by Pam Godwin
“No-no-no-no-no…” Lucia chanted in a scratchy, tear-choked voice.
The hammering bang of his heart drowned out her cries. He was sprawled on the floor with his cheek against the concrete, frozen in place, silent and breathless as his vision lost focus.
Deep down he knew it would come to this. Badell wanted a trial, one Tate was sure to fail.
Hot moisture dripped from his unblinking eyes and traced a sodden stripe across his face. Such a strange sensation, that warm soundless trickle. He couldn’t remember the last time he cried.
He would never be able to perform, let alone ejaculate. Not with a mutilated body. And not with Van.
But it was better than the alternative. If Van were forced to rape Lucia, Tate wasn’t sure he’d ever get back up again.
Was that why Van had volunteered so much information about Tate’s time in the attic? Perhaps he’d predicted Badell’s plan for Lucia and steered him in a different direction. It took a sadist to know a sadist. Van probably saw the blood-smeared writing on the wall from a mile away.
Shifting his gaze, he sought the man who’d become his friend.
Van sat against the wall with his arms shackled, head tilted back, and eyes closed. Tate didn’t have to be a mind reader to interpret the conflict twisting his face.
If Van participated in this, it would be a betrayal to Amber. If he didn’t, they were all dead. He and Tate were probably dead regardless. But Lucia had a chance.
With her cheek on Van’s thigh, she silently shook with full-body tremors. Tate gave her intense, meaningful eye-contact that said all the things he couldn’t. I’ll kill for you. Die for you. You’ll be okay. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met.
Van lowered his head and shared a look with Tate, a miserable moment of commiseration. Then Van acceded with a single nod.
Tate closed his eyes, steeling himself. He felt completely and utterly defeated, his body a broken, worthless mess. He could handle the physical damage. He could survive it. It was the emotional blows that would bring him to his end.
He needed a mind-over-matter pep talk. If he were brave enough, the strength of willpower would help him overcome. He’d survived ten weeks beneath Van’s thrusts. He could endure a few minutes, or hours, however long it took.
Reciprocating, however, was something entirely different.
“I found your limit.” Badell stood and leaned against the wall. “It seems you won’t, in fact, do everything—”
“Yes. The answer is yes,” he whispered. “Send her out of the room.”
Badell straightened, his brow lifting in shock before he emptied his expression. “She’ll witness your undoing. That’s nonnegotiable.”
He stepped to the door, opened it, and spoke quietly in Spanish to whoever waited on the other side.
With a hard swallow, Tate returned his attention to Lucia, focusing on their hands and the dismal inches that separated them. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to see this.”
Her mouth moved, and her chest rose and fell with the effort to speak, but nothing came out. She directed her eyes at her fingers, where they stretched toward his, and returned to his gaze.
“Shh. I know.” His breathing accelerated, and he fought to calm himself down. “I’m here. No matter what happens, I’m with you. Only you.”
The door closed, and Badell prowled toward him with three armed guards in tow. The men went to Van, two aiming rifles while the third unlocked his shackles.
Once free, he pulled his arms in front him, rubbing his wrists.
Please, Van. Don’t do anything stupid.
Van thought about it. Tate saw the calculation in his silver eyes as he glared at the weapons pointed at his head. Then he turned to Lucia and lifted her fully onto his lap.
The guards kept their guns trained as he stood, taking her with him. Badell didn’t stop him as he carried her closer and placed her on the floor, on her back, aligning her body against Tate’s.
Thank you. Tate edged toward her with deliriously painful movements until the only thing separating them was his injured arm.
The press of her skin against the wound ignited unfathomable anguish, but he didn’t care. He held the arm against his stomach and wrapped the other across her torso.
Fuck, how he’d needed to hold her like this. He needed her. More of her. More touching. More talking. More smiles. More time.
Their five days together had been the best days of his life. They’d lived in dearth and turmoil in a windowless room, yet they’d craved nothing but each other. It was confounding the way he connected to her so effortlessly, the way she fit so perfectly in his arms, against his body, and inside his heart.
Five days hadn’t been enough. He wanted to laugh with her, fight with her, make up with her. He wanted a life with her. A lifetime. A forever.
Sweat beaded on her sallow face and drenched her t-shirt and jeans. Van had dressed her in those clothes while Tate had been on the phone with Cole. It felt like an eternity ago.
For the past five days, he thought he had this rescue mission under control. He’d sent off the blood samples and just needed a couple more days to receive the results. But it was too late for that.
He should’ve called Matias the moment he made contact with Lucia. Her illness, though… It was an endless, looming threat. Not even Matias had the means to cure her in time. Without the medicine, her fate was dire.
After she was raped, however, all bets were off. Tate had contacted Matias sometime before midnight. If dawn was an hour away, he’d been in this room for seven hours.
And so had she.
He called forth the energy to hug her tighter, savoring the flow of her breaths, the sweet scent of her hair, and the pulse in her throat as he kissed her neck. He ached to see her healthy and smiling and free. It would be the greatest gift, the ultimate definition of happiness.
“I love you,” he whispered.
Her eyes squeezed shut, and her face crumpled with a weak nod.
Badell moved to the far side of the room and perched on the stool. His shoes left deep footprints in the thick puddles of blood.
My blood.
It ran from his body to the wall. There was so much of it on the floor, the wood board, and his jeans, he didn’t understand how he was still breathing. He wasn’t just physically spent. His emotions had run the gamut for hours, churning from intense trauma and helplessness to scathing wrath and hatred. The latter simmered anew as he met his tormentor’s soulless eyes.
“You’ll give her the medicine and let her and Van leave Caracas alive and unharmed.” He lifted his chin with might and rage, eyes hard and breaths seething with vehemence.
“You have my word.” Badell curled a hand beneath his chin, watching him, as if studying a curious object.
He looked away, vanishing the demon from his sight and his mind. As far as Tate was concerned, Badell and his guards were no longer in the room.
That left Van, who circled his feet and lowered to the floor behind him. “Stay where you are.”
It wasn’t like he could go anywhere. The constant state of his throbbing, bleeding torment would prevent him from getting his legs beneath him.
“I don’t want to do this,” Van said in a dead tone.
“I know.”
“It’s karma. I’ve carried this debt for so long. For the crimes I committed against you.” Van leaned in, whispering at his ear. “When this is over, you and I are even. No more bad blood between us.”
Tate nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere, wholly occupied by what was about to happen.
“Give me permission.” Van rested a hand on the button of Tate’s jeans.
There had been a time when Van got off on taking without consent. And while every fiber in Tate’s body screamed in horror, there was only one answer. “You have it.”
“I’ll only touch you where I need to.” A crack in Van’s monotone voice.
The hand on Tate’s zipper moved efficiently, opening the je
ans and pulling them down with the briefs to gather at mid-thigh. Then he lifted Tate’s leg as far as the denim would allow and rested his thigh across Lucia’s.
“Too heavy.” Tate groaned through horrendous tremors.
“Stay.” Lucia’s whisper was barely audible as she curled a weak hand around his leg.
He wouldn’t deny her the closeness, but once this began, there would be no eye contact. If he survived the night, he didn’t know how she would be able to look at him the same. He couldn’t bear to see that shift in her gaze now.
Van leaned away, leaving Tate’s body wrapped around the side of hers. His cock and balls lay exposed and lifeless against her denim-clad thigh, his legs slightly spread, and his backside bare and vulnerable.
With his bleeding arm trapped between them, the pain was a sharp, constant presence. But it was nothing compared to the unholy dread amassing inside him.
Van’s zipper sounded at his back, followed by the slapping of a fist against flesh. Van was stroking himself to get hard, and there was a measure of comfort in that, knowing his friend wasn’t aroused.
“Tate.” Her lips trembled through words that found no voice.
He tried to read her mouth.
Me… Look at me…
He didn’t need to look at her to see her, sense her, feel her. She was inside him, part of him, embedded in his being. Curled around her delicate frame, he kissed her cheek, buried his face in her neck, and waited.
Several minutes passed before he heard Van spitting. Then a wet finger forced its way into his rectum.
Unbidden, he tensed up and stopped breathing.
“Was I the last person here?” Van asked quietly.
Six years ago. More than enough time to physically heal.
“Yes,” he grated through clamped teeth.
“Don’t clench.” Van removed his finger and replaced it with something much wider. “You remember what to do.”
Breathe. Relax. Push back.
The instant Van pushed in, Tate couldn’t help it. He fought. The instinct to buck, kick, spit, and punch was uncontrollable. But he had no stamina, no energy, and Van easily subdued him.
“Hold still.” With a grip on his hair, Van pushed his head toward Lucia, pressing his face into her neck.
Then the hand was gone, and all that remained was the invasion.
Slow and cautious, Van buried himself to the hilt. The burning fullness was much like Tate remembered, but also different. Maybe because his back, his ribs, his arms, everything was on fire. Or maybe it was the comfort of Lucia’s hand on his leg and the rasp of her breaths at his ear.
Van held his body away as he drove in and out, no part of him touching Tate’s back. Fingers clutched his hip for leverage, but this wasn’t a dominant fucking. It wasn’t taunting or cruel with the purpose of degradation.
It was efficient, merciful, and far gentler than anything he’d ever experienced with Van Quiso.
But it still hurt. A shameful, defenseless, lasting hurt that annihilated a man’s dignity in one desecrating thrust.
He clung to Lucia, rubbing his lips against the tears that found their way to her neck. Her tears. And his.
Then it was over.
Van quickly pulled out and rolled to his back. Silent. So quiet it didn’t sound like he was breathing.
“Show me.” Badell leaned forward on the stool, craning his neck.
He wanted to see evidence of Van’s release.
With a shaky hand, Tate reached behind him and spread his cheeks to expose the wetness Van left behind.
“Very good,” Badell said. “Now switch.”
Switch places.
He lay like the dead, half on top of Lucia’s body, no doubt crushing her damaged organs. He didn’t have it in him to move, let alone do what Badell demanded.
His physical self teemed with brutal spasms and fever. But his mind was numb. Detached. Unresponsive.
Unending pain, exhaustion, and humiliation had taken its toll. He’d finally reached the limit of his ability. He couldn’t even will himself to look into her eyes.
“I failed you,” he whispered.
Her head twitched side to side, knocking more tears free. The hand on his leg squeezed, and her other one fumbled between them.
When she bumped into his punctured arm, he swallowed an agonized roar. She whimpered and sucked in a breath, reaching her hand lower, sliding along his thigh until she found what she sought.
Trembling fingers encircled his flaccid cock. Then she began to stroke.
He couldn’t. Even if he were able to send blood to that part of himself, how would he thrust? How would he stay hard inside of Van’s body?
But she was determined. Why was that? She wouldn’t push him into this depravity just to save her own life.
Suspicion aroused his senses.
Shifting his hand from her shoulder to her jaw, he turned her head and leaned up. Vertigo threatened to knock him sideways, and the cords in his neck quivered to hold up his skull. But he pushed through the pain and met her gaze.
Something flashed in her eyes, a fierce spark of perseverance.
If he were somehow able to satisfy Badell’s demand, she would leave this place. She would have to leave him behind. But that wasn’t what her expression conveyed.
He let his head drop, returning his mouth to her ear. “Don’t you dare put your life on the line for me. Understand?”
A feeble nod.
“I can do this.” He reached between them, nudged her arm away, and took his cock in hand.
The task was grueling. Each stroke aggravated the mangled muscles in his back. Every exerted breath squeezed the cracks in his ribs. There was no pleasure in it. And no blood. His dick refused to harden.
Then her hand was there again, wrapping around his, sliding in tandem, and lending him strength. He focused on her touch, on her slender weight beneath him, and on the sigh that parted her lips. He narrowed all his concentration on the pleasure and filled his mind with one image: Her pussy.
Her soft pink folds swelled so beautifully when she was aroused. She was too small for him, and he had to work himself in, but she was a greedy little thing, and she would spread her creamy thighs and welcome him, gasping and trembling as he seated himself to the root.
Christ, she turned him on. Her exotic beauty, resilience, and submissive nature was a trifecta of perfection. She was his ideal mate in every way.
She was his.
He slid his fingers over the top of hers and rocked into her fist. His breathing sped up. His pulse accelerated, and fuck him, but he stirred to life. It was medically impossible and beyond disturbing, but he had an erection and intended to keep it.
Grinding harder against her grip, he angled his neck until his lips found hers. The kiss was clumsy and languorous, but holy hell, her taste. The salty sweetness of her mouth aroused him further, heating his blood and driving his hips.
“I want you,” he breathed against her lips.
“Van,” she gasped weakly and looked at the man leaning over his back.
Van. That was who he needed to want right now. How? How the ever-loving fuck would he do this?
She tightened her hand around his shriveling erection and hardened her eyes. Goddamn, he loved her spirit, but it was going to take a lot more than a glare to push him past the physical and mental blocks.
“I have to rearrange us.” Van moved to kneel on the other side of Lucia, with his jeans partially zipped up. “Lucia, he’ll need his good arm to brace himself. Keep him hard and…positioned.”
Her chin trembled as she attempted a nod.
Van looked at Tate with an expression that didn’t belong on his face. Even in his worst moments, he was power and passion and dominance. But now… Now, he wore a mask that didn’t fit. A facade that buttoned up his emotions and sucked the life from his eyes.
“When we start, don’t look at me,” Van said coldly. “Keep your eyes closed. Focus on her hand. I’ll do the rest.”
Shame coiled inside him, and it quickly spiraled into rage, whipping his heart against broken ribs and chopping his breaths. He gnashed his teeth, hating this for Van and hating himself for being so goddamn weak.
“Listen to me, dickhead.” Van’s voice was sharp and menacing—a tone Tate hadn’t heard since the attic. “You’re going to stop being a pussy and power through this. Close your fucking eyes and don’t open them until you come.”
He clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut. Her hand, her hand, her hand… He felt the stroke of her fingers, appreciated it, and wrapped all his thoughts around it as the sounds of shuffling moved around him.
The comforting press of her body slid away. Then her touch was gone, too. He kept his eyes closed and tried not to imagine how this would work. Van used to arrange his captives in all sorts of vulgar positions. It was difficult not to think of that as limbs and bodies bumped against him.
He balanced on his side with his head on the floor, his throbbing arm pressed against his stomach, and his limp cock in his hand. Someone shifted close against his front, and he knew it wasn’t Lucia. The breathing was too controlled, the physique too wide and hard.
As he tried to stimulate his dick, his knuckles brushed against skin and rigid muscle. Given the position and shape, he didn’t have to open his eyes to see Van’s bare ass. He suspected Van was face down beside him, with Lucia on the other side of Van.
Her hand wrapped around his shaft, her arm stretching over Van’s backside. He didn’t look as she rubbed and fondled him. Didn’t open his eyes as she coaxed the blood back into his cock. He kept his thoughts on her and her alone, fantasizing about every dip and curve on her body, the taste of her lips, and the noises she made when he got himself off inside her tight cunt.
It took a lifetime to bring him to hardness, and by the time he was stiff enough, he’d fucked her in his mind in every position, in dozens of places and scenarios.
She held onto his erection as he shifted his weight and crawled over Van’s prone body. The muscle tone, the masculine scent, even the feel of the t-shirt was wrong. Add to that the blazing pain across his back and down his arm, and he started to soften.
