by Pam Godwin
That was it? A lump formed in his throat. Everything she owned would fit in one small bag.
There were no cabinets or pantries, so where was her food? Her dishes and cookware? Hell, she didn’t even have a stove.
His attention zeroed in on the fridge, and he yanked it open. The scanty contents wobbled on a single shelf—a sandwich of bread and pork, strawberries, bananas, and coconut cookies. The only food in her possession was what he’d bought her.
She has nothing.
No one should live like this.
A restless pang clenched behind his sternum, and his muscles burned to do something, anything, to fix this.
But he couldn’t fix it. Not without risking her life.
Phone in hand, he paced the room, back and forth, back and forth, staring at the screen.
It was time to call Matias. The cartel capo could find the best doctors and bring them here. According to Cole, it would take weeks, but Tate could at least get that ball rolling.
Drawing a calming breath, he dialed the number by memory and hovered his thumb over the button that would connect the call. And he hesitated.
I’ll be dead within hours. Long before they can diagnose me.
Lucia knew how resourceful Matias was, yet she’d begged Tate not to call him or Camila. She was fucking stubborn in her conviction that Badell held the only antidote.
Then there was Cole’s warning that Matias wouldn’t have enough men and sway here to fight Badell.
Fuck! He erased the number on the phone and slumped against the wall. He needed to talk to Lucia first. Then he’d call Matias.
Over the next hour, he listened to her dinner conversation with Badell. Strange how she was allowed to keep her guns in his presence. Though there was a span of time this morning when it sounded like they’d been taken from her. Was it when she received her injection? If she was given medicine, Tate didn’t hear it happen.
As long as he keeps my condition a secret and the antidote locked in his safe, I can’t leave.
Where was the safe? Did she have access to its location? Were guards posted in every room?
There might’ve been guards where she met Badell for dinner, but it was just the two of them talking and eating. The discussion focused on business—police activities, competitor secrets, and weapons suppliers. If Tate were a government spy, the information would’ve been gold. But he didn’t give a shit about Tiago Badell’s dirty affairs.
The entirety of his concern focused on the brown-eyed beauty who was sitting with a man who could kill her on a whim. Meanwhile, Tate paced her apartment with knots the size of Texas tying up his insides.
When she finally left the compound, he turned off the light, stood behind the front door, and listened to her footsteps through the receiver. When Van called to tell him she was in the alley, he silenced the phone and waited.
The seconds felt like a marathon—sprinting pulse, labored breaths, the urgent need to cross the finish line.
She was his finish line, and when she opened the door, it took every ounce of his self-control to remain silent and still.
Close the door, Lucia.
The instant she did, he launched…right into the barrel of a gun in his face.
“It’s me,” he whispered into the darkness.
“What are you—?”
Without warning, she dropped the Beretta in his hands and covered her mouth. Then she ran through the unlit room, falling with a thump near the toilet.
“Lucia?” He holstered the gun and searched for the light switch.
When he found it, the sound of retching shuddered the air.
CHAPTER 15
“Shit.” A surge of panic sent Tate racing toward Lucia’s doubled-over body as she emptied her dinner into the toilet.
The guards would be outside on the street, probably out of hearing range. But just in case, he would have to keep his voice soft.
“Did you get your medicine this morning?” He dropped to his knees beside her and gathered her hair.
“Yeah.” She moaned weakly with her head in her hands and elbows wobbling on the seat. “Nighttime is always the worst.”
He stroked her back, vibrating with anger at his own helplessness. “What can I do?”
She vomited again, and tears streaked down her pallid face. “I’m sorry.”
His chest caved in. Why the fuck was she apologizing?
Her arms dropped, and her head hung over the toilet, swinging back and forth and plopping tears into the bowl. “I raped a man this morning.”
Fucking Christ. This was wrong. Wrong timing. Wrong place. Wrong everything. As each wrongful second passed, he felt more and more useless.
“You just puked the only thing you’ve eaten today.” He hit the toilet lever and glimpsed specks of blood before it flushed away. “Goddammit!”
There was no drug store. No urgent care. Nothing in this apartment to help her. There wasn’t a goddamn thing he could do. Nothing!
“Please, don’t be mad,” she whispered.
“I’m not mad.” He was so fucking livid he couldn’t think straight. “What hurts?”
She sat back on her heels and wiped her mouth. “I probably look like the living dead, but I feel better.”
Her complexion was ghost-white, her eyes sunken and bruised, and she appeared to have lost ten pounds she didn’t have to lose. But despite it all…
“You’re beautiful.” He touched a knuckle to her chin.
Her pretty, pixie-like features contorted in misery, and her chest heaved in sudden bursts, as if she were swallowing down a sob. “You’re lying.”
“Lucia—”
“Don’t.” She made a wretched sound and pushed him away.
He wouldn’t budge and instead reached for her.
“I don’t want you to see me like this.” She twisted, giving him her back. “Please, Tate. Just go. Go back to Texas.”
“You’re fucking crazy if you think I’ll leave you.” He shifted around her and got in her face. “We’re doing this. Together. Us. Get that through your stubborn head.”
She laughed, a painfully broken sound that sent more tears skipping down her hollow cheeks.
“What?” he asked softly.
“Us? What does that even mean?”
“It means I’m staying—”
“For how long?”
He wanted to sling her over his shoulder like a damn caveman and take off tonight, right fucking now.
She must’ve read it in his eyes, because she heaved a frustrated breath. “Let’s say I left with you. Hypothetically. What happens next?”
“I’ll take you wherever you want to go.” His pulse accelerated as he edged closer and brushed the hair out of her face. “We can stay with your sister in Colombia or go home to Texas. We’ll get you healthy and safe.”
“Then what?” More tears brimmed her eyes.
“Then we can…I don’t know…get a Netflix subscription, rescue a dog, take a road trip to wine country, whatever people do. I don’t give a fuck as long as you’re well and we’re far away from here.”
“You talk about us and we in terms of a relationship. In terms of always.”
Goddamn, woman. He wasn’t prepared for this conversation.
“You’re in love with Camila,” she said.
“This isn’t…” Jesus fuck, he wasn’t pursuing a relationship with anyone. His focus was on here and now and keeping Lucia alive.
“It’s not what?” she asked.
“We’re not doing this right now.” He gripped her elbow. “Can you stand?”
“You just said we’re doing this. Together.” She stared at the floor and didn’t move. “I want to understand.”
“You’re right.” He closed his eyes and gave himself a second to calm down. “We can talk about the future, but right now, I’m focused on your health and the danger you’re in. You’re hurting, and it’s…” Helpless rage locked up his fists, and he breathed through it. “It’s not in my DNA to sit back and let you
dictate how this will go.”
“Okay,” she said numbly.
“Tell me what you need.” He bent down to capture her gaze.
Her chin trembled, and she hugged her waist, shaking her head. “Why do you have to be so nice?”
It looked like she needed a hug more than anything else.
He pulled her onto his lap and embraced her tightly. “You’re about to spend some time with me, and you’ll find out just how not nice I am.”
“You might be crazier than I am.” She looped her arms around his neck and buried her nose against his throat. “Thank you for the food.”
It was comforting, in an unfamiliar way, to hold her like this. It was also exactly what he needed, and he hadn’t even realized it. She had the ability to hurt his heart and put it at ease all at once.
“I’ll bring you more to eat,” he said. “I’m also going to install slide bolts on both of those doors.”
“You don’t need to—”
“I’m sleeping here from now on. Until we leave.”
Her muscles tensed, as if she were bracing to argue. Then she seemed to deflate with her next exhale. “I need to brush my teeth and take a shower.”
He carried her to the sink and prepared her toothbrush. “Did you sleep today?”
“Yeah. How did you know I was at the market?”
“I’m watching you, Lucia. Get used to it.”
She surprised him with a simple nod and turned her attention to the toothbrush.
As she cleaned her teeth, he slid the heels off her feet, removed the gun from her waistband, and grabbed the second Beretta from his. Then he set everything beside her clothes in the corner.
The bugs on her guns were too conspicuous. It was only a matter of time before she or someone else noticed them. They also had a limited battery life and would need to be recharged every few days.
A glance over his shoulder confirmed she was bent at the sink with her back to him. He removed the bugs, pulled a fully charged one from his pocket, and adhered it to the arched underside of her heeled shoe.
The location was less noticeable, and since the audio quality was so good, he could adjust the receiver to tune out the tread of her footfalls.
If he told her about the listening devices, it would add another burden on her shoulders. He didn’t want her walking into Badell’s domain every day worrying about being wired. He also didn’t want her filtering her conversations.
With the new bug on the sole of her shoe, he moved the mattress to butt up against the front door, checked the lock, and set his gun and knife beside the bed where he would sleep.
“The guards never come inside,” she said from the sink. “They don’t even stand near the door.”
After watching the alley from his apartment window, he knew the guards usually hung out down the street. But he wasn’t taking chances. If someone tried to push their way in, the door would bump the mattress and wake him. He would also make sure they kept their voices at a whisper.
Moving to the shower, he turned it on and adjusted the water temperature.
There was no curtain, no privacy whatsoever, but did she need that with him? She’d had her mouth on his cock, his cock in her pussy, his hands and lips all over her body.
“Has the nausea passed?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll help you with the shower.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
Dignity. Despite her frailness, she glowed with it.
“I’m not leaving.” He stared into her honey-brown eyes.
“I know.” She stared right back.
Gripping the hem of her shirt, she pulled it over her head. The bra and jeans went next. Then she hooked her thumbs under the elastic of her black panties, slid them off, and carried them under the spray of the shower.
He meant to turn away and give her space, but he couldn’t unglue his shoes from the floor, couldn’t avert his greedy gaze from her body.
Bones protruded along her ribs and hips, but toned layers of muscles flexed in her arms, abs, and legs as she washed her panties.
She’s washing her underwear in the shower?
“Is that the only pair you own?” He glanced at her skimpy stack of clothes and didn’t see undergarments.
“The other pair ripped, so…” She stared at the worn scrap of satin and shrugged. “This is it.”
“Give them to me.”
When she handed them over, he scrubbed them in the sink, taking care with the delicate, thinning fabric. Then he hung them on the doorknob to dry. “Anything else need washing?”
“Not tonight.” She lathered bubbles through her hair and over her fragile curves, spreading the small dollop of soap impossibly far.
The impoverished way she lived seemed so disturbingly normal to her, but she hadn’t been raised this way. Her parents had been successful citrus farmers and had given her a comfortable upbringing. Until they sold her into slavery.
It infuriated him to think that over the past eleven years, she’d adapted to hardship to the point that it didn’t even faze her.
As she continued her shower, watching him watch her, a fog of complicated questions hung between them. Questions he wasn’t ready to answer.
Did he want to get to know her romantically?
Could he be with her without thinking about her sister?
Would she resent his feelings for Camila?
Was it wrong to want her on such a carnal, animalistic level?
He couldn’t stop thinking about fucking her again. Her gorgeous tits looked so damn appetizing. Round and firm with stiff pink nipples, they were perfect for biting and pinching and bruising.
His mouth watered, and blood surged to his cock, swelling his length at a painful angle behind the zipper.
“You’re staring,” she said.
He snapped his gaze to hers and glared unapologetically.
“What are you thinking about?” She ran her hands through her hair, rinsing the soap.
“You don’t want to know.”
“I can guess.” She gave his erection a pointed look. “Tell me.”
A conversation about her and him and Camila was a minefield he didn’t want to tread, but sex was different. Lust was simple and clear-cut.
He clasped his hands behind him and gave her an honest answer. “You have great tits.”
She glanced down and made a face. “I imagine they’re a lot smaller than Camila’s.”
Well, that fucking backfired.
“They fill my hands,” he said. “What more do I need?”
“Camila’s?”
He pulled in a long breath. She wasn’t going to let this go. If it made her happy, she could ask her questions, and he’d answer them. But first, he wanted her comfortable and fed.
“Time’s up.” He shut off the water and searched the room for a towel. “What do you dry off with?”
“Air dry.” She squeezed out her hair and swiped the water off her arms.
Swallowing a string of explicits, he yanked off his shirt and used it to dry her shivering body. “You can’t live like this.”
“I get by.”
With his hands grazing across her soft skin and her pussy inches from his face, he would’ve been wildly turned on under other circumstances. And he was. But his mind was stuck in a whirlwind.
She had a partial roll of toilet paper, toothpaste, soap, and a razor for shaving. She needed shampoo, underwear, basic pain medication, a fucking towel, and… What about feminine products?
“Where are your tampons? Pads?” he asked.
Her hand flew to his, where he wiped the wadded shirt across her stomach.
“I don’t…” She made a sound in her throat and stepped out of his reach. “I don’t need that.”
A fist of dread clamped his insides. “Why not?”
“I haven’t had a period since the accident.” She grabbed a t-shirt from the pile of clothes and pulled it on.
No period in eleven years
? Were her female organs damaged? Removed? Or was it stress? Malnutrition? An IUD? Having been raised in a brothel, he had an in-depth knowledge of monthly cycles, hormones…all the female stuff. If she couldn’t conceive, the destruction would reach far beyond a physical injury.
Everything inside him thrashed to demand answers, but he remained silent, motionless. It was one of those instincts he depended on, and it was telling him not to push her on this.
She seemed to have shut down, moving robotically through the apartment, straightening and organizing with no purpose. Pausing at the sink, she ran hot water until steam floated into her face. Her hand trembled as she reached for a paper cup and tried to unwrap a pouch of tea.
He went to her, taking over the task. The water wasn’t hot enough to steep the leaves, but it was the only option. Once the tea was prepared, he lifted her onto the counter, set the cup in her hand, and molded her fingers around it. Then he fixed her something to eat.
Her silence pressed against him, but at least she was drinking. Dehydration was one thing he could control in this fucked-up situation.
There were no plates, so he arranged the sandwich and strawberries on the counter beside her. Then he crowded into her space, pushing against her knees until she spread them.
Wedged between her legs, he lightly stroked her damp hair and waited.
She drank half of the tea before she set it aside and closed her eyes. “I remember the crash in Peru. The falling sensation as we rolled. The bodies slamming against me. Bones being crushed. The sharp scent of blood.” Her fingers skated over her midsection, shaking as she traced the scar. “And the pain…”
He felt it, the terrible hurt in her voice, as if he were living in the memory with her. It hit him right in the chest, and he clenched his jaw until his molars protested.
“I blacked out before I saw what impaled me.” Her tone flattened, becoming detached. “I don’t remember much of the next year with all the surgeries and sleep-inducing drugs. After that, Tiago kept me locked in a room. A suite in the old hotel. He didn’t let me out for eight years.”
“He what?” Fury hit him like a thunderbolt, ringing his ears and scattering his breaths.
“I was a prisoner.” She lifted a shoulder. “He could’ve killed me. God knows why he didn’t.”
