FRANKIE

I release a deep sigh as I finally manage to detangle Daniel's tiny arms from around my neck and lay him gently on the bed. His little face is relaxed, his soft snores filling the room—a stark contrast to the whirlwind of energy he'd been just moments ago. We had a blast today, and playing with him made me miss my students back home even more. The laughter, the carefree moments, and the sheer joy of making him happy reminded me of all the beautiful things in life. But that nostalgia also brought with it a pang of sadness—thinking about how I might never get to teach again. Still, I pushed those thoughts away, determined not to let them ruin our perfect day.

I take one final look at him, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths, before heading to the door. The ornate wooden handle is cool under my fingers as I close it quietly behind me, careful not to disturb his peaceful slumber.

A scream lunges in my throat when I hear a baritone voice behind me, my heart leaping into my throat.

"Buenas noches, señora?" The man says, and I whirl around to see the man that greeted Rafael when we arrived standing behind me, a friendly smile on his weathered face.

"Hello," I say, turning fully to face him, my hand pressed against my chest as I try to calm my racing heart.

"I'm Pedro," he says, outstretching his hand for a handshake. His grip is firm but gentle, his skin rough from years of work under the Mexican sun.

"I'm Francisca, but you can call me Frankie," I reply, offering a small smile in return.

"Nice to meet you, señora Frankie. Come, dinner is ready," he says, beginning to lead the way. The scent of spices and simmering meat wafts through the air, making my stomach growl in anticipation.

The kitchen is warm and inviting, with terracotta tiles underfoot and copper pots hanging from a rack above the large wooden island. Pedro asks me to sit at the rustic table while he pours me a plate from the pot on the stove. The rich aroma of the food fills the air, making my mouth water.

I thank him once he places it in front of me and close my eyes, savoring the taste of the pozole as it hits my tongue. The rich, savory broth is filled with tender chunks of pork and hominy, seasoned with fragrant herbs and spices. The warmth of the stew is comforting, reminding me of home-cooked meals from my childhood.

"This is amazing," I tell Pedro, opening my eyes and eagerly taking another spoonful.

"Gracias, señora Frankie," Pedro says with a little smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine pleasure at my enjoyment.

Just then, the door creaks open, and I glance up, half-expecting Rafael, but it's someone else—someone I've never seen before. The young man who walks in looks strikingly familiar, and it takes me a second to piece it together: he's the spitting image of Pedro. My thoughts briefly drift to Rafael, and I realize that I haven't seen him all day. Where could he be?

"Dios mío!" the boy exclaims in Spanish, his eyes wide with wonder as if he's just encountered a celestial being. His intense gaze sends a wave of heat rushing to my cheeks, painting them a rosy hue.

A sharp voice cuts through the air, accompanied by the sound of a light smack. "Stop staring at the woman, boy," someone chides, effectively snapping the young admirer out of his trance.

Undeterred, the boy turns to his admonisher, his voice filled with awe. "She's so beautiful, Uncle Julio. I couldn't not stare." His words hang in the air as Julio strides into the kitchen, the refrigerator door creaking open as he retrieves a cold bottle of beer.

Pedro's deep voice rumbles apologetically as he busies himself, preparing a plate for Julio, who settles into the seat beside me. "Sorry about my son," he says, his eyes meeting mine briefly.

"It's fine," I reply, offering a small smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. I find myself captivated by the familial dynamic unfolding before me, a stark contrast to the circumstances that have brought me here.

Julio's teasing voice breaks through my thoughts. "Never seen a beautiful woman before, Miguel?" He takes a swig of his beer before unexpectedly offering it to me. My eyes widen in shock at the casual gesture, a reminder of how surreal this situation has become. For a fleeting moment, I can almost forget the reality of my situation, fucking the enemy so my sister won't be of interest to him in his war against Thomas.

Miguel's earnest reply pulls me back to the present. "I have, but never this beautiful," he declares, his gaze once again fixed upon me. I manage another small smile, causing the boy to freeze momentarily before darting towards Pedro.

"Do you think if I told Uncle Rafael I was in love with her, he would let me keep her?" Miguel's innocent question hangs in the air, earning him another light smack from Pedro.

"Don't even think about it," Pedro warns his voice a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "Besides, she's older than you by far."

Miguel, undeterred, counters with a logic that seems beyond his years. "So was Mama," he points out, causing Pedro to raise an eyebrow in surprise.

"So was Mama," Miguel counters, his voice laced with a hint of defiance. Pedro lifts a brow at him, a flicker of emotion passing across his face. In that moment, I realize that Pedro is also a single father, navigating the challenges of raising a child alone. My mind wanders, curiosity piqued about the fate of his wife.

Before I can dwell on the thought further, a deep, rich voice fills the room, the Mexican accent unmistakable and undeniably alluring. "She's mine, Chiquillo." Rafael's words send a shiver down my spine, his presence commanding attention as he grabs Miguel's shoulder, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity that steals my breath.

Miguel, however, isn't easily deterred. "But I thought she's just a prisoner," he argues, his brows furrowed in confusion. There's a note of realization in his voice, an understanding that Rafael's claim on me goes beyond the simple label of captive. It's a deeper connection, one that I find myself desperately wanting to unravel.

Rafael's grip on Miguel's shoulder tightens slightly, a subtle reminder of his authority. "My prisoner, mine alone," he states, his eyes never leaving mine, even as he pulls away from Miguel and takes his seat on the stool opposite me. I swallow hard, feeling the burn of his gaze on my skin. The possessiveness in his tone is unmistakable, a declaration that sends my heart racing and my mind reeling.

Miguel opens his mouth to argue, but Julio beats him to it. "Miguel, even if she wasn't, she's older than you," Julio states, emphasizing the obvious age difference once more. I take a closer look at Miguel, realizing that he can't be older than fifteen – a full eight years my junior.

Undeterred, Miguel presses on. "Doesn't matter. It doesn't, right, señora..." he begins, his voice trailing off as he looks at me expectantly. It dawns on me that the poor boy doesn't even know my name.

"Frankie, dear," I reply, offering him a gentle smile, hoping it doesn't come across as encouragement.

Miguel's face lights up, and he seizes the opportunity. "Will you go out with me, señora Frankie?" he asks, his voice filled with youthful hope.

A small smile tugs at the corners of my lips as Julio bursts out laughing beside me. "No!" he exclaims, his laughter echoing through the room. I can't help but admire Miguel's bravery. Not many boys his age would have the courage to ask out a woman eight years their senior.

Miguel scowls at Julio, his eyes narrowing. "I wasn't talking to you, Uncle Julio," he growls before turning back to me, his smile returning.

I feel a pang of sympathy for the young boy, not wanting to crush his spirit. "I would love to, honey, but like you said, I'm a prisoner here," I explain gently, hoping to let him down easily.

Julio turns to face me, a smirk playing on his lips as he takes a sip of his beer. "We both know that's not the real reason you can't go out with the kid," he remarks, his tone laced with amusement.

Before Miguel can respond, Rafael interjects. "I think that's enough hitting on my pet, Chiquillo." His words hang in the air as he stands up, pushing his empty plate away. I glance at my own plate, realizing it's nearly cleared as well.

My eyes widen slightly at Rafael's casual use of the term "pet" in front of the others. I can't help but wonder if it's a common occurrence for him to refer to someone in such a way, and a part of me is morbidly curious about how many others have been in this position before.

Rafael moves towards me, his presence commanding. "Let's go," he says, grabbing my arm and lifting me from the stool.

"Where?" I ask, my eyes meeting his, a mix of apprehension and anticipation swirling within me.

"To be a good pet," he replies, his words sending a shiver down my spine. My heart begins to pound, my mind racing with thoughts of how he might take me this time, and the realization that a part of me craves the pain he inflicts. I'm so utterly fucked.