by Pam Godwin
But he’d made it this far. He just needed to…lift…adjust… His good arm shook like a bitch as he braced it between Van and Lucia and supported the weight of his torso.
A sheen of sweat formed on his face, and his lungs huffed and wheezed with agonizing effort. He held his useless arm against his chest and dragged his knees into the V of Van’s spread legs beneath him.
Then the real torture began.
Lucia, who was right beside him now, put all her strength and energy into rousing him. When he hardened, she lined him up. When he softened, she went at it again, stroking, squeezing, and encouraging with determined fingers.
Van must’ve already lubed himself with spit because his opening was wet. But Tate couldn’t get it done. Every time he pressed in, his semi deflated.
Minutes passed. Too many to track. The countless starts and stops and position adjustments put enormous stress on his already weak body. He’d lost so much damn blood. Eventually, his muscles tired. His arm gave out, and he collapsed on top of Van’s back.
Then he opened his eyes.
Van lay face down on the floor beneath Tate, braced on elbows with his head bent and his face pressed in the cup of his hands. Discomfort and strain flexed across his back beneath the shirt. His entire body was a concrete slab of tension.
This man wasn’t a bottom. Not even close. He’d been sexually abused as a child and probably hadn’t taken a man this way since he escaped that trauma.
“I’m so fucking sorry.” Tate rested his cheek against Van’s spine, his eyes burning with regret.
“Don’t.” Van pulled his arms beneath him and slowly lifted to hands and knees.
The position slid Tate to kneel behind Van, the weight of his upper body resting on top of Van’s back.
“Instead of apologizing,” Van said in a cruel voice, “think about all the times I pounded you into the floor. All the times I held you down while you begged me to stop until your throat was raw and your ass was bleeding. Think about that, Tate, while you fuck me.”
The first time Van forced him was forever branded in his brain.
His insides ripping and tearing around Van’s ruthless thrusts.
Arms and legs restrained.
Mouth gagged.
His body no longer his own.
He’d wanted to kill Van then, but beneath that sinister wish lurked even darker thoughts. So many times, in the isolation of that attic, he’d imagined doing to Van all the things Van had done to him. He’d imagined fucking his captor until his cock dripped with blood.
He didn’t want that now, but he harnessed those feelings—the vengeance, the violence, and the brutal urge to reclaim his dominance, to reclaim himself.
He wasn’t a pussy. He wasn’t emasculated. He controlled how this ended.
With a surge of empowerment, he balanced on his knees and grabbed Lucia’s hand, showing her the speed and pressure he needed to get hard. It took a while. Fuck, it took goddamn forever, but he stayed focused, clear-headed, and finally hard.
He sank into Van’s body in a single stroke, pushing with a grunt that made Van gasp and shudder. He found Lucia’s eyes, gripped her hand, and held onto both as he gave into the forbidden pleasure and chased his release.
It was the longest minutes of his life. The climb was a battle of concentration. The peak was short-lived and cathartic, and the downward spiral dropped him into guilt-ridden hell.
He fucked, and he came, and he despised himself for it.
Van lowered him to the floor on his side as Badell stepped toward them and examined the evidence.
Every cell and nerve in Tate’s body shivered with scorching pain. A shroud of darkness tried to pull him under, and he fought it, rapidly blinking as he sought Lucia.
When their eyes connected and locked, the spinning, wobbly world righted itself. He fucking loved her, and as long as she lived, everything would be okay.
“You did well.” Badell’s voice reached his ear, distant and muffled.
“You made a promise,” he tried to say. His lips felt numb.
“I will honor it.” Badell lifted Lucia’s lethargic body from the floor and carried her out of the room.
CHAPTER 25
Lucia lay on the mattress in Tiago’s room, feigning sleep as her mind whirled and panicked.
A few feet away, Tiago grunted through an upper-body workout. Dumbbells lifted and hit the floor. His footsteps paced. Then he started again.
She’d passed out before she received the injection, then again after. Though she’d been awake for the last hour, she’d held herself still and quiet, waiting for the medicine to saturate her system. Waiting for her strength to return and her brain to fire on all cylinders. With her eyes closed and the desperation to get to Tate gnawing at her nerves, the wait had been brutal.
But she was fully alert now. Perhaps eighty-percent back to health. Very little pain in her abdomen. No paralysis.
She was alive.
Physically.
Emotionally, she’d died a hundred times over. Died every time the blade had made a new cut in Tate’s flesh. She’d died in that torture chamber and continued to do so.
The monstrosity inflicted upon his back, the icepick in his arm, his screams, the blood, the sodomy, the heartbreak… It replayed and fermented and thrashed inside her, crushing her chest and blackening her thoughts.
Whether Tiago let her go didn’t matter. He would never free her heart.
Her person.
The man she loved.
The man who proved his love in the most excruciating ways imaginable.
Tears simmered beneath her eyelids. She willed them away, relaxed her face muscles, and continued the ruse of sleep.
Tiago had imprisoned her for eleven years. He would do the same to Tate just to rest his gaze on his macabre artwork every day. That knowledge had plagued her in the basement, and she’d spent those gut-wrenching hours devising a different ending.
She would walk out of the compound today, and Tate and Van would be with her. She knew exactly how she would do it.
Except she hadn’t expected to wake on Tiago’s bed. She needed to be near the chairs, so she could use one as a weapon.
There were other surprises, too. Tiago never lifted weights in her presence. Never allowed her in his room for this long. And never, never, never permitted her to wear clothes in here. The fact that she was dressed meant he’d been in a hellfire hurry to give her the injection.
But she didn’t have her guns.
The thud of a dumbbell against the floor resounded through the room. If one of those was twenty or thirty pounds, it would be light enough for her to lift. And heavy enough to crush a skull.
She peeked across the room from beneath barely raised lashes.
Tiago hissed through a set of curls, his bicep flexing with each heave of the dumbbell. Covered in sweat and dressed in a tank top and athletic shorts, he was angled toward her with his eyes down and his brow creased.
He was disgustingly handsome, sculpted all over, and evil down to the morrow of his bones.
She hated him with a seething passion that clouded her vision and poisoned her blood. Murder was the only way to relieve the pressure swelling behind her eyes. When she killed him, she wouldn’t feel an ounce of remorse.
Multiple dumbbells of various sizes scattered around his feet, and several of those looked like the weight she needed.
She twitched the muscles in her legs and arms, testing responsiveness. Everything moved as it should.
The plan will work.
Her insides tangled in a heap of nerves, making it harder and harder to initiate the first step. Once she alerted him she was awake, it would be go time. No turning back.
She pulled in a deep breath, sharpened her mind, and deliberately released a sickly moan.
The dumbbell paused mid-curl. He lowered it to the floor and prowled toward her. The mattress sloped beneath his knee, and his hand cupped her face.
“How do you feel?�
� His fingers, sweaty and vile, crept along her jaw.
“Where’s Tate?” She widened her eyes in a semblance of panic and wheezed a cough from her throat.
“You need to rest.” He gripped her chin, a gentle pressure.
“No.” She bowed her back and flailed as if trying to sit up but couldn’t.
Except she could. The flexing of muscle in her core and limbs gave her hope. She was strong enough. Definitely determined enough. She could do this.
“I want to leave.” She shot him a fierce look, one he’d come to expect from her. “You promised.”
“I’ll let you go, after we have a conversation.”
Restlessness trembled through her. She didn’t want to spend another second with this man. Didn’t want any part of his slippery tricks or mind games.
“You’re going to leave Caracas without Tate.” He tightened his fingers on her face, as if expecting her to jerk away.
She didn’t have to fake the quiver in her lips. If her plan failed, Tate and Van would never see outside of these walls again.
“You care for him.” His touch softened, ghosting across her cheek. “You might even love him. Those feelings will eat at you and consume you and you’ll return to Caracas with a half-cocked rescue plan. You’ll probably attempt to kill me, and you’ll die trying.”
Her jaw clenched. He has no idea.
“I won’t. I’ll stay away.” She made her voice shake. “Please. Just let me go.”
“I investigated your friends.” He stood from the mattress where it lay on the floor and paced away. “I learned that Tate Vades and Van Quiso are missing persons, living under the radar in Austin, Texas.”
Her stomach folded in. Tiago had been with her the entire night. An investigation like that would’ve taken time.
“How long have you known?” Her voice fractured.
“Six days.” He shot her a disapproving glare. “I investigate every man you fuck at that club.”
Oh God, oh God, oh fuck. Did he know she’d sneaked out the back door that night? Or that she spent five days with Tate? Or that Tate was close to her sister and her sister was alive?
Why did he wait six days to capture Tate?
Because he loves his twisted mind games.
“I know Van Quiso’s married,” he said. “But I didn’t know about his criminal history until he told me.”
Van’s married?
Her fingers clenched at her sides. The forced sex between Van and Tate had been harrowing enough. The fact that Van was married made it even worse. She wanted to scream and kick at the unfairness of it, but she kept herself lethargic. She needed Tiago to believe she was too weak and defeated to be threatening.
He went on to describe Tate’s roommates, their house, and the two-hundred-acre property Van shared with his wife. Not once did he mention Camila or Matias. He either hadn’t made the connection between Van and Camila or he was deliberately fucking with Lucia’s head.
The scariest part was his discovery of Van’s wife and Tate’s friends. Tiago knew where they lived and was vindictive enough to go after them.
Even more reason to kill him.
“I’m relocating.” He stood in the center of the room, arms crossed with a knuckle resting beneath his pensive frown. “I found something…a new interest I’m pursuing.”
That was fucking cryptic. And inconsequential. He wouldn’t be leaving this room alive.
“When I let you go,” he said, “you can try to come back for Tate, but he won’t be here. I’m taking him with me.”
The hell he was.
He stared at her like he expected a reaction, and she was more than ready to give him one.
In a series of intentional movements, she surged upward, swayed dizzily, and tumbled back down like a rag doll.
“Lucia.” He watched her in that way he always did, head tilted and eyes tracking her with unfeeling curiosity. “You’re not ready to get up.”
Swinging her legs to the floor, she exaggerated every motion as she climbed to her feet. With staggering steps, she made her limbs look cumbersome and awkward.
While she didn’t glance at the dumbbells, her senses narrowed on the one she wanted. Each weaving, uncoordinated stumble brought her closer, closer…
Close enough.
She let her ankle twist without injuring it, pretended to lose her balance, and angled her fall so that she landed with her fingers next to the dumbbell.
“Always so stubborn.” He strolled toward her with his hands behind him.
Lowering into a crouch beside her hip, he trailed the softest touch down her spine. The glide of his fingers became a rubbing hand that traveled the length of her back. The same hand that had tortured and scarred Tate without mercy.
She lay still beneath the affection, pushing air in and out of her lungs noisily and intentionally. If Tiago would just lower his head a little more, she wouldn’t have to swing so far.
“I’ve treated you badly.” He smoothed his fingers through her hair, gently and rhythmically. “Sometimes, I wish I could undo the things I’ve done. I wish…” His hand paused, and he let it fall to the floor beside her shoulder. “Well, I can’t change my plans for Tate, but you have the power to give him what he wants most. You can start over, stay alive, and move on. He wants you happy, and you can be that for him. His survival is up to you.”
She would do better than that.
With a sweep of her hand across the dumbbell, she curled her fingers around the bar and jerked it from the floor. It was heavier than she expected, and she gritted her teeth, accidentally releasing a warning grunt before swinging it toward his head.
It connected with his temple, and his eyes widened with a gasp. The heavy force of the momentum sent him backwards, and his arms flew up to grab her. But she was ready for it, dodging his hands, rearing back, and striking again.
The second hit landed higher up on his skull, with a crunch of bone, a wet smack, and a dead fall to the floor. He slumped on his back, eyes closed, with his legs bent beneath him. Blood saturated his black hair and spread a slick red pool beneath his head.
I did it.
The weight fell from her shaking hand, and her breath hung in her throat. She waited for him to rise up and attack. Waited for the guards to rush in. Waited for this to not be real.
I actually did it.
I killed him.
I fucking killed Tiago Badell.
Bile rose up, and she dry heaved. No sound. No vomit. Just cold, paralyzing shock.
And sorrow.
It stitched through her chest in pinprick stabs, causing her to double-over.
She didn’t want to feel a damn thing for him, didn’t want to dwell on the tenderness he’d shown her or the soft words he’d whispered. She needed to slam the weight against his head over and over until his face was as mutilated and unrecognizable as Tate’s back.
But she couldn’t.
She wasn’t a monster.
You’re a pretty little flicker of compassion, begging to be extinguished.
She scrambled away from his lifeless body and ran toward the safe in the closet. The detour would be a waste of time, but she couldn’t leave without checking.
Her hands fumbled with the lock’s dial, spinning through number combinations and testing the lever. She would never guess it, and every second she delayed was a risk to Tate’s life.
She stepped back. Leaving behind the medicine had been part of her plan. She couldn’t do anything to change that.
With a resolved breath, she pivoted and faced the body.
The sticky puddle beneath his head had doubled in size. The sight of his slack face, matted hair, and gory wound on his skull made her feel sick. Villainous. Her stomach knotted, and her scalp tingled with unease.
She’d killed him in cold blood.
So much for not feeling remorse. God, I’m so fucked-up.
Turning on her heel, she strode toward the door.
She still wore her boots, jeans, and
shirt. Dried blood stained her chest and arms. Tate’s blood. If Tiago’s death had splattered on her, it wasn’t noticeable.
At the door, she rested a hand on the knob and checked the line of sight between her position and the body. The guards wouldn’t see Tiago unless they pushed the door all the way open.
It would be easy to enter the hall without being questioned by them. She did it every morning after every injection, and Tiago rarely followed her out. Today would be the same.
She swallowed, emptied her expression, and turned the knob.
Her Berettas weren’t on the bench in the hall. Being unarmed would suck for the next few minutes, but it worked in her favor.
The guards gave her a cursory glance. She returned one of her own as she slipped out, shut the door behind her, and made her way down the hall.
All they had to do is peek inside his room. If they were suspicious or simply had a question for him, the door was unlocked. With just a turn of that knob, they would know what she did. And they would kill her.
Fucking hell, she trembled. Her hands shook, and she clenched them. Her heart beat so fast she felt dizzy and overloaded with tension.
She didn’t know what Tiago’s plans had been for her once he released her. But on a normal day, two guards would be waiting in the lobby, watching for her so they could escort her back to the apartment. Escaping them wouldn’t be an option. She would have to neutralize them quietly and discreetly.
She weaved through the labyrinth of corridors, passing countless men—thieves, kidnappers, murderers, rapists. The worst of humanity. And they had no idea she’d killed their commander.
As the lobby came into view, she veered to the left and slipped into the kitchen.
Food and cookware scattered steel counter tops without a single person in sight.
Yes! I lucked out.
She rushed toward a rack of utensils and snatched the biggest knife. Then something moved in the pantry behind her, the squeak of sneakers on tiled floors.
Quickly and carefully, she concealed the blade in her boot and spun toward the sound.
