Ruthless Savior - Julia Sykes Page 0,25

you.” But the wetness pooling on her lower lashes gave her away. She was lying to herself, and she knew it. Part of her must’ve known all along.

“Your disbelief doesn’t change the facts.” I didn’t bother to soften my tone. She had to understand that trying to cross the border again wasn’t an option. Leaving me wasn’t an option. “I won’t let you go through that. You’re staying here. With me.”

Her soft features firmed to stone, and her thick lashes narrowed. The tears that’d dampened them didn’t spill; she settled into anger and resentment to avoid facing the loss of her deluded fantasy.

I stepped back and mirrored her, folding my arms over my chest and fixing her with my hardest, most unyielding stare. When I turned this menacing expression on men, they jumped to do my bidding. Marisol seemed to shrink in my shadow, and her slender arms shifted to hug herself protectively instead of holding her defiant posture.

“Eat.” I bit out the command, frustrated with her fearful reaction. Even though I didn’t like it, intimidating her was necessary. Marisol couldn’t survive on her own, and I’d do whatever it took to keep her here with me.

My tactic worked. As soon as the terse command left my lips, she immediately jolted and grabbed the sandwich. She shoved it into her mouth with too much force, but as soon as the food hit her tongue, she closed her eyes on a low moan and slowed to savor the flavor. I wasn’t much of a cook, and the meal was beyond basic. She must’ve been starving.

I swallowed down a growl, restraining myself from scaring her again.

Later, I’d make her tell me more about her past and how she’d ended up fleeing for her life. Her situation must’ve been truly hopeless for her to risk the journey on her own. Her reckless actions could only have been fueled by desperation and terror. She’d been running for a long time, but I’d make her see that she didn’t have to run anymore.

I wouldn’t let her.

Chapter 9

Marisol

I lingered in Raúl’s mind-bogglingly enormous shower for a long time, but the hot water supply seemed to be endless. The pounding heat against my sore muscles felt like the most exquisite massage. My body ached from the unrelenting tension of my fearful flight from Raúl, and the powerful spray slowly soothed me.

I was careful to keep my head free from the strongest parts of the water pressure, mindful of the cut that’d split open when Daniel had shoved me against the glass coffee table. The area was still tender, but the pain was muted by the exhaustion that’d rolled back over me.

The gnawing hunger in my gut had finally eased, sated by the sandwich Raúl had made for me. Now that I’d eaten and rehydrated, weariness settled into my bones. As the water relaxed me, my eyelids drooped, and it became harder to open them again every time I blinked. Even the sharp sting of soap hitting the scrapes on my knees wasn’t enough to jolt me to full awareness.

I couldn’t remember when I’d banged my knees. During the fight with Daniel? Or the attack by the thief in Juárez?

It didn’t matter. The cuts and bruises would heal up. For now, I had food in my belly and a safe place to sleep. The plush, enormous bed in the next room tempted me out of the warm shower. It was Raúl’s bed, but that didn’t deter me. Earlier, I’d balked at the prospect of being kept in his bedroom. But at this point, I could’ve slept on a concrete slab. I believed that he wouldn’t molest me, and I so desperately wanted to sink into that soft bed.

The fluffy white towel that waited for me on a hook outside the shower was the most decadent thing I’d ever wrapped around my body. I blew out a long, satisfied sigh as I allowed myself several minutes to luxuriate in the lush pleasure of a bath linen that probably cost more than my most expensive party dress back home.

The thought of my beloved, abandoned home cut through my indulgent moment like a knife to my heart, and I quickly finished drying myself off.

One of Raúl’s huge, black shirts waited for me on the counter. He’d provided me with spare toiletries, but of course, he didn’t have any women’s clothes stored in his home. From what I’d seen so far, this house was almost aggressively masculine— all hard, cold lines framing