17. Chapter Seventeen

The shrill beep of Bautista's encrypted phone pierced through the silence of his study, shattering his thoughts. He glanced at the screen, and an unread message from a number he recognized glowed ominously at him.

Hamilton West. Rylan's father.

Eyes narrowing, Bautista opened the message, and scanned the words that would change everything.

I agree to your terms.

Bautista's grip on the phone tightened, the device creaking under the pressure. Possessive rage ignited within him, making it hard for him to think.

Hamilton West wanted his son back now. Now? After all this time?

I should send him a severed finger and tell him he missed the deadline.But he couldn't send one of Rylan's actual fingers, and it was easy enough for West to have the DNA checked. Ashes in an urn, perhaps, so long as there were no bone fragments.

Because the truth of the matter was that Rylan belonged to him now; he was Bautista's property, submissive and yielding in every sense. The thought of returning him to his father was unbearable.

"Mierda," he muttered, resisting he urge to hurl the phone across his desk. He replaced it in a drawer instead. Then he surged up out of his chair and strode out of his study in search of his property.

Casa del Reyhosted more of his soldiers than in the past, on the ground floor at least. The upper rooms were cleared of all but household staff, family, and guests. Bautista paused, realizing that he had recently begun to mentally categorize Rylan as an actual guest rather than a prisoner that he mocked with the term. The thought amused him.

He found his quarry in the library, a room devoted to books and sunshine. He was sitting at the wide desk under the window with Carmelita. Teresa sat to one side, mending one of Carmelita's dresses with needle and thread.

Carmelita was reading aloud from a book—in Spanish, of course, and translating it for Rylan. She seemed to be teaching him Spanish. Rylan's accent was bad as he repeated her words, but Carmelita patiently went over them again, correcting him in her high, light voice.

The scene took the wind from Bautista's sails. It was incredibly domestic. Carmelita seemed at ease with Rylan. Since the attack on the compound and the attempt to kidnap her, Carmelita had been nervous around the men of the cartel. But Rylan did not seem to alarm her in the same way. Perhaps it was because he wasn't armed, or perhaps it was his casual, civilian clothing.

Because of this, Bautista had given Rylan permission to speak to her, as long as she desired it. And it seemed she did, from the way she leaned in to him, showing him the sentences in her book and sounding them out for him.

Rylan, too, seemed content. Relaxed, even, his mouth curving into a smile that Bautista had not seen before. Ecstasy, yes, Rylan wore that expression often enough. But this simple domestic happiness was new.

Neither of them had noticed him in the doorway, but with a start he realized Teresa had. She was observing him silently, her hands winding a thread with slow deliberation. When his gaze met hers, she lifted her chin a little, blinking languidly. What was she thinking? Once upon a time he might have come here for her. The idea of it was bizarre to him now.

Her eyes narrowed slightly and slid sideways to where Carmelita sat in front of the window. No, to where Rylan sat beside her. When Teresa's eyes returned to him, there was a question in them.

She knew, then. A wave of shame swept over him, hot and humiliating. What did she think? He had never really considered what any of the women in his household thought, whether they cared who he summoned to his bed. They were all paid handsomely for their service, permitted to leave if they wished, none of them prisoners here. Teresa was necessarily different, caring for Carmelita as she did, but all the same, she was an employee, not a girlfriend or mistress.

Whatever her opinion of Bautista's actions, she showed none of it on her face. She simply returned to her stitching, as if unconcerned by any of it.

Bautista cleared his throat and strode into the room. "What are you reading, mi vida?" he asked gruffly.

Carmelita's face lit up as she saw him. "?Papá!" She went on in Spanish. "We're reading Simón el Bobito. Rylan isn't very good at Spanish," she added in a loud whisper, like it was a secret.

Clearly Rylan had caught his name, even if he didn't understand the context, and the look on his face made Bautista chuckle. "You'll have to teach him, cari?a," he said in English, crossing the room to run a hand over her dark little head.

"I am," Carmelita said, beaming at him.

Rylan was watching them with wide eyes. He seemed on the verge of saying something but held his tongue. "Is my daughter behaving herself?" Bautista asked him with mock seriousness.

"She's a well-mannered young lady," Rylan said softly, his eyes cutting shyly up at Bautista. "She's teaching me very patiently, even though I'm quite stupid."

"You can't say people are stupid," Carmelita said gravely. "My teacher says it's bad to call them that."

"Then I'm very slow," Rylan corrected himself, which Carmelita seemed to accept.

Bautista exhaled, feeling his agitation had drained away completely. This quiet moment in his life was so different to the rest, a sanctuary within the violence of the cartel. And here Rylan was, a part of it. Bautista felt a tug in his chest, something bending toward Rylan, something anchoring him here.

"Carmelita," Rylan asked, turning his attention to her. "What does it mean when your papá says cari?a?"

Bautista tensed, his gaze zeroing in on Rylan, who had an innocent look on his face. Jueputa, Bautista thought with chagrin.

Meanwhile, Carmelita had turned to Teresa. "Como se dice en ingles?"

Teresa looked up with an innocent look to match Rylan's. "Darling," she said succinctly.

"Oh." Rylan's pale cheeks were tinted pink, and he seemed flustered. "And…and what about cari?o?"

"That's for boys," Carmelita said, turning to look up at Bautista for confirmation. "?Verdad, papá?"

"That's right," he said. It was impossible not to catch Rylan's eye, and when he did, he saw something naked and longing in Rylan's face.

It was too much. Once, Bautista would have sneered at him, would have used that longing to hurt and humiliate him. But now…no. Now he would not.

Instead he inclined his head, expressionless, their gazes locked. Then he turned to plant a kiss on Carmelita's head.

"I'll leave you to it, mi vida," he said, and then he left, too restless to remain in that sweetly domestic scene any longer.

He had meant to drag Rylan away from there and slake his thirst for him in some carnal manner, but instead he felt infused with something else. Was this happiness? Or was it something worse, some delirium?

Agitated, he made his way to the infirmary. A visit with Carlos should take his mind off such trivialities, and return him to the business of the cartel.

He found Carlos lying in one of the cots, bandages wrapped around his shoulder and torso.

"Carlos," Bautista greeted breezily. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got shot, jefe," Carlos replied drily. "But I'll live."

"Good. We can't afford to lose you," Bautista said, gruffly covering his genuine concern. "Is there anything I can do to make your recovery easier?"

Carlos gave him a guarded look. "Knowing that the cartel is running smoothly is the only medicine I need. And morphine," he added with a shrug of his good shoulder.

Bautista heard a veiled criticism in the words. He knew what Carlos considered the greatest threat to his handling of the cartel right now.

Feigning nonchalance, he sat on the end of Carlos's bed. "You should know that Hamilton West has agreed pay up."

"About fucking time," Carlos muttered, relief flickering across his scarred face. "So, we'll hand over the kid and get back to business as usual?"

Bautista hesitated, still unwilling to give Rylan up. "Something like that," he finally answered.

Carlos looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

Bautista hesitated, weighing his words carefully. "He's agreed to pay what I asked, but I'm thinking of doubling it. To show him who is in charge."

"What?!" Carlos exclaimed, his surprise quickly turning to dismay. "Are you out of your mind?" His expression darkened. "He won't pay it. You'll have to shoot the boy in the head."

"That won't be necessary," Bautista assured him but Carlos looked unconvinced.

"You know it will," he insisted.

Bautista shook his head. "I've already said it will not. Do you really mean to argue with me about this?"

For a long moment, Carlos said nothing. His disapproval was clear in his eyes and the set of his mouth. A tense silence settled between them, broken only by the distant sound of footsteps echoing in the hallway outside. Finally, Carlos spoke again, his voice low and cautious. "Then it's true."

"What is?" Bautista feigned ignorance.

"About what you have been doing," Carlos said with an expression of concern and disapproval. "That you're...involving yourself with him."

"Why do you say that?"

"You summon him at night," Carlos said sharply. "He was in your bedroom when the compound was attacked. Anyone who looked at him could tell someone has been fucking him."

"Even if that were true, what's it to you?" Bautista snapped defensively, his eyes narrowing.

"Your reputation is at stake," Carlos warned, his voice thick with worry. "If anyone finds out you've been…" He trailed off, grimacing in disgust. Bautista wondered if he would dare to say it aloud. In the end Carlos simply shook his head. "It would ruin everything you've built."

"Do you think I am afraid of what people think?" Bautista snarled, his anger rising into his throat, and with it a stark and terrible fear. He knew Carlos was right. He knew what would happen if the men deserted him, if his enemies decided he was weak. And for what? For fucking someone? It wasn't anything more than that, it didn't mean anything about him.

"You should be," Carlos said in a low, dark tone. "Whatever it is you want from him, you should bury it. Just smother it until it dies. Men like us can't afford to be caught doing things like that," he said, so low Bautista could have missed it if he hadn't been so close.

Men like us. Was Carlos saying what he thought?

There was tension in Carlos's shoulders, his jaw set. His eyes were lowered, as if he couldn't meet Bautista's gaze.

It was poignant, really, his old friend and companion sitting in a hospital cot, wounded and bandaged. In this moment he was vulnerable, and Bautista could see that behind the hard exterior of the man he knew was someone softer.

Bautista swallowed and did not call him out.

"No one in our world would understand," Carlos went on quietly. "Our allies would lose respect, and our enemies...they would show no mercy. To you, to me. To Carmelita," he added, his dark eyes flickering up to catch Bautista's own.

There. That was the truth. Bautista did not risk only his own life, or that of his men. He was risking his daughter.

Then Rylan must go.

Every fiber of his being rebelled against it. Rylan was his, his property. He would not give him up. Except, how could he be so selfish? When Carmelita's safety was at risk?

His heart clenched painfully in his chest as he finally understood the full extent of the situation he had put himself in. It should have been easy to send Rylan away, as easy as it was with any of the women who had warmed his bed over the years since his wife's betrayal. But it was not. Something in him screamed, No! It clawed at him, a savage thing that refused to give up the thing it coveted so dearly.

And that meant Bautista had to. Because if he was going to be this fucking stupid over Rylan already, then Rylan had to be cut out of his life like a tumor.

His gut twisted, sickening him. Why did it matter so much? It should not. Rylan was just a body to bury his cock in, just an obedient slave, nothing more.

But that wasn't true anymore, was it? It hadn't been true for some time.

Bautista shook his head. He fixed his gaze on Carlos, who was watching him warily. "You're right, old friend," he said, keeping his voice even. "I will make the arrangements."

Carlos seemed surprised and then relieved. "It's for the best, jefe," he said, with surprising gentleness. But Bautista couldn't stand it. He nodded and walked out, clenching a fist against his thigh.

Rylan had to go. And soon.

There was only time enough for one last thing.