The common thread between them was Hector’s sons. The brothers prized the woman in his arms, whether for sex or blood sports. But the nature of Vera’s relationship with them wasn’t clear.
Was she jealous of the fighter? Because Hector’s sons showed interest in another woman? Or because Luke showed interest in her?
The elevator opened, and Vera sashayed away, leaving Luke standing there holding an unsolved puzzle.
She entered a breezeway in the opposite direction of his rooms and paused, glancing at him before scowling at the fighter. “Have fun with that.”
“Have no doubt.” He headed the other way, placing his full attention on the woman he was about to become intimately acquainted with. “Tell me your name.”
Stubborn silence.
He growled, “This will go much easier if you give me that.”
“Easier for you?” Her accent dripped with vitriol while somehow retaining a seductive quality that made his balls tighten. “I’m not giving you shit.”
“We’ll both have fake names then. I’m John, and you’re Gina.” At her thinned stare, he clarified. “Gina Carano. The hottest female fighter of all time. At least, she was until I saw you defeat that kid tonight.”
She clamped her busted lips into an angry slash and looked away.
Why had he said that? He was supposed to scare her, not charm his way into her panties.
Old habits.
“Tell me what happened in the basement with the girl.”
“Go to hell.” She shoved at his chest with a shocking force of strength. “Put me down.”
He constricted his grip, which only spurred her to push harder. In the next breath, she went wild, flailing and cursing in Spanish.
After spending years with Camila, Matias, and Ricky, he understood common words. Mostly slang. Too little to hold a conversation.
Not that this woman was interested in talking.
She aimed her mouth toward his, her eyes promising teeth and blood. He dodged her, wrapped her up, and still, she kept fighting.
The little heathen needed boundaries, and now was as good a time as any to set them.
He opened his arms.
She dropped. Her legs buckled, and her rear hit the floor. The woman had been hit so many times in the head tonight she couldn’t keep her eyes focused. She was in no state to stand, and they both knew it.
“Let’s go.” He took three steps toward the room and stopped with his back to her. “Start walking, Gina, or I will rip off your pants and blister your ass.”
Tomas stood off to the side, his expression blank. No one moved.
He set a toe behind the opposite heel, pivoted, and stalked toward her. With her legs sprawled and chest heaving, she thrust up her chin. It was all she could do before he was on her.
Flipping her to her stomach, he set a knee on her back and shoved a hand beneath her waistband.
A button flew. The zipper broke, and the thin cutoffs ripped like tissue paper. Her panties followed, and he tossed the shreds aside.
Nude from the waist down, she clenched a firm, round, tanned backside.
Lust hit his circulation like a crackle of fireworks, lighting him up from the inside out. But he couldn’t enjoy this. He shouldn’t.
That was the real bitch of it. He had to behave as if spanking and touching and fucking this woman was pure goddamn bliss without taking real pleasure in it. Without becoming the monster he pretended to be.
She’d been violated and abused in unspeakable ways. No matter what he did with her, to her, he couldn’t forget that.
So as his hand came down on her ass, he made her feel it without feeling it himself. He wailed on her, avoiding her injuries smoothly enough that she didn’t notice the mercy. He hit her just enough to make her fear him, and she took the punishment without making a sound.
When he was sure his point was made, he threw her over his shoulder and hauled her to his room.
She didn’t cry or struggle, didn’t try to hide her red backside from the men he passed. But she didn’t just hang there, either. Her muscles contracted against him, bracing for war, biding time.
She was plotting a way out of this. If she wasn’t, she fucking well should’ve been.
Tomas opened the door with his key reader, and Luke carried her directly to the bathroom.
Placing a chair beside the tub, he dropped her there and got in her face. “Don’t move.”
She gave him an unblinking stare, looking pissed and miserable beneath all those bruises.
He cranked the faucet for the bath, tested the water, and let it run. Then he strode behind her, out of her range of sight.
Tomas joined him at the vanity across the room, monitoring her as Luke doused cold water on his face. In the mirror, he watched her, too, stealing glimpses between splashes of water.
His hands were shaking.
Shoving them under the faucet, he tried to calm himself. Except he didn’t feel nervous. No panic or dread. Could’ve been the lingering effects of adrenaline. But there was something else. He felt different. Dazed. Empty.