She stared into Martin’s stark green eyes. “Then they transported me here, and on the first night, an inmate attacked me.” Her hands flexed and released at her sides. “I strangled him. I don’t know how, but I killed him.”
The rumors were true? Maybe she was lying, but if so, she had a damn good poker face. He’d never seen a woman look as vulnerable as she did now.
With her shoulders curled forward and the dull sheen over her eyes, she appeared to be drowning in a violent ocean of memories.
“I gave a prison guard all my cash to bring me here.” Her voice wobbled, and she pressed the heel of her palm against her stomach. “Area Three was supposed to be safer. I didn’t know I’d have to pay rent for this cell.”
A chill spread across Ricky’s scalp. Martin said nothing, but his stony expression spoke volumes. They both knew what sort of payment would be demanded of a beautiful woman in prison.
“That same night,” she said quietly, “I had to pay with my body. It felt like rape. Or worse because I couldn’t say no. I had to just lie there and take it.” Her gaze slipped to the bed before jerking back to Martin. “I killed a man for trying to rape me, yet the one who succeeded still lives. He’s not a threat to me anymore, but I struggle with…what he did to me. Maybe someday, I’ll forgive him, but I doubt it.”
He glanced between her and Martin, his chest tight as he processed her words. Not only had she been tortured by electrocution, but within hours, someone had forced himself inside her injured body.
Was it Garra? He seemed to be the property manager around here. If he raped her, that would explain his possessiveness, as well as the standoffish way she interacted with him.
Ricky’s pulse elevated, and his blood heated to punish that son of a bitch.
“What about you?” She drifted closer to Martin, leaving a sliver of space without touching him. “Is the source of your pain still alive?”
Ricky leaned forward, holding his breath.
She might’ve figured out Martin had a tortured past, but she would never be able to draw the details out of him. He wouldn’t even talk to Ricky about it.
Seconds filled the silence, each one stirring a disquiet through the room as she watched Martin, waiting for an answer.
Ricky was confident his friend wouldn’t respond.
Until Martin reached for her hand.
“I killed the first one.” Martin closed his fingers around her tiny, tattooed wrist. “The second one still lives, and like you, I doubt I’ll ever forgive him.”
Ricky’s heart stopped, and pinpricks stabbed the base of his skull. The one who lived was Van Quiso. But who was the first one?
He’d suspected something terrible had happened to Martin before Van captured him, but Martin had never given any indication he’d killed someone.
Someone who had caused him pain.
Was it a relative from his childhood? A stranger on the street? Was the murder premeditated or self-defense? Had he been alone? What happened to the body?
Martin had given Tula—a woman he’d just met—more insight into his past than he’d ever offered Ricky. Why her? Because she’d shared a tragic story? He didn’t even know if she was telling the truth.
Ricky tried to rein in the hurt that smoldered in his gut, but it only magnified as he watched them look at each other with mutual understanding.
Unbelievable.
He could actually feel the beginning of something spark and hold between them. Made him feel like a goddamn third wheel, interloping on a private moment.
Jesus, get a grip, you jealous fuck.
He and Martin were here for a job. If the sexy little vixen had a thing for his best friend, they could use that to ply her into spilling secrets about Hector La Rocha.
Screw it. They could eye fuck each other for as long as they wanted.
He reached for the medical supplies and tended to his wounds. But after a few irritating swipes of the gauze, he couldn’t stop his gaze from gravitating back to them.
Martin guided her hand to his waist and pressed her palm against his skin, proving he didn’t have an issue with touching.
Very few people invaded his personal space because of those fuck-off vibes he exuded. But she’d reached right through that when she touched him the first time.
That must’ve been what triggered him. He wasn’t used to physical contact. Except she’d put her hands on his face to clean his wounds. He hadn’t flipped out until she went for his pants.
Now that he’d given her permission to touch, she splayed her fingers against his nude stomach, lingering there for a long moment. Then she explored the mouthwatering grooves that carved a V from his hips to the low-waisted dip of his jeans.
Ricky imagined all that honed power flexing against his own hand—the corrugated ridges of abs and the heat of life pumping beneath warm, smooth skin.