The Orphan Queen

Taken

("Miguel")

I lunge.

She’s fast, street-fast, but I’m bigger, meaner, and I’ve been dreaming about owning something that isn’t already broken. My arm snakes around her waist, hauling her slim body against mine. She smells like frozen rain and fury.

The switchblade kisses my throat, and a hot line of blood trickles down my collar. “Do it,” I growl against her ear. “Cut me, I dare you.” Her hand shakes, just for a second, then she tries to drive it home. I catch her wrist, twist until the blade clatters to the ice.

My soldiers move in; I glare at them, and they freeze. "This one’s mine." She bites my forearm hard enough to bruise the bone. I laugh, slam her back against the cold metal pillar, and pin both wrists above her head with one hand. Her hood’s fallen; braid whips my face as she thrashes.

“Let go, you rich prick!”

“Never.”

I taste her neck, salt and snow, then I bite down just below her jaw, firm enough to claim, teeth sinking in until I feel her shiver.

She gasps, a soft, broken sound that shoots straight to my c**k.

Her hips roll forward on instinct, pressing the heat between her thighs against the hard length straining my jeans. I don’t move. I let her feel every thick inch of what she does to me, let the friction build while I hold her pinned, controlled.

Her breath stutters against my ear, body trembling, but those gold eyes stay locked on mine… defiant, wet, daring me to take more.

I pull back just enough to watch the mark bloom dark on her pale skin, Mine. She’s breathing hard, lips parted, cheeks flushed. I lean in, voice low against her ear, “Keep fighting, baby. It only makes me want to ruin you slower.”

Carlos, still bleeding, tosses me zip ties. I catch them with my other hand, rip one free, and bind her wrists so tight the plastic bites skin. She spits in my face again. I wipe it off my lip with my thumb. “You’re gonna run out of spit before I run out of patience, bunny.”

She head-butts me for the second time tonight. My vision doubles. f**k, I’m in love. I throw her over my shoulder. She kicks, screams obscenities that would make sailors blush. I smack her ass hard, then slide my hand higher, under the jacket, fingers brushing the waistband of her torn leggings.

She freezes.

“Don’t,” she whispers, voice cracking for the first time.

I pause.

The bridge is dead quiet now. Even the wind holds its breath. I turn to my soldiers, voice flat. “Collection’s off tonight. Everyone, go home.”

Carlos, clutching his bleeding forearm, steps forward, face twisted in pain and fury. “The hell it is! She sliced me open, boss! You gonna let some gutter rat walk away with that? We look weak now… word spreads, every bum from here to Harlem will stop paying!”

His voice is loud, challenging, blood dripping between his fingers. The other soldiers shift, waiting. I meet his eyes, cold. “You questioning me, Scar?” He holds my stare a second longer, then drops his gaze.

“No, boss.”

“Good.”

“Take the wagons. Leave one. Now.”

They hesitate only a second, then scatter, engines rumbling as the G-Wagons peel out into the night.

Only one remaining wagon stays, headlights dimmed, waiting.

Then I dump her in the wagon back seat like stolen goods.

Then I carry her to the wagon and dump her in the back seat like stolen goods.

("Ella")

The door slams. The engine roars. We peel out, leaving the bridge and my entire life in the rearview. I’m on my back, wrists zip-tied, chest heaving. Miguel slides in beside me, fills the whole damn space. Blood on his lip from my head-butt. Eyes black with want and something more dangerous.

He reaches for me, I kick him in the chest, bare foot with all the force I’ve got. He grunts, catches my ankle, yanks me down the seat until I’m half in his lap.

“Stop fighting, and this gets easier.”

“f**k you.”

“That’s the plan,” he says, voice velvet and venom. “Eventually.”

His hand slides up my thigh, slow, deliberate. I should scream. Should bite. Instead, my traitorous legs part a fraction. He notices. Smiles like the devil just won a bet. But he stops an inch from where I’m shamefully wet. Just rests his palm there, heat burning through the fabric.

“You feel that?” he murmurs. “Your body already knows who it belongs to. Your brain’ll catch up.”

I snarl, twist, and manage to knee him in the ribs. He laughs and pins my legs with one of his.

The drive is twenty minutes of war. I bite, he dodges. I curse, he promises filthier things. By the time we reach his building, some shiny skyscraper that screams daddy’s money, I’m bruised, bleeding, and so turned on I want to cry.

It’s not him. Not really.

It’s the first time in my entire life anyone’s ever fought me this hard and didn’t just take. The orphanage boys pinned and ripped and tried to break in. Miguel pins and rips and waits, like he knows the second he forces it, he loses whatever sick game he’s playing. That waiting? That control? It’s worse than r**e. It’s foreplay to someone who’s never had a choice.

Plus, let’s be real, I’m eighteen, been locked in survival mode since I could walk, body running on fumes and rage. Hormones hit me late and hard, like a freight train full of wet dreams I never asked for. One rough hand on my thigh and my wiring short-circuits. Doesn’t mean I want him. Just means my body’s a dumb b***h that mistakes danger for desire because no one ever taught it the difference.

I hate him for noticing. I hate myself more for reacting. He yanks me out of the wagon by my bound wrists. I stumble, legs shaky from adrenaline and shame. The cold night air hits the wet spot on my leggings, and I want to die.

He smells it, of course. Smirks like he just won the lottery. “Keep fighting, bunny,” he murmurs, dragging me toward the private elevator. “Makes it sweeter when you finally beg.” I bare my teeth, voice raw. “The only thing I’ll beg for is your funeral.”

His laugh is dark, delighted. “We’ll see.”

Elevator doors close. He cages me against the mirrored wall, forehead to mine, breathing the same air.“Last chance to beg me to take you back.” I bare my teeth. “Cut these ties, and I’ll show you begging.”

His eyes flare. The elevator dings. He yanks me by my wrist through a penthouse that costs more than every meal I’ve ever eaten combined. Past a kitchen bigger than the orphanage dorm. Down a hallway. Into a bedroom with a bed the size of my old bridge spot.

He pulls me on it. I bounce, scramble up.

Locks the door from the outside. Deadbolt. Key.

“Bathroom’s there, Food’ll come. Try to stab the staff, and I’ll chain you to the bed.” I flip him off with both tied hands. He smirks, licks the blood off his lip again. “Sleep tight, Ella. Tomorrow we start teaching you who you belong to.” The lights go out, I sit in the dark, wrists raw, heart hammering, thighs slick.

I hate him.

Fuck.

The silence is too loud. Too clean. No traffic hum, no rats scratching, no old lady snoring three feet away. Just my own ragged breathing and the faint scent of him still clinging to my skin, expensive cologne mixed with gun oil and blood.

I test the zip ties. Plastic bites deeper, but the pain keeps me sharp.

Moonlight slices through blackout curtains, enough to see the room: silk sheets, a dresser that probably costs more than a car, my reflection in a mirror across the room, wild hair, bruised lips, eyes that look like they’ve seen ghosts and laughed.

He thinks he’s the first person to put me in a cage.

He’s wrong.

I’ve been caged before. Orphanage. Foster homes. The whole f*****g city.

Every cage has a weak spot. A nun who forgets to lock a window. A guard who looks the other way for a cigarette. A rich boy who underestimates what a cornered animal will do when she decides the only way out is through him.

I close my eyes, slow my breathing, and start counting heartbeats.

Tomorrow I play nice.

Tomorrow, I find the crack in his armour.

Tomorrow I walk out of here on my own two feet… or I take something with me.

But tonight… my body won’t shut up, his hands, his mouth at my neck. That pause when I whispered "don’t."

I squeeze my thighs together, annoyed at myself for feeling anything at all.

This place is a cage.

And cages make animals patient.

The bridge comes back to me, Uninvited.

The man’s arm jerking back as the blade opened him, the blood, The sound he made when it caught him by surprise. And then... his hand, clenched tight, the ring flashing once under the headlamps of there vehicles before he staggered away.

Gold... Heavy... lion-like. I’ve seen that ring before. Or something close enough to make my stomach drop.

The memory is thin, frayed at the edges, but it refuses to leave me alone. The same shape. The same weight. The kind of thing men don’t wear by accident. Men don’t wear pieces like that unless they belong to something bigger. Something organised. Something dangerous.

I don’t know why that ring won’t let me sleep.

But I know this... running now gets me nothing.

So I'll stay.

I'll soften where it costs me nothing.

I'll let Miguel think I’m still looking for an exit.

I just need a way to know the connection out of one of them.

And when I do… everything else will start to make sense.