Chapter 70: Three Days of Devotion
The first morning without Emma and Anna began with Hector's hand fisted in Veronica's hair.
She woke to the pressure of it—sharp, insistent, pulling her across the mattress before she had time to remember where she was or who she had become. The room was still dark, the iron bars on the windows throwing thin shadows across the bed. Hector's voice came low and rough from the pillows.
"Get your mouth on my cock."
She didn't hesitate. Didn't think. Her body moved before her mind caught up, sliding down the sheets, settling between his legs. His cock was already hard, jutting up from a thick patch of dark hair. She took it in her hand, felt the heat of it, the weight.
Then she opened her mouth and swallowed him down.
He tasted of salt and stale whiskey. She breathed through her nose, relaxed her throat, took him deeper. His hand stayed in her hair, guiding her, forcing her down until her lips touched the base of his shaft. She gagged once. Twice. He didn't let up.
"That's it," he grunted. "Take it. Take all of it."
She did. She had learned how, over the past twenty-four hours. Learned to control her breathing. Learned to ignore the reflex that wanted to push him away. Learned that if she did it right—wet and sloppy and eager—he would come fast and leave her alone for a while.
She worked him with her tongue, with her hand, with the slick heat of her throat. His hips bucked up, fucking her face, and she let him. Let him use her. Let him take what he wanted.
When he came, it was with a low groan that vibrated through his chest. Hot and bitter, filling her mouth. She swallowed it all, every drop, then licked him clean.
He pushed her head away.
"Good girl."
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and crawled back up the bed. He was already reaching for his phone on the nightstand, scrolling through something, dismissing her.
She lay beside him, naked, her body still humming with the remnants of last night's heroin. The high had faded but the edges were still soft, still blurry. She could feel the track marks on her arm, tender and raw. She could feel the ache between her legs where he had fucked her—first her cunt, then her ass, then her cunt again.
She didn't mind the ache. It was something to hold onto.
The day passed in a blur of vodka and flesh.
Hector worked from the master bedroom—a vast, wood-paneled room that smelled of leather and cigars. He took calls at his desk, barked orders in Spanish and English, made deals that Veronica didn't understand and didn't care to. She sat on the floor beside him, naked, her head resting against his knee, drinking from a bottle of Grey Goose that was never more than an arm's length away.
When he wanted her, he snapped his fingers.
She learned the rhythm of it. The sharp click of his thumb and middle finger, the way his eyes would find her across the room, the subtle shift in his posture that meant come here.
She came.
Between calls, she blew him. On her knees under the desk, her mouth working his cock while he talked about shipments and deadlines and the price of loyalty. He would run his fingers through her hair, almost absently, and she would take him deeper, faster, until he came in her throat and pushed her away.
At breakfast—a platter of eggs and chorizo and fresh fruit that she barely touched—he pulled her onto his lap and fucked her while he ate. She faced away from him, her back against his chest, her legs spread wide. His cock filled her, stretched her, and she rode him slowly, grinding her hips, while he forked eggs into his mouth and read something on his tablet.
"That's it," he said, his voice calm, almost bored. "Ride me. Show me what you're good for."
She showed him.
When he was finished, he lifted her off his cock like she weighed nothing and set her back on the floor. She knelt there, his come dripping down her thigh, while he finished his coffee.
In the afternoon, she shot heroin in the bathroom.
The master bathroom was all marble and gold fixtures, a cathedral of excess. She locked the door—not that it mattered, not that Hector couldn't break it down if he wanted—and prepared her dose on the edge of the sink. The syringe was one of the pre-filled ones from her room, but she would need to get more soon. She made a mental note to ask.
The needle slid in easy. The rush hit fast.
She leaned against the wall, her eyes closed, her body floating. For a few minutes, she wasn't Veronica anymore. She was just warmth. Just light. Just nothing.
Then she cleaned up, checked her reflection in the mirror, and went back to Hector's side.
On the second night, he tied her to the four-poster bed.
The ropes were silk, soft but unyielding. He bound her wrists to the headboard, her ankles to the posts at the foot, stretching her out like a starfish. She lay there, naked, exposed, her heart pounding.
"You've been good," he said, standing at the edge of the bed, looking down at her. "I'm going to reward you."
He flipped her over.
The ropes bit into her wrists as she twisted, tried to find a comfortable position. She ended up face-down, her ass in the air, her cheek pressed against the Persian throw.
She heard him open a drawer. Heard the click of a bottle cap. Then his fingers were on her, slick and cold, spreading lube between her cheeks.
"Relax," he said.
She tried.
His thumb pressed against her asshole, circling, teasing. She took a breath, forced herself to loosen, to accept. He pushed in slowly, just the thumb, and she felt the stretch of it, the strange fullness.
"You like that?"
"Yes."
"Liar."
He pulled his thumb out. She heard him stroke his cock, wet sounds in the quiet room. Then he was pressing against her, the blunt head of him pushing, pushing, pushing.
"Breathe," he said.
She breathed.
He shoved in.
The pain was immediate and enormous—a tearing, burning, impossible pressure. She screamed. Couldn't help it. The sound ripped out of her throat and echoed off the walls.
He didn't stop.
"That's it," he grunted, fucking into her, each thrust deeper than the last. "Scream for me. Let me hear it."
She screamed.
It hurt. It hurt so fucking much. But underneath the pain was something else—a heat, a fullness, a strange and terrible pleasure. She felt her body adjust, felt the muscles relax, felt the slick slide of him moving inside her.
By the time he came—pulling out at the last second to spray across her lower back—she was moaning, her face wet with tears, her cunt dripping onto the sheets.
He untied her.
"Clean yourself up," he said. "You're a mess."
She crawled to the bathroom on shaking legs. In the mirror, she saw herself: red-eyed, swollen-lipped, her ass red and raw. She looked like a whore.
She looked like his.
The third morning, she woke before him.
The room was gray with early light. Hector lay beside her, on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. His chest rose and fell with deep, even breaths. His cock was soft against his thigh.
She watched him for a long moment.
Then she straddled him.
He stirred as she positioned herself, as she took his cock in her hand and guided it to her cunt. He opened his eyes just as she sank down, taking him in one slow, deliberate stroke.
"What are you—"
She started to move.
His hands found her hips, but he didn't push her away. His eyes were wide, watching her. She rode him without a word, her palms flat on his chest, her hips grinding in slow circles. Her tits bounced with every movement. Her hair hung wild around her face.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Look at you."
She leaned forward, pressed her mouth to his, kissed him deep and filthy. He groaned into her mouth, his hands sliding up to cup her breasts, to pinch her nipples, to pull her closer.
She fucked him harder.
The bed creaked. The headboard slammed against the wall. She was dimly aware of the sun rising, of the light turning gold, of the room filling with warmth. But none of it mattered. All that mattered was the cock inside her, the body beneath her, the power she felt in this moment.
She came first—a shuddering, gasping orgasm that made her vision go white. He followed a moment later, his hips bucking up, his fingers digging into her ass.
She collapsed on top of him.
They lay there, tangled and sweaty, while the morning light crept across the floor.
"You're learning," he said.
She smiled against his neck.
"I'm a good student."
He laughed. It was the first time she had ever heard him laugh.
The sound of the SUV on the gravel drive came just after noon.
Veronica was in the bathroom when she heard it—the crunch of tires, the slam of doors, the distant murmur of voices. She had a needle in her arm, a fresh dose of heroin warming her blood. She pulled it out, wiped the blood away, and checked her reflection.
She looked like hell. Dark circles under her eyes. Chapped lips. Bruises on her neck, her wrists, her thighs. Track marks up and down her arms.
She looked like a whore.
She felt like a queen.
She walked back into the bedroom. Hector was at the window, looking down at the drive. Emma and Emily were unloading bags from the back of the SUV. Anna stood off to the side, smoking a cigarette, her face unreadable.
"They're back," Veronica said.
"I can see that."
She came up beside him, slid her arm around his waist. He didn't push her away.
"Are you going to send me back to the guest room?"
He looked down at her. His eyes were cold, appraising. Then something shifted—a flicker of amusement, of something almost like affection.
"Not yet," he said. "I'm not done with you."
She leaned her head against his chest. Through the fabric of his shirt, she could hear his heart beating.
"Good," she said. "Because I'm not done with you either."
He laughed again. That same low, surprised sound.
"You're something else, Veronica."
"I know."
They stood there together, watching the women below haul bags up the stairs, their voices drifting through the window. Emma glanced up, caught sight of them in the window. Her face twisted—jealousy, maybe, or disgust. Then she looked away.
Veronica smiled.
She had survived. She had learned. She had become something new—something harder, sharper, more dangerous. She was Hector's whore, his property, his plaything.
But she was also alive.
And for now, that was enough.
The great room smelled of cigar smoke and old money.
Hector sat in the center of a leather sectional, his arm draped across the back, his legs spread wide. Veronica curled against his side, her body molded to his like she had been carved there. The micromini dress she wore was black and tight, the neckline plunging almost to her navel. Her heels were red-soled and six inches tall. Underneath, she wore nothing at all.
She was drunk.
The vodka had been flowing since noon—a steady stream of clear liquid that burned going down and warmed her from the inside out. She had stopped counting shots somewhere around seven. Maybe eight. The number didn't matter. What mattered was the pleasant fog that had settled over her brain, softening the edges of everything.
She had shot up an hour ago.
The heroin was still singing in her veins, a low hum of pleasure that made her limbs heavy and her thoughts slow. She felt good. Better than good. She felt like she was floating just above her own body, watching herself from a great distance. Watching herself become someone else.
"When did you get back?"
Hector's voice rumbled through his chest, vibrating against her cheek. She pressed closer, her lips brushing the fabric of his shirt.
"An hour ago." Anna settled into a chair across from them, crossing her long legs. She was still wearing her travel clothes—black jeans, a silk blouse, boots that had seen better days. "We showered and came straight here."
"Good trip?"
"Productive."
Emily dropped onto the opposite end of the sectional, kicking off her shoes. She looked tired, dark circles under her eyes, but there was something else there too. Something sharp. Something satisfied.
Emma took the chair beside her sister.
She didn't look at Veronica. Hadn't looked at her since she walked through the door. Her jaw was tight, her eyes fixed on Hector like he was the only person in the room worth seeing.
"Tell me everything," Hector said.
Anna reached into her bag and pulled out a manila envelope. She tossed it onto the coffee table between them. It landed with a heavy thump.
"The Russian was in Tijuana. Just like we thought. He had a compound outside the city—gated, guards, the whole thing. We got in through the back. One of the gardeners was on our payroll."
"You paid him?"
"Promised to pay him." Anna's smile was thin. "He won't be collecting."
Hector nodded slowly.
"Go on."
"We met with Volkov in his study. He was... accommodating. At first. He thought we were there to negotiate. Thought we wanted a piece of the pipeline."
"Did he give you anything?"
"Everything we asked for and more." Anna leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. "Names. Routes. Account numbers. He talked for two hours. Told us about his partners in Moscow, his contacts in Colombia, his arrangement with the cartels in Sinaloa."
"And then?"
"And then we killed him."
The words hung in the air.
Veronica felt Hector's arm tighten around her shoulder. Felt his heartbeat quicken beneath her cheek.
"Details," he said. "I want details."
Anna glanced at Emma. Emma nodded.
"I shot him first," Anna said. "Right here." She touched her own forehead, just above the bridge of her nose. "He didn't even see it coming. One second he was talking about his grandchildren, the next he was on the floor."
"His wife?"
"She was in the next room. Heard the shot. Came running." Anna's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "She was thirty-eight. Beautiful. Dark hair, green eyes. She screamed when she saw him."
"Did she fight?"
"No. She just... froze. Stood there looking at his body like she couldn't understand what had happened." Anna paused. "I shot her. In the head."
Veronica's stomach lurched.
She told herself it was the heroin. The vodka. Anything but the images forming in her mind. A woman. Beautiful. Frozen. Two shots to the chest.
"The daughters?"
"Eighteen and nineteen." Anna's eyes flickered to Veronica for just a moment, then back to Hector. "They were upstairs. In their bedrooms. We had to go find them."
"And?"
"And we found them."
The silence stretched.
Veronica could hear her own breathing, loud in the quiet room. She could feel the leather of the sofa beneath her, warm where her body had been pressed against it. She could feel the slow drip of come sliding down her inner thigh—Hector had fucked her before the meeting started, quick and brutal, just to remind her who she belonged to.
"The older one was in the shower," Anna said. "The younger one was on her bed. Reading."
"What did they look like?"
"Young.Pretty. Scared." Anna's jaw tightened. "The younger one started crying when she saw us. Begging. Saying she didn't know anything, she was just a student, she had nothing to do with her father's business."
"Did you believe her?"
"It doesn't matter what I believed."
Hector nodded.
"Go on."
"Emma took the younger one. I took the older one. We made it quick." Anna paused. "Well. Quick enough."
Emily laughed.
It was a sharp, ugly sound in the quiet room.
"I made it slow," she said. "The older one. She was a bitch. Called me a cunt, tried to claw my eyes out. So I took my time."
Hector's head tilted.
"Did you enjoy it?"
"Yes."
"Good."
Veronica's mouth was dry.
She wanted to reach for the vodka bottle on the table, but Hector's arm was pinning her in place. She could feel the heat of his body, the weight of his limb. She could feel the way his cock was starting to harden beneath his slacks, pressing against her hip.
"Did you bring proof?"
Anna picked up the envelope. Opened it.
Photographs spilled out onto the coffee table.
Veronica saw them in fragments—a man's face, slack and bloody. A woman's body, crumpled against a wall. Two girls, young and pale, their eyes open, their mouths slack.
And then she saw the video.
Anna pulled out her phone, swiped through the screen, and set it on the table. The video started playing—grainy, handheld, but clear enough. Clear enough to see everything.
Volkov on his knees. Begging.
His wife on the floor. Twitching.
The daughters. Crying. Screaming.
Then the shots.
Veronica watched.
She didn't want to. Her body was screaming at her to look away, to close her eyes, to do anything but witness this. But she couldn't. The heroin held her in place. The vodka blurred the horror into something almost beautiful.
She watched the younger girl die.
The bullet entered her forehead and exited the back of her skull, taking a spray of blood and brain matter with it. She crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut. Her body hit the floor and didn't move.
Veronica felt something wet between her legs.
She shifted on Hector's lap, pressing her thighs together, and felt the slick heat of her own arousal. She was wet. Soaking. Her cunt was throbbing, aching, clenching around nothing.
She reached down, slowly, carefully, and slid her hand between her legs.
"Stop."
Hector's voice was sharp.
She froze.
"Not yet." He didn't look at her. His eyes were fixed on the screen, on the bodies, on the blood. "Wait."
She waited.
The video continued.
Emma's voice came through the speakers—cold, detached, almost bored. She was taunting the older daughter, saying something in Russian that Veronica didn't understand.
Then the knife.
Veronica watched as Emma carved into the girl's chest. Watched as the blood pooled and ran. Watched as the girl screamed and screamed and screamed until she couldn't scream anymore.
Her fingers found her clit.
She didn't stop this time.
She rubbed slow circles, her breath coming faster, her hips moving in tiny, involuntary jerks.
On the other end of the sofa, Emily was touching herself too. Her hand was down her pants, her eyes glazed, her mouth open. Emma was watching her sister, her own hand hidden beneath the waistband of her jeans.
Anna was the only one still.
She sat perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes on Hector. Waiting.
"That's enough," Hector said.
Anna reached out and paused the video.
The room was silent except for the heavy breathing of four women.
"Did you get the information?"
"Yes."
"Did you verify it?"
"Not yet. But he was telling the truth. I could see it in his eyes."
"Good." Hector finally looked down at Veronica. His eyes were dark, hungry, almost black. "You seem to be enjoying yourself."
She couldn't speak. Couldn't form words. Her hand was still between her legs, still rubbing, still chasing the release that was building in her core.
"Come here."
She climbed onto his lap.
The micromini dress rode up around her waist, exposing her bare cunt to the room. She didn't care. She straddled him, her knees on either side of his hips, her hands braced on his chest.
"You want to watch them die?"
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I want to watch them die."
He smiled.
"Then watch."
Anna pressed play.
The video resumed—more blood, more screaming, more bodies. Veronica rocked her hips against Hector's lap, grinding her cunt against the hard line of his cock through his slacks. She was so wet, so hot, so desperate.
"That's it," Hector murmured. "Ride me. Watch them burn."
She did.
She watched the daughters die—first the older one, then the younger, their bodies twitching and still. She watched Anna put a bullet in the wife's head, execution-style, point-blank. She watched the spray of blood and brain matter hit the wall behind her and the blood spread across the marble floor like spilled wine.
And she came.
The orgasm ripped through her—violent, shuddering, overwhelming. She threw her head back and moaned, her whole body shaking, her cunt clenching around nothing.
Across the room, Emily came too.
Emma followed a moment later. Even Anna, cool and composed Anna, let out a soft gasp and pressed her thighs together, her face flushing pink.
The video ended.
Hector's hand found Veronica's chin and turned her face toward him.
"Good girl," he said.
She smiled. Dazed. Drunk. High. Happy.
"Now get on your knees."
She slid off his lap and onto the floor. The marble was cold beneath her bare knees, but she barely felt it. She was still floating, still warm, still buzzing with the aftermath of her orgasm.
Hector unzipped his pants.
His cock sprang free—hard, thick, already leaking. She took it in her hand and guided it to her mouth.
"Show them," he said. "Show them what you've become."
She did.
She took him deep, her lips stretching around his girth, her throat relaxing to accommodate his length. She bobbed her head, slurping and sucking, her saliva dripping down her chin.
Anna watched with cold interest.
Emily watched with a hunger that matched her own.
Emma watched with something darker—jealousy, maybe, or hate.
Veronica didn't care.
She was Hector's. His whore. His property. His filthy, obedient little cunt.
And she had never been happier.
Hector came with a grunt, flooding her mouth with bitter heat. She swallowed it all, then licked him clean.
"Good," he said.
He tucked himself away and stood up.
"The information is good," he said to Anna. "We move on the pipeline next week. In the meantime, get some rest. You've earned it."
Anna nodded.
Emma and Emily rose from the sofa. They walked past Veronica without a word—without a glance—and disappeared into the hallway.
Anna lingered.
"Your whore," she said. "She's adapting well."
Hector glanced down at Veronica, who was still kneeling on the floor.
"She's a natural."
Anna's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"I can see that. I will see you later tonight.."
She left.
Hector reached down and pulled Veronica to her feet.
"You did good today."
"I know."
He laughed—that same surprised sound from before.
"Cocky little bitch."
"Your cocky little bitch."
He kissed her. Hard. Bruising.
Then he led her back to the bedroom.
The night was far from over.