Auctioned to the Prisoners (Auctioned #4)

25

LORY

MADE OF DREAMS

The air in Valladolid smells of spice and salt, the warm humidity clinging to my skin as I lead Rock through the narrow streets. The sun is just off its high point, brightening the cobblestone roads and pastel-colored buildings that line both sides. In shades of peach, soft yellow, and seafoam green, each house bears an air of gentle decay but also of lived-in charm. Doors are left ajar, and the sounds of families—laughter, clattering plates and pans, a stray dog barking, and children chattering—mix with the distant hum of traffic.

Rock walks beside me, his massive presence like a protective force field. His expression is serious, but the tension slowly draining from him as he takes in the new sights, smells, and sounds, knowing he’s on his way home. It must be a lot for him. He’s waited so long, and there’s been a limit to how much we could communicate. The risk of giving away anything that could risk Kinkaid’s—Connor’s—freedom just wasn’t worth it.

“You holding up okay?” I ask, glancing up at him. His tan skin gleams in the sunlight, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of something vulnerable in his eyes before he gives a tight nod.

“Yeah. Just... I’m still getting used to being out. This place is something else, though. Never seen color like this before.” His low voice lifts with an edge of awe.

I’ve been so nervous about him seeing me and being upset about the baby. It was such a shock to discover my pregnancy not long after we crossed the border. Connor advised me to tell Hyde and Rock in person rather than by letter. He was so genuinely happy that I hadn’t considered the others might not have the same response. Connor worried that it’d be too much for them to handle when they were so far away.

Hyde was worried when I told him: worried that sex would hurt me or the baby, worried that the baby might inherit his volatility if it was his, worried that he wasn’t capable of being a good dad when all he’s experienced is neglect. Reassuring him has been a slow process.

As for Rock, he’s the most sensitive of the three, and he’s finding out the closest to the birth. Is four weeks going to be long enough for him to accept the child? Will he even want to be part of this now? Just imagining him walking away is enough to twist my insides uncomfortably. For once, I can’t blame the baby’s antics on my belly ache.

Valladolid has a way of enchanting people. The streets are alive. The soft murmur of Spanish spoken between neighbors and vendors gives the evening a rhythm that’s nothing like the harsh sounds we left behind. Here, in this little slice of Yucatán, life moves slower. The stalls from the day’s market, with their sweet, tangy fresh fruits and the spicy scent of roasting corn, mesmerize Rock. Or maybe it’s just freedom. He’s here, walking the streets, far away from anyone who knows his name or what he was convicted of. He’s free to be the man he really is, not the man they tried to turn him into.

It's time to leave his past behind.

“That’s the plaza up ahead.” I point to the open square where the cathedral looms, its white stone glowing under the rays of the afternoon sun. “We’re not far from the house now.”

The months we’ve spent here have allowed Connor, James, and me to adapt, and to shed some of the ghosts that haunted us back in the States. But for Rock, fresh out of the system, I imagine it’s like being dropped onto an alien planet.

We take a turn onto a quieter street, the vibrant chaos of the plaza fading into something more residential. The houses are simpler here but still bright, the occasional palm tree peeking over the low walls of private courtyards. My excitement bubbles as we get closer.

“Connor and James... they’ve been planning something for you, you know.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Those two? Planning? God help me.”

I laugh, swatting at his arm. “You’d be surprised.”

When we finally reach the house, I look up at it as I did when we first got the keys. It’s a modest, one-story hacienda-style home painted a soft ochre with wide wooden doors and a terracotta roof. It’s not lavish, but it’s ours, and that’s all that matters. The small courtyard out front is lush with overgrown vines and potted plants we’ve collected from the local market, their green leaves spilling over the ceramic edges. Everything grows so fast here, with the streaming sunshine, water, and a little love.

I glance at Rock and smile. “Welcome home.”

No more bars. No more walls closing in. Just the four of us starting over.

I push open the wooden gate, leading him into the courtyard. The door to the house swings open almost immediately, and Connor, as I’ve finally gotten used to calling him, is standing there, his broad frame filling the doorway, a slow smile spreading across his face. He’s lost some of the tension he used to carry around as the slower pace and less pressured Mexican lifestyle has rubbed off on him. In a light blue shirt, dark blue shorts, and bare feet, he must look like a totally different man to Rock. James is right behind him, leaning against the doorframe, his eyes already flicking to me before they settle on Rock. He’s more relaxed and always green, even when he struggles to understand the people around us. All he needed was love to thrive, but isn’t that the same for all of us?

“About damn time,” Connor says, crossing the threshold to pull Rock into a rough embrace. There’s a warmth in his voice, and for the first time in months, his grin is totally uninhibited. James hangs back, but his smile is there, subtle but sincere. His eyes flicker with emotion, though he doesn’t say much, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches the reunion.

Rock laughs, pulling back from Connor. “Thought you two might’ve forgotten about me.”

“Never,” James murmurs, stepping forward to clap Rock on the shoulder. “It hasn’t been the same without you.”

The air is thick with unspoken relief. The history between these men—between us all—is stitched together with loyalty and a love that defies all the hurdles and restrictions we’ve faced. I watch as they fall into an easy rhythm as if no time has passed at all. James and Connor—different as night and day—share a look, a silent acknowledgment that the circle is complete.

“Come on,” I say, motioning toward the open door. “We’ve got dinner waiting, and Connor’s been working on his tamales.”

Connor grumbles, “Working on, yeah. Don’t know if they’ll be edible.”

Rock chuckles, the tension easing from his massive frame. “I’m more than happy to be the judge of that.”

We step inside together, the four of us.

It’s not quite the house I described to James all those months ago when a fantasy had the power to take us outside the high walls that kept us trapped, but inside, it’s white and pale blue and green, soft colors that are calm and peaceful. There are wood floors and cream rugs, and a blue couch with cream throw pillows. It’s a sanctuary for us all.

There isn’t a swing set or tree house in the garden yet, but there will be when our children are ready. They’ll fill this place with happiness for us all.

The house is full now, the way it’s supposed to. And as I look at the men who’ve become my world, I realize that, for the first time in forever, we’re not trapped. We’re not running. We’re not waiting. We’re just... home.