PortiaFuck you for doing this to me.Right.Because I made him threaten to break my cousin's neck. I made him into this crazy man who has a personality disorder.Who's scary as fuck.I suck in a shaky breath. He wants me to look pretty tonight? That's not happening. My eyes are puffy and red, skin blotchy from crying all day long and over what?Him? God. Something is seriously wrong with me. Maybe it's me with the mental disorder.“I need a friend, Portia. Just one friend."I pick at my cuticle and try to forget how he looked when he said that. How he sounded.How much more screwed up can things get?Someone knocks on the door and I expect Lenore with another tray of food. She's tried twice now but it's not that I don't want to eat. It's that I can't.It's close to five so I guess it's a soldier making sure I'm getting ready. I'll be ready. I won't look pretty but I'll put on a dress and show up and say those two words.Period."Come in."But when the door opens, Nathan's standing th

PortiaCallahan marches me down the aisle much the same way as he marched me upstairs last night.The priest clears his throat, his smile vanishing when he sees the dress, sees Callahan's hand around my arm.The chapel is simple, the pews unadorned, the floors stone, some broken. If there are graves beneath them, they're so old their names and dates have been worn away by time. The altar though, is something to see. Arched ceilings painted turquoise, like the ocean. I bet during the day when sunlight shines through the stained-glass window, it's spectacular. The altar itself is as simply made as the pews but the gold chalice and the other paraphernalia are as beautiful as in any church. I wonder if they lock the gold away at night. I would.But then again, I don't trust anyone."Begin," Callahan commands, shifting his grip from my arm to my hand, weaving his fingers with mine. Not quite how lovers would hold hands but, holding on to me to let me know he has me. That I'm already his.

CallahanI lean over her, pushing her torso down. Keeping her wrists at her lower back, I straighten and use my knee to widen her stance.She goes still as I take her in, her beautiful ass open to me. My dick is a fucking steel rod.When I touch her hip, she jumps like she wasn't expecting it. She's up on tiptoe, lean calf and hamstring muscles tensing.“Stay," I tell her. I let go of her wrists. She remarkably does as she's told.Hands on her cheeks, I splay her open, look at her. At her tiny asshole, the open lips of her pussy.She tries to clench her cheeks, but I keep her open.“You're so fucking beautiful like this. Your pussy open and wet for me. Your asshole so tempting." I touch my thumb to her asshole and she clenches.“Callahan — ”But her breath catches as I crouch down and extend the tip of my tongue to her clit and lick all the way up through her wet folds to her other hole, laying the flat of my tongue on her as I repeat downward then back again, tasting her, wanting her

PortiaIt's so quiet, it's almost eerie. I look up at the ceiling, watching steam rise from my bath. I hear a drop of water fall into the tub. That's it. That's the only sound. And it feels somehow wrong.The bedroom door opens. I turn my head, but from this angle I can't see who it is. It's quiet again. Like whoever opened the door just walked away."Callahan?" I ask quietly, sitting up, drawing my knees toward my chest.He doesn't answer. No one does, but if I listen closely, I hear footsteps in the living room, then whispers. Men's whispers. Soldiers?No.Not soldiers.Ice coats my spine when I hear his voice. He shouldn't be here. Callahan wouldn't allow him to be here.Would he? He wouldn't do that to me, would he?I look around for a robe, a towel. Something to cover myself, but his footsteps become more pronounced.He's not trying to be quiet. The opposite.He's in the bedroom so I remain in the tub, my arms hugging my knees to my chest.And then he's leaning against the doorwa

PortiaWe drive for hours. Or at least it feels like hours. All I hear in the trunk of this old, beat up sedan is rain. All I feel is every bump, every tiny stone, every pothole on the road.My wrists are bound behind my back. My shoulders and arms ache and the zip ties they bound me with cut into the skin of my wrists. I've managed to turn myself, so my feet touch one of the rear lights. I'm not sure what I hope to accomplish though. Kicking out the light? And then what?After a sharp, bumpy turn and a long road of what must be gravel, the car slows to a stop. My heartbeat picks up. I hadn't realized it had calmed at all during the drive. I hear men outside, smell cigarette smoke.They're speaking Spanish.That's the one thing of importance to note. Cartel soldiers? Makes sense. Most important question is what am I to them? Their enemy's wife or the cartel's princess?I'm going to guess the former since I'm riding naked in the trunk.Someone pops the trunk and although dawn has hardl