything else did. My bed, my clothes, my fucking skin smelled like her. This is all wrong. I searched the cab of the truck for what I needed and then climbed out, welcoming the blast of humid heat that rebounded off the road as I paced to the back and leaned against the tailgate. With a sigh, I flicked the lighter and lit a cigarette.

The first inhale of nicotine was a balm to my raw nerves, and I closed my eyes as it rushed through me. I’d quit smoking a hundred times over the years, but then something would happen and I’d find myself digging out the emergency pack of stale cigarettes from the glove box. There was a reason I never threw those fuckers out, why I replaced it if it got empty, and this was it.

For completely fucked up situations like this. Situations like Nicky Harris.

“Belleza…” I muttered as I tugged the list she’d written from my pocket. Staring at the smooth loops of her handwriting, with all of the things she wanted written neatly in a column, I tilted the paper so that the wind would stop folding it. Her handwriting was so… feminine. Pretty. Infinitely better than any confusing scratch I was capable of, and staring at the rounded edge of each letter seemed to drive home how wrong all of this was. Not just the obvious shit — the fact that Paulo had imprisoned her in the house, the fact that the others had hurt her, the fact that I had hurt her more than once — but the other things.

She was just a girl, an innocent woman. Nicky was the kind of woman that fought for her family, her little brother, as fierce as a lioness. She was almost foolishly brave, no matter what was around her. Hell, I’d just basically told her she was going to suffer and die in that godforsaken house, and she’d still had the balls to yell at me to get out.

But worst of all, or best of all… she was good. So authentically fucking good.

Better than I deserved in my bed. I wished I were the kind of man who could be some kind of oasis for her, a safe harbor, but I wasn’t. I could barely keep my fucking hands off her when I was in the room. I hadn’t been able to keep my hands off her. I’d kissed her, wanted to push her knees apart and taste her again, fuck her again, make her scream in pleasure instead of pain… but even that was wrong. I knew it on some level, even as the darkness swelled at the idea of having her pinned underneath me, mouth open as she cried out.

All of this was fucking wrong. All of it was evil.

And I didn’t want it to end.

Yet another reason I was damned. Taking another long draw on the cigarette, I let the nicotine flood my veins and push back the tension in my shoulders as I skimmed the list of items. I found her address and the directions for finding her apartment at the complex written at the bottom. She had even provided a description of where it was in relation to the pool as if I’d never had to find an apartment. With one last drag on the cigarette, I dropped it and stomped it out before climbing back into the truck. As soon as her address was set in my phone, I started driving. The sooner this errand was over, the sooner I could be back at the house.

Which meant I could drink, confront Diego, and then fuck her again.

I shook my head, a bitter laugh leaving my lips because my priorities were so fucking skewed. The first thing on that list should have been figuring out why the fuck Paulo thought he needed to call in extra men — but, no. It was all about Nicky, about making sure the others knew who she belonged to, just so I could be the one to hurt her.

“Marco was right. You’re just another one of the monsters now, Andre,” I growled, tightening my grip on the steering wheel as the black purred deep in my chest. Hungry, waiting, and never satisfied.

* * *

Nicky’s directions had made her place easy to find, which I admitted to myself with a smirk even though I’d never tell her that. The complex wasn’t in the best part of town, but it wasn’t the worst either. Her place was up a flight of concrete stairs, apartment 218, a tiny studio apartment. From the second I walked in I smelled her, and the fact that my cock twitched just thinking of her told me how far gone I was.

The apartment was boiling, just the single window unit, but it was off. Fake wood floors stretched until it reached the linoleum of the kitchen. One big room, she had a futon for a bed that I assumed she turned into a couch when she had company. A small flat screen TV on one of those Ikea things sat across from it, next to a dresser covered in picture frames.

The opposite wall had a hanging rack filled with clothes, the floor under it covered in shoes. No table, not like there would have been much room if she’d put one in. The place felt like a shoebox. Her entire apartment was maybe a couple hundred square feet larger than my room at Paulo’s house, and both of them had a bathroom. It seemed like most of the extra space was taken up by the tiny galley kitchen.

Curiosity tugged at me, and I walked over to the dresser to look at the photos. Right in front was one of her making a ridiculous face with some guy. Her arm was around his shoulders, and they were obviously on the beach. He was bare chested, skinny, and she had on a black bikini top, her breasts pressed together to give her ample cleavage. For a flash I wondered if this was some boyfriend, my fist clenching tight enough to reopen one of my knuckles, but then I saw another picture just behind it. Nicky looked younger in it, maybe twenty, and the same guy was with her, but he looked about sixteen. Dressed like a junior thug, he had a forced smile on his face, while Nicky’s was beaming. This was her brother. Chris Harris. The first picture was clearly a selfie, but the one of them younger was taken by someone else. There were other pictures too, including a family one that confirmed it for me. Mother, father, Nicky, and Chris. They looked happy, and I felt my stomach turn.

The other pictures had Nicky with friends, and one of her at Walt Disney World in Mickey ears, looking way too hot for as young as she probably was in that photo. I turned away before I felt even more fucked up than I already was — not like it really mattered. I’d looked at her driver’s license when I’d got the keys from her purse. She was twenty-seven, so Nicky was more than legal now.

As if the shit you’ve done to her is legal.

Cursing, I yanked out the list and started to pull out her drawers, grabbing a few handfuls of multi-colored underwear to toss onto the futon, tossing a couple of bras and bundles of socks to join them. She’d actually listed pajamas on the paper, but I laughed under my breath as I shut the drawers. No way in hell was she wearing clothes in my bed.

Crossing to the hanging rack of clothes I flicked through them and grabbed the black yoga pants, a few pairs of shorts, and a random set of shirts and tank tops. There was only one little closet but she’d said that’s where her duffel bag was, and I opened it and crumpled the list in my hand as I caught a stack of boxes that threatened to fall. Shifting the precarious tower backward, I leaned in to pull the bright purple duffel out and toss it behind me.

I was about to close the door when I stared at the boxes again. They were all liquor boxes, of different shapes and sizes, which explained the unsteady nature of her makeshift tower. But why did she have them crammed in the only closet she had in this shithole, and have all of her clothes hanging outside?

And where the fuck did Nicky get twenty-thousand dollars if this is where she lives?

“Please tell me you’re not fucking with the drugs, belleza…” My stomach turned, images of Francisco’s ruined face and the memory of pulling the trigger to kill him flashed behind my eyes as I grabbed the top box and set it on the floor. It was taped shut, and I’d left my knife in the truck, so I wandered to the kitchen to snag one.

“You’re smarter than this, Nicky. Por favor, tell me you’re smarter than this.” Cutting the tape, I flipped it open and found plastic grocery bags, and inside the top one was pictures. Hundreds of photos. I grabbed a handful as I sat down on the floor, flipping through until I stopped at one that was clearly Nicky as a round-faced little kid. Blonde hair, blue eyes, covered in mud, grinning like she was fucking proud of the mess.

The dark shuddered inside me, like a miniature earthquake that started deep down and shook out until I saw the photos waver in my grip. Fuck.

I tossed them back in the bag like they were toxic, which they may as well be. I didn’t need to think about her as a kid, or her fucking family. I closed the box and grabbed the next one. This one had blankets, a little stuffed dog and frog, and I shoved it aside too. The next was heavier, but it was just framed pictures and a jewelry box that I left alone. With one box left I leaned forward to drag it over, already knowing it didn’t hold drugs, but other than getting the irritating reminder that Nicky had a fucking family, I hadn’t found a single explanation as to how she had twenty thousand dollars to hand Paulo.

Unless her brother had it stashed somewhere?

But if he did… why hadn’t he paid when Paulo’s street guys had come to fuck him up? Nothing made sense, and I was developing a damn headache as I sliced into the last box. This one had yearbooks, a tassel from a graduation cap, and a bunch of other keepsakes that gave me no answers. It had been a mistake to go through the boxes, and I couldn’t even tape them back up.

Will it matter if she never comes home anyway?

“Que Dios me ayude,” I whispered, wiping the sweat off my forehead as I laid back on her floor. A bitter laugh rumbled up my throat as I stared at her watermarked ceiling. Who was I to ask God for help? I was the monster in all of this, and did it really fucking matter how she got the money? Paulo was taking his vengeance on her regardless — by letting me have her.

I knew that wasn’t all he had planned though. Eventually he’d come for her. Whether it was because he actually wanted her, or if he just wanted to test my loyalty, I knew it would happen. Sooner rather than later. He’d already questioned me about whether or not she was a distraction, and here I was in her fucking apartment getting her clothes.

“And a toothbrush,” I mumbled, shoving myself off the floor to reassemble her tower of memories in a more secure way, and then I shut the closet. Snagging the duffel bag I tossed the clothes into it, and then went to the bathroom. It had an awful pink tile in it, a dingy yellow light over the narrow mirror, and I shook my head.

The girl lived in a shit hole while her fuck of a brother squandered tens of thousands of dollars in drugs or drug money. It only took me a minute to grab the little bag from under the sink and fill it with all of her requests. As a last thought I opened her shower curtain and grabbed some of those things too.

“You really think she wants to shave her legs for you, cabrón?” Talking to myself was pointless, but it distracted me from the shit I’d seen digging through her life. Still, I made one last sweep of the shoebox she called home, and picked up a few random items before turning off the light in her bathroom.

Then someone knocked on her door.

Fuck.

Stepping back against the wall, I stayed still. There was only one window above the air conditioner unit buried in the wall beside her door, but the blinds didn’t provide perfect cover. Another round of knocks came, and then I heard a feminine voice.

“Nicky! Girl, are you in there? It’s Elise!”

Moving quietly, I tucked myself against the door to her closet to stay out of sight in case she tried to look through the window. It put me closer to the front door, and I could hear the woman talking outside.

“—at Nicky’s and she’s not answering the door. Has she called you back?” There was a pause, and I was glad I hadn’t given in to the heat to flip on her air conditioner, it would have been a dead giveaway to anyone with half a brain. “Shit, I don’t know. Her car isn’t here though, she’s got a spot.”

The sound of the door knob made my heart race and I lunged around the corner of the closet to grab onto it, biting down on the curses I wanted to shout. I’d left the fucking door unlocked. Pinche idiota. Keeping my head away from the peephole I stared at the deadbolt and debated how quietly I could turn it, because there was no way I could explain my presence here. No way I could let this girl see me and report it to the police.

So what are you going to do? Kill her?

No. No, that was not an option. Drug peddling thugs? Sure, I’d killed my share. I’d killed in self-defense, and I’d killed other killers… but I wasn’t pulling the trigger on some random girl checking on Nicky.

“No, I don’t have her brother’s number. I don’t even know where he lives.”

Just give up and go. Leave.

“Okay, but when has Nicky ever missed a shift? Seriously, that’s bullshit, Antonio. Fine… yeah… Then maybe you should…” The girl’s voice faded, and I could hear her moving away on the concrete walkway outside. When I was sure she was gone, I sagged against the door, carefully flipping the deadbolt before I stepped away from it.

This entire trip had been fucking stupid. I had more than enough money to get her whatever the fuck she’d wanted from a store, and I wouldn’t have had to drive halfway across Miami in afternoon traffic. Sweat rolled down my back, making my shirt stick to me, which was never good because the gun would show. Yanking it from the back of my pants, I unzipped her bright purple duffel and threw the weapon inside.

Standing in the middle of her shoebox of an apartment, I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I knew one thing for sure. I wasn’t perfect, and I hadn’t been good in longer than I could remember, but Nicky was going to come back here. She was going to survive this, get back to her brother, her friends, her fucking life — and I would just be a bad memory.

Possibly a dead, bad memory depending on what I had to do to get her out, but she had something to live for. She had a life to return to, and I didn’t.

I don’t have anything but her.