Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 107661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107661 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 538(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Ricky knew the rest of it, but Tula didn’t. So he talked through the series of events that led from Van’s sex trafficking operation to the creation of the Freedom Fighters and the mission that planted him and Ricky in Jaulaso.
By the time he finished, his eyes were dry, and his chest seemed lighter. The pain was still there, branded forever in the marrow of his bones. But it felt different. Duller. Softer. Maybe this was the beginning of catharsis. An opening for the poison to slowly escape.
Tula held him tight and gave him comforting words. As they settled on their sides, she prodded him for details about his sexual training, his relationships with his ex-captors, and the evidence the Freedom Fighters had compiled against Hector La Rocha over the years.
He and Ricky answered all her questions, and the three of them talked late into the night, sharing painful moments, happy stories, and everything in between.
Then she told them about the paternity test.
In a monotone voice, she explained what had happened in Hector’s room this morning—why she had gone there and everything Hector had told her. She’d learned he was her father moments before she’d walked in on Martin with his dick in his hand.
She’d come to him for comfort, and he’d treated her like a whore.
“I’m so fucking sorry.” He shifted her to face him and studied her expression.
Emotional exhaustion weighed down her lashes and fanned lines from the corners of her eyes. Despite the events of the day, she looked devastatingly beautiful in the glow of the candlelight.
“How are you taking this?” Ricky curled around her back and kissed the top of her head.
“I don’t know. Hector has always been kind of a father figure to me, but after everything you told me about his disgusting operation…” Her voice cracked. “I’m sickened and confused, and I have no fucking clue what to do about it.”
“There’s been too much thrown at you today.” Martin scooted down, putting them at eye level. “You don’t need to do anything right now but sleep. Let us worry about what to do next.”
Her expression turned pensive for a handful of heartbeats. Then she tensed.
“You said you arranged your arrest.” She popped up on an elbow, her eyes wide and alert. “Does that mean you arranged your release?”
His heart stopped, and he met Ricky’s anxious gaze over her head. “Yes.”
“How long?” She looked between them, her fear palpable. “When do you leave?”
He clenched his hands. They didn’t have a solution for the one thing that mattered most.
Her safety.
Who would protect her after they left? Because they would be leaving her. There was no way to stop it.
They would hire the best lawyers, pull every connection they had, and fight like hell to shorten her sentence. But the likelihood of success was terrifyingly low.
Martin reached for her, holding her tight as he choked out the words. “We leave in forty-five days.”
For the next two days, Tula sank into an ebb and flow of heartbreaking conversations, heated arguments, and quiet introspection. She had a lot to mentally and emotionally process, and Martin and Ricky were right there with her, holding her in bed, showering with her at night, and putting together meals from the stores of food they kept in their cell.
She only had forty-three days left with them.
Deep down, she’d suspected they would leave Jaulaso before her. She didn’t know how or why, but her heart had tried to keep its distance, expecting their departure.
Her heart had failed, though. They’d crashed right into it and woven themselves into the very essence of her existence. When it came time to sever those ties, it was going to hurt like hell.
They finished a dinner of canned chicken soup, and she lay curled up in Ricky’s muscular arms, staring at Martin’s back where he sat on the edge of the other bed.
Her quiet, tormented man had been more subdued than usual today.
The absolute hell he’d endured in his short twenty-four years had obliterated her anger with him. Her hurt feelings were nothing compared to the hurt he carried inside that powerful frame.
He’d cried several times over the past forty-eight hours, and she and Ricky had cried with him, holding tight to his trembling body. It was progress. He was finally talking about it, letting it out, openly and painfully.
The details of his life were difficult to hear, but she sensed the promise of healing in his voice, saw it in the clarity of his crystal green eyes. It would take time, years, to recover from his trauma, but he was moving in the right direction. He was trusting people to hold him through his pain and bear some of the burden.
He would always have Ricky for that, and maybe she would be there, too.
In three years.
Ricky mentioned trying to stay in prison with her by doing something asinine like attacking a prison guard or starting a riot to extend their sentences. She’d laid into him for even thinking it and quickly shut him up.