Page 70 of Blood Revealed

As of right now, I walk with my head held high, my back straight, not wanting to look scared because these women need to see me as someone who can help them. A leader of sorts.

I’m led up to the main house. It’s a gorgeous mansion, Spanish-style architecture. Stucco walls. Wrought-iron balconies. Gigantic archways. Oh, and the gardens. I’ve never seen gardens like this, especially in the dry Texas heat. There’s a beautiful swimming pool in the back that looks like a lagoon at an oasis where there are women, or as I was told they’re called, “House Bitches,” lounging in barely-there bikinis, their toes dipped in the water. He’s setting a scene, staging it. The problem is, I don’t know if he staging it for me or if she’s saving it for someone else.

I know with the bruises on my face, I’m not ready to be sold yet. But as I was supposed to be Escalante’s, that doesn’t mean he’s not going to want to have his fun.

As I pass the women, I see they’re all wearing the same kind of collar. Like one of those dog shock collars. No wonder they’re only dipping their toes in the water; water and electrical shocks don’t mix well. I guess that’s also why they don’t run.

The monster shoves me through the back sliding patio door and I stumble, but I don’t fall. We keep moving until we’ve reachedel maestrohimself, sitting behind a large mahogany desk, an office filled with books on bookshelves also made of mahogany. Despite the dark wood, the breezy gauze fabric of the open window drapes makes the room feel light and airy.

He’s not wearing his fedora, but he’s otherwise still dressed in that white linen suit with his crisp white-and-blue striped tie. He’s the picture of opulence.

“You must shower, my dear,” he says in his benevolent tone. “And then you will join me in the lounge. We must get reacquainted.”

“Yes,el maestro.” I hate calling him that. I hate it. But he smiles at me like I’m the good little girl who’s done what she’s been told. The first part of the plan is officially activated.

I’m led at gunpoint up the elaborate spiraling, marble staircase with its even more elaborate, spiraling gilded banister to a bedroom. Like the rest of the house, it’s light and airy, very beachy. Escalante loves his gauzy fabrics. I’m not allowed to stop and take in the room, however. The monster uses the barrel of the gun to push me forward until I hit the door to the bathroom, just off the bedroom.

“You will shower,” he says. “You will use the products he’s left for you. You will wear the makeup, you will do your hair, and you will select an outfit from those that he has left you in the closet. And when you are done, you will pick up the phone and press the nine. I will come retrieve you, to bring you to the lounge. Do you understand?”

I nod my understanding.

“I will warn you now, if you try anything—anything at all, I will not only punish you, but you will be responsible for ending the life of one of the girls.” My eyes grow huge as I suck in a breath. “Yes,” he says. “I see now that you understand. You have thirty minutes. Make them count.”

When the door clicks behind him, I walk into the bathroom to turn on the shower. Escalante has very expensive flowery shampoos, conditioners, and body washes. After a quick scrub-down, I blow-dry my hair and make up my face. Then I walk back out to the walk-in closet bigger than my room at the compound to find something suitable because I will not step one toe out of line, not right now. Not if it means one of those poor girls getting killed.

Apparently, Escalante doesn’t believe in undergarments. And everything he has hanging in the closet is sheer. I slip on the formfitting, one-shouldered, Grecian-style dress made up of a delicate pink gossamer fabric. Every inch of me is visible through the dress. I really don’t know what kind of shoes would go with an outfit like this, and everything in here seems incredibly impossible to walk in. So I choose to go barefoot. It makes the look seem more natural and puts me at least at a little advantage.

I pick up the phone and dialnineexactly as I was ordered. Nobody sayshello. Instead, I hear, “Be sitting on the edge of the bed, your hands folded in your lap when I open the door.”

Quickly, I do exactly as he says and sit down on the edge of the bed facing the door with my hands in my lap. It’s not but two minutes later when he opens the door without knocking, gun pointed in the room as if he thinks I’m going to ambush him. When he sees me, he smiles his greasy smile and orders, “Up.”

I do as directed, walking with him back down the grand stairway, where he leads me to the lounge. I know he’s been checking me out the whole way; it’s disgusting and makes me feel dirty. But what makes me feel worse is when I enter the lounge and Escalante sits on a beautiful baby blue sofa with a rounded back. He’s no longer wearing his linen jacket; the sleeves of his white dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows. His arms are resting along the back of the sofa and he has what appears to be a whiskey on the rocks in one of his hands.

Shit.

I knew he was going to try to have his way with me tonight. I’m married. I love Raif. I can’t… I just can’t.

“I knew your mother,” he says. “She was an exquisite woman. I quite enjoyed her while I had her. But then, there was another who found her exquisite too. And so, I decided to part with your mother. But you,” he goes on, his eyes fixed to my breasts. “You have surpassed her beauty. And therefore, even though I believe we can enjoy each other’s company, I find myself open to seeing if others find you as exquisite since your little stunt at the Gulf Coast. If you had stayed with me, I would have given you everything. I would’ve shared my bed withyou, not just your body. But now you must earn that back. So you will sit, you will drink with me, you will let me touch you if I feel like touching you, and you will begin to earn my trust back.”

I feel sick. But what choice do I have? Instead of responding to him, I walk over to the sofa and sit down close enough for our thighs to brush. He reaches for a crystal decanter sitting on a silver tray on the coffee table and pulls the stopper. Then, using tongs, he reaches into the silver ice bucket sitting next to the decanter, pulls out two pieces of ice, and drops them into a short, round glass. He pours the whiskey in the glass and hands it to me.

“Thank you,el maestro.”

“You are most welcome, my dear,” he says back.

With his glass in hand, he leans in to clink the glasses together, but at the last minute, he presses his lips to my neck. I close my eyes and swallow hard.

I got off easy that first night. We only talked—orhetalked, explaining the rules of the compound. I spent my time answering, “Yes,el maestro.” Or “I understandel maestro.” Two days have gone by, and he hasn’t touched me other than those simple touches. A brush of his hand. A kiss to my cheek or the pulsing vein on my neck. He likes that spot the best. I sleep in the room that I showered in, I rise when he tells me to and wear the clothes that he directs me to. I walk around the compound with a smile on my face saying, “As you wish,el maestro” and “Thank you,el maestro.”

With each passing hour that he doesn’t try it on with me, I become more nervous. When is he going to strike? Because he’s going to strike and I don’t know how much more my nerves can take.

Why hasn’t Raif shown yet? He’s smart. He’s the best tracker there is. It’s taking too long.

We’ve finished dinner, just the two of us out on the veranda off his private suites, when he orders me to bathe. As this is a strange request for the time of night, the fine, little hairs on the back of my neck raise, but still, I do as directed.

Tonight he has rose petals floating on an already drawn bath for me in my room. I strip down and sit in the tub, my hair up in a clip so it doesn’t get wet. The water submerges me up to my neck.

It’s a scene of luxurious decadence that I wish I could enjoy because I know once I’m out of here, I’ll never be able to enjoy it. Not without thinking of him. A servant enters the bathroom holding a fluffy, white bathrobe open for me, which means it’s time to get out. I stand, dripping water onto the fluffy, pale blue bathmat underfoot to let the wrinkled, old woman wrap me up.

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