Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
She gripped the chain and yanked. Fuck! How long would he keep her locked up?
God, she’d thought she was so fucking clever. Thought she could just smuggle her way into a slave ring and single-handedly take out the asshole in charge.
She didn’t know shit.
How arrogant of her to assume she’d end up in the boss’s bed. While she didn’t want to be anywhere near Nico Restrepo, the alternative called into question some seriously conflicted desires.
She glared at Matias’ bed across the room. Forgive him. Bite off his dick. Fuck his brains out. End his life.
No, killing him wasn’t an option. To put an end to the cartel’s slave trading, she needed to get to Nico. To do that, she’d have to win over Matias by any means necessary.
I’ll settle for rough, gritty sex.
She could still feel his voice vibrating through her, and she shuddered anew. Worse, he knew he affected her. He wasn’t a stranger she could inveigle and trick. He could see past her act, undress her mind, and fuck her thoughts.
She tapped her fingers against her thighs and pulled in a deep breath.
When they were kids, she’d anticipated what he wanted and followed his every whim without reservation. Hell, she’d followed him around like a lost puppy. But he was also two years older.
No, that wasn’t why. There had always been a captivating shift in the air around him. A dominant man stretching the skin of his prepubescent body. A Master lying in wait.
She leaned against the post and slid to the floor, tucking her knees to her chest. With a shaky hand, she traced the stiff band of leather around her neck. The texture and weight felt like Van’s restraints, but the similarities ended there.
Being bound by Van had made her feel defenseless, trapped, uncared for like an insignificant nothing. But this… She pressed her palm against the leather, squeezing it around her throat. Matias’ collar felt like armor, his armor, protecting her from the world. Why? Because they shared history? Or were his parting words messing with her?
Kneel for me…give me the power to break you…trust that I won’t.
Funny thing, trust. It was so hard to give, yet easy to rip away. He’d earned her trust through sixteen years of friendship. Then he’d lost it. Not the day he left, but in the phone call that came a month after. It’d been the coldness in his tone and the furtive way he’d steered the conversation away from commitment and love. He’d chosen his future, and it hadn’t included her.
She lowered her hand to the round metal tag that hung on the collar, tracing the engraving for the hundredth time. What she wouldn’t give to know what it said. Was it his name and phone number like a damn dog tag? A quote from a handbook on how to destroy human lives? Or was it something personal, like his tattoos? Not likely. Dozens of his slaves had probably worn this very collar.
She sucked in a breath, hating that the pang in her chest was jealousy of other women rather than remorse for the abuse that might’ve occurred. Yet the idea of being owned by him, being the only one he’d ever kept, made her crave things—filthy, kinky things she’d fantasized about during sex.
It didn’t matter how skilled her lovers had been, none had taken her to the depths she hungered for. No matter how much she begged, no one spanked her long enough, choked her hard enough, or left her unable to think afterward, lost to sensations. She ached to be fucked violently and loved tenderly, and for the life of her, she didn’t understand why.
She wasn’t one of those women who needed a man, but she longed to be the kind of woman a man couldn’t live without. And while Matias’ intentions hovered somewhere between terrifying and soulless, the way he looked at her made her feel treasured. Protected.
His spoken promises should’ve horrified her. Instead, they poked at the twisted parts of her soul that wanted things she was too afraid to ask for.
What the hell was wrong with her? This wasn’t Stockholm Syndrome—she’d loved him before he was her captor. Insanity, maybe? Brain damage? Or just good, old-fashioned stupidity.
As the balcony glowed orange in the blaze of the sinking sun, interior lamps flickered on around the room. Growing more distressed about his return, she resumed pacing, which seemed to ease her irritated bladder. She considered peeing on the floor and thought better of it. Van would’ve pressed her face in the mess. Who knew what Matias would do?
An hour after sunset, footsteps sounded in the hall. As if compelled by the confident pace of the strides, she knelt at attention on the towel, facing the door. With shins placed against the floor, thighs vertical, and body held upright, she positioned her arms in strappado—behind her back with elbows, forearms, and wrists pressed together with imaginary restraints.