Petals n Blood II
He looked at her the way a scientist might look at a specimen. Curious. Analytical.
Hungry.
"Yara Martinez," he said, and his voice was smoke and expensive whiskey. "You're going to come with me now."
It wasn't a question.
"Who the hell are you?" Her voice shook, but she forced the words out anyway.
The corner of his mouth lifted. Not quite a smile. "Someone who just saved your life."
"By killing three people?"
"They weren't people. They were problems." He lowered the gun, sliding it into a holster beneath his jacket with practiced ease. "And they were going to take you somewhere much worse than where I'm taking you."
"I'm not going anywhere with you."
"Yes," he said, taking a step closer, "you are."
Yara's hand scrabbled along the wall behind her, searching for something, anything—a brick, a pipe, a weapon. Her fingers found only wet stones.
"You can walk," he continued, his voice perfectly calm, "or I can carry you. Either way, you're leaving this alley with me. Choose quickly."
"Fuck you."
This time he did smile, and it was worse than the gun. "That's not one of the options."
He moved fast—faster than she expected. One moment he was three feet away, the next his hand was on her arm, his grip firm but not painful, and he was pulling her toward a black car that had appeared at the alley's entrance like it had materialized from shadows.
Yara fought. She clawed at his hand, tried to twist away, opened her mouth to scream—
His other hand covered her mouth, and he pulled her against his chest, his lips next to her ear.
"Scream," he murmured, "and I'll assume you want to stay here with the bodies. Is that what you want?"
She couldn't breathe. His cologne filled her lungs—cedar and something darker, something that made her think of expensive cigars and older sins.
"I didn't think so." He guided her toward the car, his hand still over her mouth, his body a wall of heat against her back. "Smart girl."
The car door opened. A man in a driver's uniform didn't even glance at her as she was pushed into the backseat. Her captor—her rescuer, he'd said, like there was a difference—slid in beside her.
The door closed with a heavy, final thunk.
The locks engaged.
"Drive," he said.
The car pulled away from the curb, leaving behind the alley, the bodies, the life Yara had built from nothing.
She pressed herself against the opposite door, as far from him as the backseat would allow, her whole body trembling with adrenaline and terror and rage.
"You kidnapped me," she said.
"I rescued you."
"You kidnapped me."
He turned to look at her fully for the first time, and in the passing streetlights, she could see his face clearly. Strong jaw. Straight nose that looked like it had been broken at least once. A small scar above his left eyebrow. And those eyes—Christ, those eyes. They looked at her like they could see through skin and bone, straight down to all the scared, broken parts she kept hidden.
"Tell me, Yara," he said softly. "Do you know what your brother did?"
Her throat tightened. "I don't know anything about Diego."
"Liar."
"I'm not—"
"He stole from my family. Betrayed people who trusted him. And then he ran, leaving you behind like bait in a trap." He leaned back against the leather seat, still watching her. "The men in that alley? They work for the Serrano family. They were going to use you to draw Diego out. Torture you. Film it. Send him the videos piece by piece until he surfaced."
Yara's stomach lurched.
"The Serranos are animals," he continued, his voice conversational, like they were discussing the weather. "I'm something worse. But at least with me, you'll be alive tomorrow."
"What do you want with me?"
"Protection."
"Bullshit."
That smile again. Knife-sharp. "You're smarter than your brother. Good. You'll need to be."
The car turned onto a street Yara didn't recognize. They were leaving her neighborhood, heading toward the parts of the city where the buildings got taller and the shadows got deeper.
"Where are you taking me?"
"Home."
"That's not my home."
"It is now." He reached into his jacket—Yara flinched, but he just pulled out a phone. "I'm Rafael Donato. And as of tonight, you belong to me."
The words hung in the air between them, and Yara felt something crack open in her chest. Not fear. Not anymore.
Rage.
Pure, clean, burning rage.
"I don't belong to anyone," she said.
Rafael looked up from his phone, and for just a second, something flickered across his face. Approval, maybe. Or recognition.
"We'll see," he said.
The car drove on through the rain, carrying her away from everything she knew, and Yara stared out the window at the drowning city and made herself a promise.
I will survive this. And I will make him regret it.
She just had to figure out how.