Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 611(@200wpm)___ 489(@250wpm)___ 407(@300wpm)
I stare at my plate, not saying anything. For some reason, I just assumed I would be with Octavio the whole time. Maybe I was stupid or naïve to think that, but I did. The thought of spending time with another man I don't know isn't appealing in the least.
As Agent Sanders demonstrated, not even federal agents are always beacons of morality or good people. My body is the only thing I have that's my own. It's the only thing that Nikolai and the Bratva didn't take from me. I hate Sanders for trying to take from me what even they didn't. The thought of someone else trying to force themselves on me scares the hell out of me.
"Roman's fiancée will be with you the whole time, Faith," Octavio says, perhaps sensing my thoughts. "You won't ever be alone with Luke or with Roman. Mila is pregnant. She's having a little girl in a few months. You'll like her. She's very sweet."
I lick my lip, lifting my gaze from my plate to see him staring at me with concern and something too much like pity. The same part of me that fought to survive in Nikolai's territory comes roaring to the surface, refusing to be vulnerable or let him see my fear. That part is a hell of a lot braver than the rest of me. It's the part of me that they never broke, no matter how hard they tried. I cling to that little thread of courage with both hands, hanging on for dear life. Nikolai didn't break me. Sanders didn't break me. I won't let this either.
"If we had another choice, we'd take it."
"I'll be fine with them," I say as casually as possible, picking up my spoon again. The words fall flat, giving away the lie. I try again. "You don't have to worry about me."
Octavio frowns, his gaze sweeping across my face. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something and then snaps it closed again. His frown deepens. "You're angry with me."
"I'm not angry, Detective Hernandez."
"My name is Octavio, Faith."
I take another bite of my chicken, but it tastes like sawdust.
"Tell me what you're thinking. Tell me why you're so afraid," he says, his voice softer than I've ever heard it before. It's like he's pleading with me to give him this. Just like outside of Ilya's, I'm caught, unable to resist giving him what he's asking for when no one except him ever asks me for or needs anything from me.
"I've spent the last five years surrounded by men who went out of their way to make my life a living hell," I whisper, pushing my plate away from me and picking up my water bottle. It's cool against my hands, soothing the cuts and scrapes. "I wasn't allowed to eat or sleep unless I had permission. I had to go where I was told to go and do what I was told to do. If I wasn't quick enough, or quiet enough, or grateful enough, or invisible enough, Nikolai's men would find ways to make me pay for it."
"Mierda," Octavio mutters.
"I was surrounded by dangerous men who like to hurt people for sport. And hurting me was their favorite sport most days. That's the life I know, Detective Hernandez. Those are the kinds of men I'm used to dealing with. You tell me that Roman Gregory and Luke Santiago can be trusted, and I want to believe you, but when you live like I have, you can't afford to trust blindly. Not if you want to survive." I flick my gaze to his to find him watching me with murder in his eyes. "And my life may have been hell, but I find that I'm not in any hurry to see it ended."
"How did they hurt you, angel?" he demands, his voice a dangerous growl. "What did they do to you?"
"It doesn't matter," I whisper, refusing to share any more of my shame with him. Refusing to give him another reason to feel sorry for me. What Nikolai and his men did, they did to me. I'll carry those secrets to the grave before I give this man another reason to pity me.
"It does matter," he argues. "You matter, Faith."
"No, I don't," I disagree, blinking back tears at his emphatic declaration. "My own mother didn't want me, Detective Hernandez. I have no friends, no home, and no place to go. I disappeared at sixteen and no one looked for me. Not my school. Not the cops. No one. I mattered to no one five years ago, and I matter to no one now. I haven't mattered to anyone since my father died."
"You matter to me."
"You don't even know me," I whisper, pushing away from the table as my heart pulses with a strange mix of grief and longing.