Paul squeezed Rebecca’s hand as they walked out of the trendy little bistro, laughter trailing behind them in the warm summer air. Her heels clicked confidently on the sidewalk, that little black bag swinging against her hip with every step.
“You really did wear that top just to make the waiter forget our order, didn’t you?” Paul teased.
Rebecca laughed, tossing her dark hair over one shoulder. “I didn’t hear you complaining when he brought us free dessert.”
Paul smiled, but his eyes dipped again to her exposed cleavage. “I mean… he had good reason.”
They reached the end of the block when the shouting started.
It was sudden. A harsh male voice aggressively cut through the evening calm. Across the street, a man in a ski mask was yelling at a gas station clerk, waving something in his hand.
Paul instinctively pulled Rebecca back, stepping in front of her. “Shit. We need to go.”
But Rebecca didn’t move. “Is that a—? Oh my god, he’s robbing the place.”
“Babe, come on.” Paul tugged her arm. “Let’s just get away from here.”
That’s when the second man—taller, leaner, covered in tattoos—stepped out of the alley beside the station. His eyes locked on Rebecca, and something about the way he stared made her stomach twist.
The ski mask guy bolted from the store with a handful of bills and a small metal box. But just as he passed Rebecca and Paul, he tripped—his foot catching on the curb. The box flew from his hands.
Reflexively, Rebecca bent down and grabbed it before it could skitter into the street.
The man scrambled to his feet. “Give it here, bitch!” he snapped, lunging.
Paul stepped between them, hands up. “Back off!”
That was when the tattooed man—the one who hadn’t moved—walked slowly over. His eyes never left Rebecca. He had a calm menace about him. Quiet. Unshakable.
“She didn’t know,” Paul said quickly. “She just picked it up. We’re leaving. It’s yours. Take it.”
But the man shook his head slowly.
“No, no, no…” he murmured, his voice low and smooth. “See… now it’s personal.”
He stepped in closer, just inches from Rebecca, and she could feel something in the air change. His gaze dropped to her chest, then back up to her eyes.
“You wanna play hero in that slutty little top?” he said, almost amused. “Alright, baby. You’re gonna pay it back. One way or another.”
Frozen with fear, she couldn’t move.
Then he lifted one tattooed hand and placed it lightly against her forehead.
Paul shouted, lunging, but the second masked man stepped in and shoved him back hard. Rebecca didn’t even flinch.
The tattooed man whispered something in Spanish. She didn’t understand, but it felt wrong.
Rebecca blinked, suddenly aware of Paul’s voice in her ear, calling her name. “Are you okay? Rebecca?”
“I—yeah,” she stammered, touching her forehead. It tingled faintly. “I think so.”
The two men disappeared down the street.
Paul pulled her close. “Jesus. That guy was insane. Did he hurt you?”
“No, I’m fine. I don’t know what happened,” she replied. “It was all so fast.”
“Come on,” Paul grabbed her hand. “Let’s head home.”
Paul found her in the bedroom, pacing.
She was already dressed, if you could call it that. The red vinyl dress clung to her like paint, her breasts straining against the low-cut neckline. Her legs shimmered in the overhead light, those ridiculous white boots adding an extra few inches to her already perfect figure.
“You’re… dressed up,” Paul said slowly.
Rebecca turned to him, one hand on her hip, the other twirling a martini glass she’d already half-emptied. “Yeah. I’m going out.”
He blinked. “Out? Like… to a bar?”
“To party, babe. What else?” she said with a sharp laugh. “You think I got this dress to stare at myself in the mirror all night?”
Paul hesitated. “You were attacked yesterday.”
“I wasn’t attacked.” She spun the glass around by the stem, gaze intense. “That guy just… touched me.”
Her voice dipped into something else for a second. Almost… dreamy.
Paul took a step closer. “Rebecca. You didn’t even sleep last night. You were tossing and turning, talking in your sleep. You’re not okay.”
“I am okay.” She smiled too widely, then frowned. “God, you’re being so dramatic. It was just some freak with tattoos and a bad attitude.”
“You screamed when I touched your shoulder this morning.”
Rebecca’s mouth opened like she was about to argue… but she didn’t. Instead, she slumped onto the edge of the bed, dragging a hand through her thick, glossy hair.
“Okay. Maybe I’m not totally fine,” she muttered. “But I’m not going to sit here in sweatpants watching Netflix and waiting to have a breakdown. I wanna feel good again.”
Paul crouched down in front of her. “Then stay in with me. Please. We’ll have wine. We’ll talk. I just… I don’t think going out like this is a good idea.”
Rebecca looked at him, her expression unreadable. Then she glanced at her reflection in the mirror. A slow frown crept across her face.
“You don’t like how I look now?” she asked, the edge in her voice sharper than he expected.
“What? No—Reb, I think you’re beautiful. I love how you look. I just think you’re acting like someone else right now. This isn’t you.”
She stared at him for a long time.
Then, finally, she huffed. “Fine. I’ll stay.”
Paul exhaled in relief, moving to sit beside her, but she stood up again and stomped toward the kitchen.
“You can have your boring little night,” she snapped. “But I’m getting drunk either way.”
Rebecca disappeared into the kitchen, her boots thudding hard against the floor. Paul followed cautiously, stopping in the doorway as she rummaged through the fridge with one hand and yanked a mostly-full bottle of vodka off the top with the other.
“No mixers?” she asked, voice flat. “Guess I’ll have to take it like a fucking champion.”
“Rebecca—”
She unscrewed the cap, took a long, burning swig, then gasped as it hit her throat. She turned, licking her lips, and smirked. “Mmm. That’ll do.”
Paul watched her warily. Her movements were sloppy.
“This is what you wanted, right?” she said, voice rising. “Just me. You. A night in. Domestic bliss. Except instead of dancing with friends or feeling alive, I get to sit in my tight little dress and drink alone while you try to psychoanalyze me.”
“I didn’t say you had to drink,” he replied quietly.
“Well I didn’t say I needed your fucking permission,” she snapped, though there was something playful in her voice.
She sauntered over to him, drink in hand, dress squeaking faintly with every exaggerated sway of her hips. “Come on,” she murmured, voice low now, sweetened with heat. “Maybe this night won’t be such a waste.”
He didn’t move.
She pressed the glass into his chest and leaned closer. “You want me to stay in, you’ve gotta entertain me, baby.”
He tried to smile, gently taking the glass from her hand and setting it on the counter. “Let’s just sit down for a bit. Talk. Like we said.”
Instead of answering, she playfully shoved him, but it had more force than expected. “Talk?” she said with mock disappointment. “That’s all you ever wanna do.”
“Rebecca—”
She stepped in close again, this time reaching down and giving a sudden, rough tug at his waistband. “Maybe you need something to loosen you up.”
“Hey!” he said, stepping back. “Jesus, what the hell?”
Rebecca tilted her head. “What?”
“That’s not funny,” he said.
She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Oh come on, I’m just messing with you. Don’t be such a little bitch about it.”
Paul stared at her, stunned.
She pouted mockingly. “Aww, did I hurt your feelings?” Then she spun on her heel, grabbed the vodka again, and took another deep drink straight from the bottle. “Guess I’ll have to play with myself tonight.”
She left him in the kitchen and slammed the bedroom door shut behind her.
He tried the doorknob, but it was locked.
He waited a beat. “Rebecca?” he called softly.
From within the room he heard the creak of the bed frame. He placed his ear to the door and heard a low, breathy moan. Then another, louder one.
Wet, rhythmic sounds began to echo faintly through the thin wood of the bedroom door.
He heard her voice. “Mmm—yeah… fuck, yes…”
He backed away.
It wasn’t just that she was pleasuring herself. She wanted him to hear. Like she was putting on a show.
She came loudly, screaming. A few moments later, the door lock clicked and she opened the door.
She stood in the doorway, naked and sweaty.
“Next time,” she teased. “Don’t turn me down.”
She closed the door and locked it again. Paul sat down on the couch, ready for a long night alone.
Paul woke up on the couch with a stiff neck and a sick feeling in his gut. The bedroom door was cracked open and he could hear the low, pulsing bass of music coming from Rebecca’s Bluetooth speaker. Something with Spanish lyrics.
He rubbed his face and slowly pushed himself up. He walked over to the room and peeked inside.
Rebecca was on all fours on the bed, perched like a pinup. She was typing something on her phone before she turned and looked over her shoulder at him.
“Buenos días, sleepy boy,” she purred, her voice huskier than before.
Paul stared. Her hair was longer and darker. Her lips looked… different. Plumper. Her skin had an unnatural sheen, like she’d oiled up just to lay in bed.
And her ass…it was like her whole lower body had grown overnight. A tattoo that wasn’t there the night before snaked around one thigh.
“Rebecca,” he said carefully. “What… the hell?”
She giggled. “Ay, bebé. Don’t get all dramatic again. I had a little spa night.” She rolled onto her side, stretching like a cat. “And I feel so much better.”
Paul stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. “You don’t look like yourself.”
“I look amazing,” she corrected sharply, her accent subtly twisting the vowels. “What, you don’t like it?” She posed deliberately, arching her back to make her hips pop. “I think it’s hot.”
“Rebecca, something’s wrong—your body, your voice—”
“Oh my god,” she groaned, flopping onto her back. “You’re still on this? I had some fun. Got a little wild. You act like I’m dying.”
“You’re not acting like you,” Paul said. “You don’t look like you.”
She cut him off with a hard stare. She stalked over to him, eyes gleaming. “You know what I feel right now, mi amor?”
Paul stood, staring at her.
Rebecca let the music take her, her hips swaying slowly, deliberately. She turned, facing away from him, and began to roll her body in time with the beat, her hair swaying across her back.
She bent at the waist, grinding low, her ass practically taunting him in those skin-tight shorts. Then she straightened up, spun back around, and stalked toward him.
She pressed into him, eyes wild, mouth inches from his ear. Her breath was warm, heavy with vodka.
“I wanna dance. I wanna grind on strangers. I wanna fuck someone with a gold chain and a face tattoo. I wanna taste tequila off someone’s abs.”
Paul pulled away, his heart racing. “Rebecca—what the fuck?”
She laughed. “Ay, pobrecito. You’re jealous.”
“No,” he snapped. “I’m terrified.”
That stopped her. Her expression flickered. For a second. Then it hardened again.
She spat, grabbing her phone. “Maybe Jesús was right.”
Paul blinked. “Jesús? Is that the guy who touched your head?”
She paused, like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
“Rebecca. What the fuck do you mean ‘Jesús was right’?”
She just smiled, a smug, wicked little smile that didn’t belong to the woman he fell in love with.
Then she turned up the music and began to sway to the beat, hips rolling in perfect rhythm.
“Nothing,” she replied and proceeded to ignore Paul’s complaints.
Rebecca stormed down the hallway, heels clicking against the hardwood, one hand adjusting her belt, the other gripping a cheap silver purse.
Paul jumped up from the couch. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
She didn’t stop. Just tossed a glance over her shoulder, eyes lined in thick black, lips full and glossy. “Out.”
“That’s not an answer,” he snapped, moving to block the door. “You’re not walking out of here like that.”
She paused, cocking her head. “Like what?” Her voice dripped with venomous sweetness. “Like a hot bitch with better places to be?”
“You’re drunk.”
She stepped closer, tilting her head, lips brushing a smile. “So what if I am? I’m fun when I’m drunk. More fun than when I’m stuck here playing house with you.”
“Rebecca, listen to yourself,” Paul said, trying to stay calm. “This isn’t you. Look at what you’re wearing. Look at how you’re acting.”
“Oh, now you care?” she spat. “Where was this energy when I needed someone to stand up for me? When some thug cursed me and you just stood there with your dick in your hand?”
Paul flinched. “I tried to protect you.”
“And now I don’t need protecting.” She shoved past him, her shoulder slamming into his chest. “I need release. I need danger. I need someone who actually makes me feel something.”
He caught her wrist. “Is it him?” he demanded. “The guy from the robbery?”
She smirked, leaning in close. “Jesús. Say it right, cariño.”
Paul’s grip loosened, stunned.
She used the moment to yank free and open the front door. The sound of rain drifted in, steady and cold.
Paul followed, voice cracking. “Rebecca, please. Don’t do this.”
She paused at the threshold, the glow from outside framing her like a goddess out of a fever dream.
“¿Y a ti qué te importa, eh?” she said over her shoulder. “You’re not the one I’m meeting.”
And just like that, she was gone.
The moment the door shut behind her, Rebecca let out a breathy giggle and tossed her purse down at her feet. The car was warm, dark, and smelled like weed. Reggaeton played low on the stereo, the beat slinking under her skin.
Jesús hand slid from the steering wheel and rested on her thigh.
Rebecca smiled without looking at him, tilting her head just slightly so he could admire the sharp contour of her jaw, the gloss on her lips, the curve of her breasts under the too-tight crop top.
“Hola, papi,” she purred.
Jesús finally turned his head. His eyes were dark, dangerous and fully amused.
“Mira nada más,” he murmured. “I barely recognize you, muñeca.”
“I feel different,” she said, voice soft, sultry. “Stronger. Hungrier.”
His hand squeezed her thigh. “Because you’re becoming mine.”
She turned toward him now, fully, resting her elbow on the center console. “I left him.”
Jesús raised an eyebrow. “Did he cry?”
She laughed. “He tried to stop me.”
Jesús leaned in, voice low and razor-sharp. “You’re not his anymore.”
He brushed a finger down the exposed skin of her stomach, tracing the dragon ink now curled across her waist.
“You feel it, no?” he asked. “That pull in your blood. That burn under your skin. That’s the curse settling in. But you—” he grinned, “—you wear it well.”
Rebecca’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and when they opened again, they glowed with a kind of heat Paul had never seen, but Jesús had summoned.
“I want more,” she whispered.
Jesús chuckled, low and satisfied. “You’ll get more, chiquita. But first…” He reached into the glove compartment, pulled out a satin bandana, and held it out to her.
“You wear this now.”
Rebecca took it slowly, reverently. She looped it around her wrist and tied it tight.
Jesús’s voice was softer now, but dead serious. “You don’t belong to yourself anymore. You’re mine.”
Rebecca looked up at him, heart thudding, lips curling into a smirk.
“Good,” she replied.
They called her Bex now. The old name didn’t fit anymore.
Not with that body inked from collarbone to thigh, not with those bedroom eyes and a smile that promised either a kiss or a knife in your side. Not with the way she walked—half swagger, half dare. And never alone.
Jesús was always nearby.
Sometimes at her side. Sometimes at her back. Sometimes just watching, letting the streets know she was his.
Together, they were untouchable.
They moved through clubs, alleyways, beach parties, trap houses, and busted diners like royalty. Jesús handled the business and Bex handled the people. She’d lean close, whisper in a mark’s ear with that purring accent of hers, and next thing you knew, his guard was down and his wallet was missing. Or worse.
Everyone in their circle knew not to cross her.
She wasn’t just a bad bitch.
She was owned.
Whatever that spell had done to her, it was complete. Her old softness, the sweetness Paul once clung to, was gone. Replaced by nails like claws, words like poison, and a laugh that was pure chaos.
And when the work was done?
When the deals were made, the money counted, the blood wiped clean?
Jesús would take her to their place and he’d pull her in by the waist like she was still something precious.
And she’d ride him like he was the last man alive.
Rough. Loud. Deep scratches down his chest and thighs. Her lips at his throat whispering “Papi, más fuerte… no pares…” as if she could devour him whole.
She didn’t want gentle. She didn’t want love.
She wanted power.
And together, they had all of it.
Bex and Jesús.
A curse-born queen and her king of the streets.
And neither of them would ever, ever belong to anyone else again.
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