“Miss Ronaldo?”
I gasped at the new, feminine voice, and I tossed the book aside as though I’d been caught touching something I shouldn’t. I glanced up to face the woman, prepared to pull up my emotional armor around the stranger.
The petite frame and large, brown eyes were achingly familiar. A lump instantly formed in my throat, an early sign of traitorous tears.
“Marisol,” I breathed, blinking rapidly to clear away the burning sensation behind my eyes. “Are you okay?”
She stiffened, lifting her chin and glaring at me. “No one has beaten me, but it seems I’m still your slave.”
The venomous words hit me like a slap to the face. Marisol rarely spoke to me at all. The furious young woman standing before me radiated pure hatred, and she wasn’t holding back her feelings anymore.
“I’ve been taken from one prison to another,” she seethed. “I’m still expected to clean up your messes and fetch your shit for you. Things you are perfectly capable of doing for yourself, but you think they’re beneath you.”
“What?” I asked faintly, reeling from the revelations about what she really thought of me. “I didn’t realize you were unhappy on my estate.”
“Who could be happy in a cage?” she asked bitterly.
“I don’t understand. When Pedro’s guard brought you to the estate, I made sure he left you alone. I made sure all the men left you alone. I provided a safe place for you to live.”
“Did it ever occur to you that maybe I didn’t want to live in your palace and exist as your indentured servant? You paid me a wage, but I was indebted to you in a way that money couldn’t resolve. I was supposed to be on my way to freedom when that bastard bought me and dragged me to your estate with him.”
The slight woman shook with rage, her hands clenching at her sides. “I bled for that journey. I fled from my home that had become my hell, and I paid that coyote everything I had. It still wasn’t enough for him. He took payment out of my body, and so did the others. I endured it. I was on my way to a better life, a life of safety and freedom. And you took that all away from me. You might have saved me from being your man’s whore, but you stole my chance at freedom.”
My stomach twisted with each horrific accusation from the girl I thought I’d protected. I’d kept my emotional distance so that she didn’t become a target for my brother. Evil men were always quick to threaten people I cared about in order to coerce my cooperation.
“Marisol, I—”
“And now, you’ve dragged me to a new prison,” she railed, cutting me off. “If you expect my gratitude, you are sorely fucking mistaken. Now, I’m expected to bring you the fancy new clothes Duarte bought for you. I’m expected to wash the sheets from the bed where you fuck him. I will never thank you for this. Now, get your entitled, pampered ass out of that bed and let me do my job.”
I hesitated, fighting down my rising nausea. The truth about Marisol’s life was horrific, but I still dreaded forging a bond with her. Duarte might hurt her to punish me. I’d been fearful for his cat, but my fear for the girl twisted my gut into knots.
If I pulled back the covers and revealed my own captivity, she might feel she could relate to me. It was far safer for her to hate me.
She scowled. “I won’t get beaten because you don’t let me complete my assigned tasks. Get up.”
Fuck. It seemed I didn’t have a choice. She would be hurt if I prevented her from doing her enforced labor.
I slowly pulled the covers back, wincing at the sight of the cuff that was locked around my ankle. Somehow, exposing it to Marisol was so much worse than being in Stefano’s presence. When he was nearby, I could curse at him for the injustice. With the woman’s gaze on me, I suddenly felt like a victim. She could see me, what I had become.
What I had always been: a pretty toy for men to play with and possess.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed, noticing the metallic clank of the chain for the first time. The sound of my bondage seemed magnified in Marisol’s presence, the heavy click of each moving link ringing the truth of my existence.
I stood, putting my weight on my injured feet. I smothered a grimace, as though hiding that sign of pain would somehow make this scenario less agonizing.
A long moment of silence stretched between us, and I found that I couldn’t meet Marisol’s gaze.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said, the apology heavy with shared grief and understanding.
“Don’t be,” I whispered, a pleading edge to my tone. “You can still hate me.”