“This isn’t a transaction,” he snapped back. “I’m not providing these things for you because I intend to buy you. You’re staying with me, but I have no desire to keep you in rags. You’ll be comfortable and safe. You have no reason to leave.”
He applied more pressure beneath my jaw. “Look at me.” My eyes snapped up to his, compelled by his command. “You are not allowed to leave. If you try to run from me again, there will be consequences. I’ve decided to overlook your last escape attempt—when you left me for dead,” he added tersely, twisting the knife of guilt that was still lodged deep in my gut. “I won’t be so forgiving next time. No matter how sweetly you apologize.”
I swallowed hard, but no words came to mind. Traitorous heat had gathered at my core as he issued his low, rumbling threats. I should scream at him that he couldn’t keep me here against my will, that I wanted my freedom.
But he had provided for me. And he’d made it abundantly clear that my desperate plan to seek asylum in America was nothing more than a cruel fantasy. What freedom was I even seeking anymore? I couldn’t return home, but I had nowhere to go. There was no longer a dream of a safe haven at the end of my torturous journey.
Defeat settled over my shoulders. Staying with Raúl was dangerous. The longer I remained with him, the harder it would become to resist the fiery allure of the combustible chemistry between us.
There was nowhere in the world that was safe for me, not even in the strong arms of my fierce protector.
Chapter 11
Marisol
“Come on,” Raúl prompted, seeming to realize that I couldn’t muster up a response to his threats of consequences if I tried to run. He released my jaw and shifted his confining hold on my hand, wrapping his fingers around mine and urging me to my feet. “I’ll show you around the house.”
I followed where he led, too mired in my glum mood to pay much attention at first. But as we walked through the lounge and passed Raúl’s bedroom, we entered uncharted territory. I perked up, curiosity distracting me from my concerns over my dark nature and my dangerous attachment to Raúl. If I was going to stay here—at least for a little while, until I got my head on straight—I should know the layout of the house.
The stark white walls of the hallway contrasted sharply with the polished wooden floorboards, lending the space a sense of brightness when it could’ve felt dim and cramped. I noted abstract art dotted along the austere walls, all in subdued shades of blue and gray. As I studied them more closely, I realized that the paintings I’d initially thought of as bland and impersonal actually possessed a quiet power. The pieces elicited the churning waters of the deepest parts of the ocean; awesome and mysterious.
I eyed my captor with renewed interest. For so long, I’d only seen him as an intimidating, beautiful criminal. Now, I understood that he appreciated the subtleties of modern art. And I knew that he made his own hot sauce, because store-bought wasn’t hot enough for his macho-man tastebuds.
Again, I got the strange, taboo sense that I was a voyeur, watching this hard man while he relaxed in his natural habitat. He wasn’t simply a beast; he was more human than I ever could’ve imagined.
Keeping his firm hold on my hand, he guided me into what I’d assumed would be a second bedroom. Instead, we entered a space that I didn’t have a name for. A study, maybe?
But there weren’t any books or a desk. A single, wingback leather armchair dominated one corner of the room, with a small, glass-topped table set beside it. Similar to some of the harsher décor I’d already noticed in his home, the table was crafted in black iron; solid lines rather than curling filigree.
A larger, matching table was set in the opposite corner. Its sole purpose seemed to be to hold a record player. I realized that the shelving around the table was stuffed full, but not with books. The narrow spines of hundreds of vinyl records created a chaotic arrangement of bold colors, which contrasted sharply with the house’s prevalent austere aesthetic.
A huge, glass-fronted cabinet took up an entire wall. When Raúl flipped a switch, golden lights flared between the shelving, making the amber liquid in the dozens of whiskey bottles glimmer and glow.
I forced my hanging jaw to close and turned my attention to Raúl. “What do you even call a room like this?” I was utterly baffled by the concept of having a large space that didn’t seem to serve any particular, necessary purpose in the home.
His eyes glittered, and his lips curved in a satisfied smile. I detected a hint of pride in the flex of his corded muscles. Raúl obviously derived great pleasure in having such a frivolous room in his house. And I suspected he might like the fact that I was boggled by it.