Stolen By The Queen: A Narcos Romance

Chapter 9

Camila sat ramrod straight in the backseat of the SUV, trying not to show her nerves. The man to her left slid his hand up her thigh and she clenched her teeth, exhaling through her nose as she discreetly slid her hand up her other thigh, palming the handle of the knife Ryan had given her.

A string of Spanish curse spewed through her mind. When the group she'd been partying with told the women to go outside she figured it was for a smoke break. Not to change locations.

She kept her purse squarely in her lap, praying that stupid tracker was doing it's damn job. She hardly trusted Ryan--barely knew the cold, calculated American enough to trust his promises--but he was her only chance.

"Where are we going?" Camila tried to keep her voice light, but her nerves betrayed her, the man next to her turning in her direction, his brown eyes glassy and red from drugs and alcohol.

"To have a good time, chica. Don't you want to have a good time?" He nestled his head into the crook of her neck and she bit back the bile rising in her throat. No matter how many men forced themselves on her, it never got easier, only fueling the low burning rage inside her stomach. 

Remember what you're doing this for, Camila. For a shot in hell at freedom--for your life. 

She straightened her back, offering a seductive smile that took every ounce of the actress in her to pull off. "Of course."

"Good." 

Camila gripped the knife tighter as the car pulled to a stop in front of a large house, not as impressive as Carlos Sinaloa's but still posh with elegant lights and a long sloping driveway. 

Her car door flew open and a henchmen nodded to the man at her side. She hadn't even caught his name, too distracted at the party to pay enough attention, just counting down the minutes until Ryan returned.

No she was somewhere else entirely, at least a half hour away. 

She stepped out of the car, the man's hand clamping down on her hip as the group entered the house, drunk women draped over Sinaloa's men, hands wandering all over. Once inside, Camila turned to her now-captor, draping her hand across his chest.

"I need to use the restroom?"

"Down the hall," he pointed, his eyes not leaving her breasts, "don't keep me waiting too long." 

"Of course not." Camila leaned in, kissing his neck before she stood slowly from the couch, being sure to sway her hips dramatically. She wanted to take the knife at her thigh and slash it across every single one of the men's throats but she knew that wouldn't end well for her. 

Tiptoeing down the hall, she looked for a room--any room--with a window. She couldn't just wait here for Ryan. Perhaps he never intended to come after her anyway. He'd already secured his meeting with Carlos Sinaloa. Maybe she shouldn't have led him to such a good lead on the first night. Who was to say he wasn't already done with her? 

Camila slipped into a bedroom, the moon washing harsh bars of pale light across the floor. She clicked the door shut behind her, her hear racing as she gripped the edge of the window, jerking upward. It didn't budge.

She trailed her fingers along the windowsill, looking for a lock. She finally found one, her fingers trembling, as she slid the window open, stilling a moment in case someone had heard her before she slipped off her heels and crawled out, scraping her legs on the edge before plopping down in the soft grass. She stayed low, crawling along the edge of the house to avoid being washed by the nightlights, not sure where the henchmen were positioned. 

She made it to the corner of the house, her eyes darting wildly in each direction as music filtered through from the inside. She felt like a trapped animal, fleeing a predator's den. 

She rose cautiously, trying to discern the direction of the road, her best path for sprinting when everything went black--

"Shhh. Don't make a sound." A cold, distant voice sounded at her ear as she writhed like an animal, her head covered by a black hood, the moonlight completely obscured. Camila didn't stop thrashing, her instincts taking over as impossibly strong, muscular arms wrapped around her body like a steel vice, lifting her from the ground.

She dropped her heels, kicking out wildly, earning a few grunts of pain from her captor as she felt herself jerkily carried across the grass.

She was going to die. The thought rang through her head like a song. She'd always known this was a risk, every day she was alive was a risk, but it didn't dampen the roaring, white-hot panic ripping through her any less.

She felt herself being shoved inside a car, a cold sweat breaking out across her skin despite the cooling night air, the sound of a car door slamming shut as she tried to lash out, her limps suddenly free. 

She reached up to rip the hood off her head, her breaths coming in short, exasperated spurts. 

But it wasn't the eyes of Sinaloa's men she met in the rearview mirror. It was two, stone-cold blue eyes, a mouth set in a hard, granite line. 

"You done thrashing around back there?" Ryan averted his gaze, focusing on the road. Camila couldn't get enough air into her lungs, her body racking as she banged on the glass of the door of the backseat unable to communicate with words.

Ryan shot her another glance in the rearview, lowering the glass of the backseat window as Camila lurched over and vomited, her body releasing fear and adrenaline, the acidic burn of alcohol lining her throat until she was entirely spent, sagging back into the seat, her head back, her eyes watery. 

"Did you really have to do it like that?" Camila rasped, her throat rawr as she met his stare, giving him back an equally stony, angry gaze of her own. 

"Would you have preferred I just leave you there?" Ryan snapped back, his eyes returning to the road. 

They didn't speak, the silence of the night stretching out long and cold before them as Ryan drove back to her motel. Ryan parked out front, leaning back in his seat as he met her eyes in the mirror. 

"I'll be back tomorrow." Ryan rested his forearm on the steering wheel, his expression giving nothing away. "Noon."

"And what if I don't want to?" Camila shifted, her head starting to pound at the temples with a painful headache. 

"Not exactly an option." Ryan replied curtly, reaching across the seat and pulling a pistol out of the glovebox before securing it against his hip. "I'll need information about Carlos Sinaloa."

"And if I don't have any?" Camila gripped the door handle.

"Oh I think we both know that's not the case, Camila." Ryan smirked but there was no humor in it, his eyes hard and serious, not willing to take 'no' for an answer.

"Fine." Camila bit out, suddenly so weary she wasn't even sure she'd be able to make it up to her room.

"Don't even think about trying to flee," Ryan added, his gaze returning to the road, "or I'll find you." 

Camila ripped into her purse, throwing the tracker angrily into the front seat. Then she threw open the door, her bare feet scraping against the gravel of the road as she made her back inside her hotel.