Maia Mesa grew up with her family in Cuba, but that suddenly changed, and she found herself in a position no one wishes to be, without family.
Marcus Burnett, a repentant and good soul takes her as his own daughter, as well his wife Theresa, a new...
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•¤¤¤《《《》》》¤¤¤•
"We're moving." McGrath's voice cuts through the silence, sharp and commanding. The sound of footsteps grow louder, the echo of boots against concrete sending a chill down my spine. "Faster, we need to get to Cuba."
Cuba? Why is he taking us to Cuba?
Before I can fully grasp what's happening, someone approaches, and I feel the ropes around my legs loosen. My limbs are stiff, barely able to respond, but the release is short-lived.
A rough hand grabs my arm, yanking me up from the floor with a force that makes me gasp in pain. The sudden movement pulls at the wound in my thigh, and I can't suppress the hiss of agony that escapes through the gag. The grip on my arm tightens, unrelenting, as I'm forced to stand, my legs trembling beneath me.
Whoever's holding me doesn't care about the pain they're causing—I can tell is a man. His hold is merciless, dragging me forward with no regard for the fact that every step sends fresh waves of pain radiating through my body.
I stumble, my movements hesitant and clumsy, blinded by the fabric still wrapped tightly around my eyes. The darkness disorients me, making every step feel like I'm walking on the edge of a precipice.
The air changes as we move, the cold, damp scent of the indoors replaced by a faint, salty breeze. Even without sight, I can tell we're outside. The sounds shift—rustling leaves, distant waves. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut.
Are they really taking us to Cuba? The place I swore I'd never return to? The place where my family's blood still stains the ground?
The memories surge, unbidden and painful. The last time I was in Cuba, everything was ripped away from me. My family, my home, my entire life was shattered in a single, brutal moment. The thought of going back there, of facing the ghosts of my past, is more terrifying than these last days.
Every step is torture, both physically and mentally. The pain in my thigh intensifies with each movement, remembering me of how vulnerable I am.
Desperation courses through me, and I start to struggle, my body moving with more force than before. I mumble incoherently against the fabric covering my mouth, my words coming out as garbled sounds, but I don't stop.
He knows what I want. My frantic movements and muffled sounds leave no room for misunderstanding. After a moment, I feel his grip shift, his annoyance palpable. With a rough yank, he loosens the fabric around my mouth, just enough to free me from its suffocating hold.
Air rushes in, cool and sharp against my lips. But he doesn't cut the fabric off entirely; it's still there, hanging loosely around my neck—a silent reminder that he can shut me up again if he needs to.
