by Pam Godwin
He crossed the main room, passing a row of mattresses. The night shift occupied two of the beds, both guards sleeping soundly.
The large space opened to the kitchen, where Boones sat at the table with his gaze on a laptop.
“You’re still on bed rest,” the old man said in perfect English. His eyes didn’t lift from the screen as he switched to Tigrayit, the Afroasiatic language of his people. “Go back to your room before I—”
“Before you what?” he asked in the same tongue. “Are you going to hit me with those brittle, antique sticks you call arms?”
“Idiot. Suit yourself. When you die—”
“Yeah, I know. You’re taking all my money and moving to Florida.”
Boones laughed softly, a deep comforting sound. “Where’s the girl?”
“Bleeding all over the bed.”
The laptop slammed shut, and Boones shoved to his feet. “You’ve been out of your room all of five minutes, and you’re already butchering—”
“She’s alive, asshole.” He smirked, enjoying the opportunity to rile Boones. “She bleeds every month.”
Boones studied him with dark, incisive eyes. Had things gone differently with Kate last night, they would be having a different conversation. Nevertheless, Boones knew her life still hung on a fragile leash. He didn’t like it, but it was the way of this world. He accepted that the day he fled Eritrea.
“I’ll take care of it.” Boones approached, his expression morphing into that of a doctor as he looked over Tiago’s head. “You need to sit.”
“I need clothes, for her and me.” He remained standing. “Jeans, t-shirts…”
Boones made a humming noise and prodded a finger around the skull wounds. “Any dizziness this morning? Double vision?”
“No. Add gym shorts and running shoes to the list.”
“I didn’t approve exercise. Your body needs time to heal and—”
“I need my strength back.” He pulled away from Boones’ examination. “Stop coddling.”
The stairs creaked, and he turned toward the sound.
Kate descended with tentative steps, her eyes taking in her surroundings as Arturo followed closely behind. When she reached the kitchen, Tiago gestured at the massive man at her back.
“Arturo will be your constant shadow when you’re out of your room.” He clamped a hand on the old man’s bony shoulder. “You met Boones.”
She offered a tight smile that faded quickly.
“I have a closet stocked with supplies,” Boones said in English and motioned for her to follow him to the back wall.
She trailed after him, her movements lissome and unintentionally seductive. She was surrounded by violent criminals, her future dark and nebulous, yet she held her shoulders back and spine straight.
As Boones filled a plastic bag with feminine products, she stood beside him, discreetly scanning the kitchen from beneath the veil of her hair. It wouldn’t be hard to find knives, scissors, or any number of things scattered around that could be used to stab or strangle.
Arturo would be on her before she managed to slip even the smallest needle beneath her dress. But Tiago appreciated the fight blazing inside her. He savored it, riveted by the way her hand twitched at her side and how her small toes gripped the stone floor. She had grit.
“I put some weights in the backroom,” Arturo said, breaking his trance. “When you’re ready to work out again.”
Boones glanced back at that, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening with disapproval. But he bit his tongue. He never berated or argued with Tiago in front of others, because he understood the importance of setting an example. Respect was paramount in running a gang.
When Boones shooed her away, she carried her supplies back to her room with Arturo on her heels.
Tiago waited for the door to shut upstairs and switched back to Boones’ native language. “Do you have an update on Lucia?”
“She’s still working her way along the coast.”
“With Cole Hartman?”
“Yes.” Boones ambled through the kitchen, setting out a skillet and gathering eggs.
“I need to speed up her search.” He explained the promise he made to Kate and the phone call to Liv Reed. “If Lucia doesn’t find Tate in six months, I have to release him, which defeats everything I set into motion.”
“Let go of this fixation, son. It’s not healthy.”
He crossed his arms, refusing to engage in another argument about this.
“All right.” Boones cut his eyes at him. “What are you suggesting?”
“Leave some bread crumbs. She’s looking for the picture on Tate’s back. Pay some of the locals in the surrounding towns to tell the story about the Medio del Corazón monastery to anyone asking about gates. Once she hears the folklore, she’ll know to look for him there.”
“Very well. Anything else?”
He ran a hand over his partially-shaved head and eyed the gray fuzz that Boones kept religiously trimmed on his scalp. “Where are your clippers?”
“Bathroom.” Boones thrust a thumb over his shoulder.
He strode down the hall, found a zippered black pouch of barber supplies, and exited the bathroom without a glance at the mirror. When he returned to the kitchen, Kate was on her way down the stairs.
She ate her eggs and toast in silence while he conferred with Boones and Arturo about business in Caracas. As they conversed in languages she couldn’t interpret, Boones seemed more interested in her presence than Tiago’s month-long absence from the city. His questions about her were relentless.
What do you plan to do with her? Will she return with us to Caracas? Is she a replacement for Lucia?
Since Tiago didn’t have answers, he didn’t give any and instead shifted the conversation back to border issues and smuggling routes.
As they wrapped up the meal, one of the night shift guards climbed out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen, scratching his bald head.
“I thought I smelled breakfast.” The man did a double-take at the table, his tattooed eyes fixed on Kate before darting to Tiago. “Jefe.” He straightened and held his arms at his sides. “It’s good to see you up and around, sir. You look well.”
With a nod, Tiago turned to Kate, who sat stiffly beside him with her jaw hanging open. “Kate, this is Blueballs.”
“Blueballs,” she echoed, staring at the man’s blue eyeballs.
Blueballs grinned and widened his eyes to give her a better look.
“How did you…?” She pointed at the freakish coloring of ink that turned the whites of his eyes bright blue.
“The dumbass tattooed his sclera.” Boones stood and carried his dishes to the sink. “He’s lucky he’s not blind.”
“Hey! I’m a professional.” Blueballs shifted back to Tiago. “Speaking of… I’ll get started on Tate’s tattoo today.”
“What?” Kate gasped. “Is he here?”
Tiago clenched a fist under the table, seconds from cutting the tongue out of Blueballs’ blabbing mouth.
“No, he’s…” Blueballs paled, gripped the back of his neck, and recovered quickly. “It’s a long drive, so I need to head out soon.”
When he dared a glance at Tiago, his stupid blue eyes didn’t blink. He’d fucked up, said too much, and knew the consequences. He wouldn’t be walking out of here alive.
Kate slumped against the back of the chair, watching Blueballs with a downcast expression. “When you see Tate…” She sniffed and rubbed her nose. “Please, be kind to him. He’s suffered enough.”
If she hadn’t bought the lie about Tate’s location, she would’ve shown signs of edginess and glanced at the door, itching to escape and save her friend. She wouldn’t need to run far to stumble upon the gates of the monastery and the shack behind it.
But she believed Blueballs, and her gullibility just saved his life.
“You heard her.” Tiago turned back to his breakfast. “Better get going.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Blue
balls made a beeline out of the house.
Without another word, Kate moved to the sink and started on the dishes. During her preoccupation with the task, she didn’t notice the container of food Boones slipped into his medical bag.
A moment later, he left without announcing his departure. She had no idea he was on his way to deliver breakfast to Tate.
Keeping her in the dark about Tate’s location wouldn’t be easy. If she knew he was less than a mile away, there was no telling what she would risk in her attempt to see him.
The solution was to return to Caracas as soon as possible, take her with them, and leave someone here to care for Tate. But Tiago couldn’t return until he built some of his strength back. He needed to be able to run when necessary, hold a weapon without tiring, and trust that his vision wouldn’t crap out on him.
He needed another week of recovery. Maybe two.
She finished the dishes and turned away from the sink, staring at him expectantly. “I’d like to step outside for some fresh air.”
“You’ll cut my hair first.” Tiago nodded at the trimmer kit on the table.
“Me?” She shrunk back in revulsion and glanced at Arturo. “Why can’t he do it?”
Arturo leaned against the wall, supervising her every move with a deceptively bored expression.
“I said you’re doing it.” He cast her a hard glare.
“You want to put scissors in my hands?”
“Yes, unless you know another way to cut hair.” He unzipped the black pouch full of barber accessories.
She stepped forward, eyes zeroing in on the shearing tools. When she reached his chair, her fingers floated over a pair of sharp blades, lifting them.
“Use this on the sides.” He removed the cordless clippers and set it on the table beside her.
She edged closer, but not close enough. He gripped her waist and tugged, wordlessly ordering her to stand in the V of his spread knees.
Her rigid, narrow-shouldered body felt surprisingly curvy beneath his hands. He pulled her another step into his space, and the tantalizing scent of her skin met his nose.
Goddamn, she smelled fantastic. His position in the chair put his face inches from her chest, and at this proximity, the white linen dress was see-through. If she knew he was ogling the supple rings of pink around her nipples, she would be mortified.
She had a modest way of holding herself, as if unaware of her beauty and the power it held over the opposite sex. Her innocence only made him harder.
As she lifted her hands near his head, the round shape of her tits filled his view, drying his mouth. A glance lower revealed the apex of her thighs and the shadowed patch of hair there. No panties. Fucking torture.
The dress fell to mid-thigh, and her bare cunt was right there for the taking. The idea locked things up inside him and scrambled his brain.
He jerked his attention back to her face. Her gaze narrowed on his hair, calm and astute. Her fingers flexed around the scissors, her hands hovering out to the sides.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” he asked.
“Sometimes, I shave my asshole. This isn’t any different.”
Arturo choked on a laugh and coughed into his fist.
The mention of her asshole painted a glorious picture in Tiago’s mind—her body spread out before him, her little pucker taking his cock, clenching and dripping with his come.
She called to his testosterone, summoning the most primal part of him to mount, fuck, bite, cut, carve, and make her bleed.
He bit down on a groan, his skin hot and itchy. Christ, he was starting to sweat and needed to get a handle on this. On her.
Reaching up, he yanked down the top of her strapless dress and held the fabric tight around her waist.
“What are you doing?” She shrieked and flailed her arms.
He caught the hand that held the scissors, plucking them from her fingers.
“Stop!” She flattened her palms over her exposed chest and twisted, trying to escape his grip on her clothes. “Let go.”
He wrangled her arms down and restrained them behind her, holding her wrists in one fist. All that soft, feminine flesh was so damn tempting. He wanted to sink his teeth into her heaving tits, mark her, claim her. But that wasn’t how he did things.
Maybe he’d allow himself to touch her, but if anyone fucked her, it would be his guards.
“Do you think she’s pretty?” he asked Arturo.
“Very much, Jefe.”
She shook her head rapidly, her breaths coming hard and fast, bouncing her gorgeous rack.
He traced the scissors across the slope of one breast, taunting her as he asked his guard, “Do you want to fuck her?”
“More than anything.” Arturo stood straighter, interest smoldering in his eyes.
“No, please. Don’t do this.” She fought harder in his hold.
He yanked her against him and pressed the closed blades of the scissors against her pussy, with only the thin layer of linen between her delicate skin and the steel edge.
“If you cut me, draw blood, or disobey me in any way, Arturo will fuck your ass.” He adjusted his grip, angling the sharp tip against her tight, little opening. “When he’s finished, I’ll yank out that tampon and fuck your cunt with the scissors.”
CHAPTER 8
Oh God, oh fuck, oh fuck.
Kate’s breath escaped in a shuddering wave, and her heart banged painfully in her chest. Tiago’s ruthless grip on her wrists made her bones ache, but it was the scissors he held against her vulnerable flesh that had her shaking to the point of nausea.
“I won’t disobey you. I swear. I’ll do whatever you say.” She lifted on tiptoes, unable to escape the bite of steel between her legs. “Please. You’re scaring me.”
“Good.” He set the scissors on the table, released her hands, and combed his fingers through his hair. “Even up the sides and trim the top.”
Black spots blotched her vision, and she swayed on wobbly legs. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she fought the compulsion to cover her exposed breasts.
The malicious glint in his eyes promised every horror he’d mentioned if she dared to hide her body.
She’d spent weeks in Van’s attic, crawling naked on the floor in front of Van, Liv, and Josh. It’d been four years since then, since anyone had seen her nude, but she hadn’t forgotten how to cope with the humiliation.
Lowering her arms, she focused on facts rather than feelings. She wouldn’t die from embarrassment. Tiago pulled down her top to degrade her, but it wouldn’t kill her.
She needed to be more resilient and think twice before striking back. For every awful setback and torment he put her through, she would just have to stand stronger, aim higher, and remain true to who she was and what she believed in. He could cut her open and mangle her body, but he could never destroy her.
Slowly, her breathing returned to normal, and the tremors faded from her limbs. When her heart settled into a calmer rhythm, she picked up the scissors.
The first brush of her hand through his hair made her sick. She didn’t want to touch him, didn’t want to give him a damn thing, especially not a haircut with her tits hanging out.
But she powered through it, ran numb fingers through the thick, inky strands, and started clipping.
Growing up in poverty with three older brothers, she used to cut their hair all the time. Basic styles. Practical. Nothing sophisticated or attractive, like what a man with Tiago’s wealth and power would expect.
He dressed like a billionaire playboy in his crisp collared shirt, open at the neck, and dark fitted slacks. The cuffs of his sleeves buttoned neatly around strong wrists, his long fingers resting on his thighs.
He didn’t have a bulky build, not compared to Arturo or Van Quiso, but he was solid and tall. She had to stretch to see the crown of his head, even in his seated position.
As she carefully measured and snipped each section of hair, he didn’t leer at her bare chest or grab her ass. He was t
oo controlled for that, too debonair and confident.
But put a weapon in his hand and all bets were off.
The more hair clippings that fell to his shoulders, the more she feared him. If he hated the style, he would kill her. If she accidentally nicked him or bumped his injuries, he would kill her. If she took too long and overextended his patience, he would kill her.
She was a human being with an expiration date, just like everyone else. But her expiration jumped closer with every movement she made. By the time she finished trimming the top of his head, her nerves were frayed and brittle.
His hair spiked in tousled, voluminous layers, each shiny black strand perfectly cut and finger-raked. She still needed to clean up the sides, but damn, it looked professional. The shorter, textured style made the angles of his shadowed jaw seem squarer, his eyes deeper and darker.
Those eyes beckoned like mysterious doors. As she gravitated toward them, they dipped, focusing on her mouth with too much attention.
She looked away and set down the scissors. “What happens if you don’t like it?”
“It’s just hair.” His fingers captured her nipple in an agonizing vise, wrenching her gaze back to his. “If it looks like shit, shave it all off.”
She pretended to ignore the stinging burn he’d inflicted on her breast and considered his words.
He wouldn’t kill her over a haircut? That was a relief, if he was telling the truth.
Last night, he said he wasn’t interested in fucking her. But his fingers told a different story as they meandered along the material gathered around her waist. His other hand joined in, and he inched the top of the dress lower, lower, baring her abdomen and the tips of her hipbones.
She held her breath as he lightly placed a palm over the reddish area on her stomach where he’d kicked her. His gaze lifted, narrowing on hers as he pressed his fingers against the soreness.
Her breath rushed out, but she didn’t whimper or show signs of distress. Maybe he wouldn’t rape her, but that didn’t make it easier to share the same air as him.
He was an aficionado of pain, and she was here to absorb the hurt, to wear the bruises of his art, until she escaped or died.
