Grace swung little Charlie up in her arms, and the toddler squealed her name as he giggled. Her sister, Elaine, called, “Quit swinging him so much! He’ll throw up!”

“You won’t throw up on me, will you, Charlie?” Grace asked, and he shook his head rapidly and escaped her arms to chase after their little dog. Grace marched over to Elaine, who was heavily pregnant. “He loses interest quick, huh?”

“Just wait. He’ll love you again in five minutes.” Elaine laughed, resting her hands on her distended belly.

Grace and Elaine sat in companionable silence, watching Charlie chase the dog, a schnauzer, around the backyard. Elaine’s husband, Ethan, was grilling burgers and dogs for dinner, and he waved a hand covered in an oven mitt when Grace caught his eye. She lifted a hand, smiling nostalgically. She missed her family and wished she saw them more.

“Is Mom coming?”

“Not this weekend,” Elaine answered, looking at her. “Are you not driving down before you go back to New York?”

“I can’t. Don’t have time,” she replied, staring wistfully at the home Elaine shared with Ethan. “I was hoping she’d meet me here.”

Elaine hummed a response, rubbing her belly as the baby kicked hard. She laughed and asked, “Do you think you’ll be home when this one arrives?”

“I don’t know,” Grace admitted guiltily. She missed a lot because of her job, a regret she didn’t focus on often. “Trevor and I are supposed to leave for an assignment soon.”

“Well, that’s okay,” Elaine answered with a smile. “We’ll be waiting here for you when you get back.”

Grace sighed sadly, and a single tear slipped down her cheek. “Yes…”

Grace woke slowly from the dream, trying to force her mind to stay focused on the sweet moment. A memory as much as a dream, she had relived her last conversation with her sister. The tear she’d cried in her dream was real; her arm, which she used as a pillow, was wet. And as she forced herself to open her eyes and face the reality she was in, she let out the sob that pushed at her tightly pressed lips.

She hadn’t allowed herself many tears over the two days she’d been trapped in the hellhole. Grateful they had only waterboarded her the one time, she missed the luxury of regular meals. Besides the beans and rice her torturers had left for her to find when she regained consciousness, she’d had only two tortillas covered in butter. Someone had refilled the water pitcher they’d used to ‘drown’ her, but she drank it sparingly, afraid they wouldn’t replenish it before she succumbed to thirst.

The facts were these: she was somewhere in Mexico in the basement cell of a cartel. They had asked for a ransom, but she had no idea if there’d been an answer from Charles. Her face hurt where the rat man had hit her, and every time she drank, she opened a cut on her upper lip where the stocky man had held her mouth. She sat up gently, moaning at the quiet aches and pains caused from coughing up water and sleeping on a concrete bed. There is a positive, she reminded herself with a small smirk. They haven’t tortured me again.

In fact, no one had spoken to her since the two men with the towel. The man who brought her the tortillas the day before had remained silent as he slid the container through the bars, glaring at her as if she were an offensive animal. The glare turned to lustful gaze when she’d risen from the table to take the food, and for the first time, she realized the buttons of her shirt had been ripped off. She wore a tank top underneath, so she wasn’t completely exposed, but the man’s eyes had stared at her bosom until she jerked her shirt together and glared imperiously at him. The man had snorted and dropped the container of tortillas on the floor, spilling them. She’d rushed to pick them up, thankful they had landed dry side down.

Twenty-four hours, she surmised, was how long she’d been without food and without seeing another person. The camera, which was still in her possession, had a clock to record time, but she had to force herself to stop looking. What felt like an hour was only fifteen minutes, and her mind would crack if she continued to count.

She stared at the bucket in the corner, nausea turning her stomach. They’d left her toilet paper, an amenity she concluded not many received in the cell, but they hadn’t emptied it since she’d been here. Hours before, she had folded the extra chair and laid it across the top to hinder the odor, but now she had to go again. With a grimace of revulsion, she moved the chair and quickly dispatched her urine, gagging and nearly crying again.

With the chair returned to its spot, she circled the table and sat facing the door to her cell. At some point, she hoped, someone would return with food. She had half a pitcher of water left, and though she’d been waiting for Montezuma’s revenge to attack her insides, no sickness had plagued her. She stared impatiently at the door, fighting the urge to pace the room like a caged tiger. The lack of stimulation was destroying her brain cells.

After staring for what felt like a decade, she heard the outer door of the basement open. She jumped up from the chair but didn’t move closer to her cell door. A well-dressed man appeared, as did a lovely woman in a maid’s costume carrying a tray from which the delectable odor of food emanated. Grace watched as the man opened the cell door and allowed the woman to precede him. She smiled at Grace, her red lips full and her teeth white. She set the tray on the table and walked to the bucket. She removed the chair and lifted the bucket, hurrying out of the cell with it.

Grace’s eyes had stopped following her when she moved to the bucket because the man remained near the door. This was the person she needed to pay attention to, the person she could possibly barter with for her freedom. His clothes were expensive and tailored to fit a slim, well-muscled body. His wiry frame wore the clothes like a male model, and his face was angelic, resplendent in its perfection. His skin looked soft, his eyes almond-shaped and the same shade.

“You are studying me,” he observed in English so perfect he must have studied at school, though his accent was thick like Antonio Banderas’. “What do you see?”

Feed his ego, or be a bitch, she debated internally as she continued to stare at him. His shoes alone were worth as much as her car payment. When she reached his eyes again, they smiled at her, kindly, as if they were old friends. Don’t be deceived by this angel.

“I see a man who knows he is beautiful,” she said quietly. The smells from the covered tray reached her nose, and her stomach rumbled loudly. “May I eat? I haven’t had anything since yesterday.”

The man’s eyes narrowed dangerously, but he stepped forward hurriedly as if he were hosting a dinner and she was his guest. “Of course! My apologies, Ms. McIntyre.”

Grace watched him warily. “How do you know my name?”

He smiled at her as if she were simple, bowing his head and looking at her from the tops of his eyes. “Your bag contained your identification. We did not take it, merely borrowed it.”

“Who is we?” she blurted, still standing with the table between them.

His smile broadened, and he gestured to the table with his hand. “Please, eat your meal. We can talk while you eat.”

Every instinct screamed at Grace to refuse the food this wolf offered, but the smells were making her lightheaded. She’d never be able to think clearly if her belly was empty. Without taking her eyes off him, she sat in the chair and uncovered the food. A pile of beef steak covered in a red sauce with rice and beans on the side. She’d never seen a meal so appetizing. She picked up the fork and speared a piece, slipping it delicately into her mouth. Flavors burst over her tongue, and before she could stop herself, she made yummy noises as she chewed.

The man chuckled. “I’m so sorry for your hunger. May I get the other chair and sit?”

Grace watched him as he moved behind her to retrieve the chair without waiting for her answer. She continued eating as he opened the chair and sat down across from her. Half the meat and most of the beans were gone before she spoke again.

“Why are you keeping me here?”

“Ah, well,” he said, lifting his hands in a helpless manner, “your American boss has not replied to our demands.”

“My boss?” she asked, frowning at his words. “Charles doesn’t have money for a ransom.”

“Mr. Hudson owns a successful magazine. You’re his finest photographer,” the man replied, smiling as if he’d complimented her.

Grace stared at him, her food forgotten for the moment. She recovered her senses, suspicious of his intentions, and asked, “Who are you?”

“You didn’t do your research, or you would recognize me.” He tsked, wagging his finger at her playfully. “I am Tomas de Velazquez.” He said his name so proudly, as if his legendary villainy increased his popularity and acclaim in Mexico and the United States.

But he is proud of his villainy, Grace thought as she decided to pretend to be unaffected by him. She picked up her fork and continued eating, not simply to irritate him but because she didn’t know when she’d get to eat again.

“I didn’t know what you looked like,” she said with a mouthful of rice, “but I have heard of you.”

His smile was wolfish, his eyes no longer as kind. “Of course. Rumors abound, I’m told.”

“Rumors, or truth?”

“Hmm, a little of both, I’m sure.” He watched her lift her fork, she hoped nonchalantly, and said, “I’ll make sure you are fed more often.”

“How long will I be here?” she asked.

“Until your ransom is paid, or I decide to sell you,” he replied, his nonchalance real and unaffected.

Grace’s fork clattered to her plate, spewing beans onto the table. “Sell me? What do you mean?”

“Without the bruises, after a shower, and with some decent clothes, you’re a beautiful woman,” Tomas commented, his eyes dropping to her breasts. She covered them hastily, and he met her gaze again, a smirk transforming his features from angelic to devilish. “I would keep you for myself, but I prefer my women tame. You, I think, will need to be tamed.”

“No. You can’t do that,” Grace said, her mind freezing at the idea of becoming a sex slave to some animal in human form.

“Are you a virgin, perhaps? A virgin will always fetch a higher price,” he commented as if speaking of a commodity without emotions. He looked her up and down, appraising her. “No, not a virgin. Too beautiful, too old, and an American. Such loose morals there.”

She vomit rise in her throat, but she swallowed it. “I will not be sold like cattle.”

Tomas laughed loudly, his head tipping back and baring his throat. Grace had a momentary thought of plunging her fork into that throat, but even if she killed him, she wouldn’t escape.

“You don’t have a choice, belleza.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “A word of good news, though.”

He paused, and Grace growled, “What’s that?”

His smile was like a boyfriend giving an expensive gift to his girlfriend, and her nostrils flared in disgust. Rather than take offense, he seemed to enjoy her response to him. “I will contact your Mr. Hudson again. He will have until Friday to send me the money for your release.”

“What’s today?” Grace asked quietly, ashamed she had no idea.

“Tuesday.”

Jerking, she realized she’d been imprisoned for four days. She must have been unconscious for an entire day at some point. “Tuesday…” she whispered, looking at the floor. She jerked her head up. “How much did you ask for?”

“Does it matter?”

Grace frowned and snorted a laugh as she looked down at her half-eaten food. “I guess not.”

Tomas was silent for several seconds, so she lifted her eyes to meet his. He peered at her, his eyes unreadable. Lust was absent from his gaze, but so was every emotion. She couldn’t read him. He was expressionless unless he wanted to reveal his emotion, and Grace was certain any emotion he revealed was a calculated response to get what he needed. A sociopath, she determined, her fear escalating further. The man would kill her on a whim and go to dinner soon after.

“You are a beauty. Your hair is touched by sunlight, and your eyes are like grass in the spring,” Tomas complimented, though he seemed to be talking more to himself.

“Your poetry is pathetic,” she quipped, rolling her eyes. A daring retort, she thought, wondering what he would do.

His eyes and face hardened, and before she could react, his hand connected with her right cheekbone. She fell to the side, slamming into the floor with her shoulder. Her shoulder screamed in agony, and her cheek felt as if someone had clocked her with a hammer. She lay on the floor for a moment to regain her composure as tears slipped down her face. But she refused to stay on the ground. She pushed herself up slowly and returned to her seat, holding her shoulder with the opposite hand.

“You should be grateful I leave you with only a bruised face,” he hissed, the one break in the persona he’d created. He tilted his head from side to side, cracking his neck, and shrugged his shoulders, calming himself.

In an act of rebellion, Grace picked up her fork and began eating again, ignoring the fear and the pain. If she was going to die, she would do so with some dignity. Tomas had frozen and was watching her, and though she wasn’t looking at him, she felt the heat of his gaze on her.

After three bites, the man began to laugh again. He shook his finger at her, causing her to tense in fear, which only increased his laughter. “Not just beautiful. Strong too. Maybe I will keep you for myself. Tame you into the woman I want.”

She looked into his eyes, mustering every bit of courage and hatred. “Fuck you.”

He looked as if he might hit her again, but he refrained. He smiled at her, a movie star in real life, and he said, “You haven’t asked about your friend. Trevor?”

Grace’s jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. “He’s dead. Your men killed him in cold blood.”

“I have pictures,” he taunted, tilting his head to the side, a divine specimen of the male figure. “Would you like to see them?”

She shook her head but didn’t speak. She didn’t trust her voice. Grinning like she imagined a serial killer might, he pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket and dropped it on the table.

He leaned close to her, so close she felt his breath on her cheek. “Look if you’d like,” he whispered. His lips grazed her temple, and she jerked to her feet and moved away from him.

“Don’t fucking touch me.” Each word was emphasized like its own sentence.

His malicious grin appeared. “Your boss has three days. If he can’t pay, on Saturday, your training begins. You’ll bow down to me. In fact, you’ll beg me to allow you to suck my cock. Or you will experience alive what my men did to your friend after his death.”

With a small bow, he turned and left the cell, closing and locking the door behind him. He turned and blew her a kiss through the bars, and Grace again felt the need to vomit. She couldn’t let herself do so. She glanced at the table where the rest of her meal sat next to the envelope filled with pictures of what she assumed was Trevor’s body. Determined to finish her meal first, she sat down and ate, looking anywhere but at the envelope.

Escape wasn’t currently an option, but if she were taken somewhere to shower and change, perhaps she could get out then. She had no idea if she was in a house or a warehouse, or even whether she was anywhere near Matamoros, but she’d think of something. Anything, even being killed during an escape attempt, was better than becoming that sociopath’s sex slave.

Her meal eaten, she stared at the envelope for many minutes before opening it. She pulled out only one picture, and when she saw it, prayed it was the worst of the bunch. A loud sob left her as she stared at the mutilated body of her best friend. Quickly, she returned it to the envelope and closed it, refusing to look at any other picture inside. She preferred to remember Trevor alive.

If that was the death that awaited her, she had to escape. Or become a mindless sex slave. More sobs echoed through the cell as she sat motionless in the chair. She thought she’d been afraid before. Real fear gripped her like death. Every thought was of death, and pain, and fear, and torture, and she began to scream. She screamed until her throat was raw. She cried until she could cry no more. The concrete slab was her only refuge, and she curled under the flimsy blanket and begged sleep to take her. No nightmare could be as bad as her reality.