Page 4 of Obsession & Oath

Carmen

It’s a cruel twist of irony that I would find myself, mere hours after expressing my distaste for the prison that had become Rubio mansion, in an altogether different kind of prison.

At least my family home had modern amenities, comfortable beds, and familiar, if not somewhat jeering, faces.

The Prince’s Guild are either suffering more harshly than my father suspected from the ongoing war, or they simply don’t care about me enough to provide simple comforts. I’m smart enough to suspect the latter while still hoping for the former.

Either way, the man assigned to me today is more useless than most. He might be named Alex. Or perhaps this one is Martino. I don’t care to remember.

Thankfully, I’ve not had to deal with the one who kidnapped me yet, the man with the infuriating smile and personal space issues.

He’s the first on my list when I get out of here. He’s the one I’ll have killed first.

“Eat something,” whoever he is barks over his shoulder.

He’s been watching the TV for the last hour. He turned it on immediately after trading shifts with the last guy and throwing a bunch of vending machine snacks on the bed I’m curled up on. One of my hands is cuffed to the bedframe.

It’s a dingy apartment somewhere in Manhattan. That much I’ve been able to discern from peering through the cracks in the boarded-up windows. The skyline offers me at least some semblance of navigational bearing.

Technically, it’s more of a studio or perhaps even a hotel room. There’s a small kitchenette in the corner, the appliances seemingly groaning under the weight of their own age, and the space is entirely open plan.

My college dorm room was bigger than this.

“I need water,” I declare to the back of his head.

He doesn’t even look around, just gestures to the bed. “There’s something there.”

“This is carbonated sugar,” I grimace down at the near-fluorescent green bottle amongst the chip packets and candy wrappers.

“Sorry, princess. This ain’t the Ritz.”

It takes every ounce of my self-control not to pick up the offending bottle and chuck it at the back of his head.

Instead, I go back to looking around the tiny room, scanning for any opportunity for exploitation. If I can just get a message to my father…

My eyes drift once more to the bedside table opposite me. I can’t quite see it without tearing my arm off, but I’m fairly certain there’s a phone there.

Maybe this is a hotel…which means there’s probably a reception desk, right?

Not for the first time, I imagine what Red would do about all this. The version of my friend that lingers in my mind would probably have been tied up right next to me. She would have laughed and thrown the bottle at the guy herself.

Red was my first friend in New York City after four years at Princeton pretending I wasn’t the heiress to a Mexican drug ring. She was the first person to know me as Carmen—not just the bioengineering nerd or the Cartel’s princess, but both and neither.

Red had grounded me in ways I don’t think she ever really understood. She was a mercenary, loyal to me and my money, but it was more than that. She cared about me beyond academic success or what I could do for my father’s empire.

I thought she’d cared.

She didn’t, in the end.

I tuck the anger neatly away. I’ve had more than enough time to adjust to her betrayal, but it still burns every time I think of her.

Whatwouldshe do if she were here?

“I’m on my period,” I blurt out before I can convince myself not to.

This finally gets his attention. His wide eyes are almost comical. “What?”

“Let me call reception. They can bring up some water and supplies.”

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