by Pam Godwin
No, thanks.
“Do you shake hands with all the prisoners?” Kate asked.
“No, I…” Iliana dropped her arm. “I guess not.”
She smiled sweetly at Kate. It seemed genuine. As did the lust in her eyes when she sidled up to Tiago and tiptoed her fingers across his flat stomach.
The woman embodied all the allure of a gorgeous Latino fantasy. Fit body, great skin, beautiful hair, exotic accent, and sexual confidence. She and Tiago looked outrageously perfect together.
“You didn’t come in here to bring me clothes.” He grabbed the shorts, lifted them for inspection, and slid them on. “Tell me what you want.”
She wasn’t inclined to ask for anything in front of his lover, but Iliana didn’t appear to be leaving.
“I was hoping…” She smoothed a hand over the coarse tangles of her hair. “I want to see a live video of Tate.”
“No.” He shifted away, punctuating the finality of his answer.
Making the rejection even more unbearable was the woman pressing up against his back and pawing at his body.
Hatred sizzled in her gut like a hot ember.
She hated him.
Hated Iliana.
Hated her illogical jealousy.
She held tight to that hatred, let it carry her out of the room and into the hell that followed.
CHAPTER 10
Every day was the same. Same prison. Same guards. Same hell.
The ruler of hell spent most of his time working out. When he wasn’t grunting and clanking weights in the backroom, he was holding meetings with Boones and his minions in languages Kate didn’t speak. Every foreign word was meant to exclude her, to keep her isolated and uninformed.
Her hatred for him endured, strengthened, and all that animosity sharpened her focus.
The problem was, while she never took her mind off escape, her captors never took their eyes off her.
Arturo trailed her relentlessly. The other guards formed a vigilant wall around the property. Then there was Tiago. He ate his meals with her, shared the second-floor with her, and watched her with an awareness that raised the hairs on her neck.
Even if she managed to sneak past his sentinels, he would hunt her down before she made it to safety. Then he would kill her. Slowly and horrifically.
She thought a lot about her phone conversation with Liv. Had she been too convincing? Had her friends completely given up on her? They probably had all their resources tied up in looking for Tate, as they should. Thinking about him sitting in that shack made her heart hurt.
“A penny for your thoughts?” Iliana sat across the kitchen table from her, smiling over the lip of a coffee mug.
“Nope.” She pushed the syllable past the thousand vindictive things she wanted to say.
A week had passed since she walked in on Tiago and Iliana. Every time she saw them together, Iliana had her hands on him, touching him in a suggestive way. He tolerated the attention to a point.
When she tried to kiss him, he jerked away. If her fingers dipped below his belt, same response. But none of that was required for fucking. Which they were doing. Why else would they be in the backroom together every day?
Iliana didn’t hide her intentions. She was obnoxiously flirtatious, not just with Tiago but with everyone, including Kate. Sex dripped from every glance and gesture, but Kate sensed something reserved and steely behind the bawdiness.
“You have great tits.” Iliana cocked her head. “Every time those little nipples harden, I get wet.”
The wardrobe Boones had bought didn’t include bras. It wasn’t her fault she nipped out, and whenever Iliana brought attention to it in front of Arturo, Kate wanted to rip out the woman’s tongue.
Pushing away from the table, she grabbed her dishes and rinsed them in the sink.
“Hey.” Iliana caught up with her, leaning close to tuck a lock of hair behind Kate’s ear. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t touch me.” She ground her molars.
“Shit, Kate. It’s just…” Soft brown eyes blinked beneath long lashes. “You’re so beautiful. I totally get why he’s crazy about you.”
“What?” Her pulse quickened. “Who?”
“El jefe.” Iliana scraped a hand over her black pixie cut and sighed. “Your naivety makes you even more desirable.” She glanced at her watch. “Damn. Gotta run, babe. I’ll see you at dinner.” She turned and winked at Arturo. “You, too, handsome.”
Kate gripped the edge of the sink and waited until the front door shut before releasing a heavy breath.
“She has no off switch.” She peeked over her shoulder and met Arturo’s eyes. “Are you fucking her?”
He shrugged, expressionless.
“Well, your boss is fucking her, too, so enjoy those leftovers.” She twisted to face him. “Why did she say he’s crazy about me?”
The only thing that moved was his eyes. One slow blink.
“I’m not naive, Arturo.” She crossed her arms. “Tiago doesn’t get crazy about people. He’s just crazy. Period.”
No response.
“Great talk.” She swiveled back to the sink and tackled the rest of the breakfast dishes.
A few minutes later, something thumped in the hallway. Footsteps sounded, staggering from that direction and closing in. She turned just as Tiago stumbled into the kitchen.
“Mierda.” He gripped his head, his face creased with pain. “I need…”
He pitched forward with a lurch. She tried to jump out of his way, but he landed against her, trapping her back against the counter.
Did someone attack him?
She scanned his sweaty, half-naked frame for blood and found none. “What do you need?”
“Goddamn head. Fucking kills.” He let his weight slump against her, holding his skull in one hand while swinging the other across the counter behind her and knocking dishes to the floor. “Agua…”
He looked like he needed more than water. He’d pushed himself too hard. Even the healthiest man would eventually collapse beneath the rigorous exercise he’d been putting himself through. But what did she care?
“You’re crushing me.” She shoved at his steel chest.
“Jusss a minuto,” he slurred, dropping his brow to her shoulder and breathing heavily.
His proximity saturated her senses, the length of his body smothering her from head to toe. His thighs against hers, the cage of his arms holding her in place, she couldn’t evade the heat of his flesh, the stroke of his breath on her neck, and his scent…
Sweet hell, he radiated the scent of a man when the exertion of work warmed his early washed skin. She tasted the potency of it on her lips, breathed him into her lungs, and somewhere low in her core, she throbbed.
“Drink.” Boones appeared out of nowhere, holding a glass of water to Tiago’s mouth.
Tiago pushed off her and gulped down the fluid as Boones rattled off a string of short, unfamiliar words. Despite the calmness in his voice, the old man’s eyes flashed with ire.
A conversation ensued between them. It sounded casual to the ear, but she sensed the undertones of a heated argument. It ended with Tiago staggering toward the stairs alone.
Boones watched him go and gripped her arm. “I’ll make lunch, and you’ll deliver it to him.”
“I’d rather not.”
“That’s an order. His order.” He pointed at the far cabinet. “Grab the medium pot.”
Fifteen minutes later, she trudged into Tiago’s room, carrying a tray of heated soup for two, crusty bread, bottled water, hot tea, and various pills.
Her stomach tumbled as she searched the empty space and paused on the bathroom. Steam drifted from the doorway, bringing with it the aroma of masculine soap.
“Tiago?” She willed him to be dressed, even as her mind entertained erotic images of his sculpted, nude physique.
He emerged from the bathroom and leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, his hair wet and body clad in sweatpants.
“Whe
re do you want this?” She held up the tray, staring too long at the mist beading on the hard ridges of his chest.
He gestured at the mattress and gripped his forehead. A hiss pushed past his clenched teeth.
“There’s some medicine for the headache.” She set the tray on the floor near the lamp and backed toward the door. “I’m sure Boones will come—”
“Sit. You’re eating in here.” He made the short walk to the bed, dropped to his knees, and collapsed with his face in the pillow. “Fuck.”
“Maybe you just need to sleep.” She lingered by the exit, rubbing clammy palms on her jeans.
“I won’t repeat myself.” He angled his neck to glare at her.
“Fine.” She strode toward him, grabbed the food, and sat beside him on the mattress. “I don’t understand why Iliana isn’t in here with you instead?”
“I don’t trust the guards in my personal space.”
She jerked her head back. “But you trust me?”
“Not at all. Pass me the water.”
He drank, refused the pills, and after some grumbling in Spanish, he accepted the soup.
They ate in silence, and with each bite, the pain lifted from his face.
Over the past week, he seemed to be on the mend. She’d caught him holding his head a few times, but he hadn’t slowed down his workouts or shown any signs of weakness. Until now.
“Why are you exercising so much?” She collected the empty dishes and set the tray aside.
“I need strength to return to Caracas.” He rolled to his back and closed his eyes. “Too many people want me dead.”
Her friends included. Except they weren’t looking for her anymore.
“You don’t have to go to Caracas.” She considered his wealth and all the places he could live. “You can go anywhere, do anything, right? Why not retire?”
“I chose this life. End of.” He rested an arm across his brow, his expression relaxed, almost sleepy.
She’d never seen him asleep. He kept his door locked at night and was downstairs before she woke most mornings.
A peculiar blanket of warmth settled over her, and her fingertips tingled. Why did she suddenly feel so weird?
What were they just talking about?
She blinked, trying to remember as a strange pull urged her to stretch out beside him on the mattress. Something was wrong.
“I think Boones drugged the soup.” Holding her hand in front of her face, she marveled at its weightlessness. “I feel stoned.”
“Probably. He knew I wouldn’t take those pills.” He patted the mattress beside him. “Lie down.”
“That doesn’t make you mad?” She gave in to the heavy weight in her limbs and lay on her side, facing her captor without a twinge of worry or panic. How weird.
“Can’t be mad at Boones.” He shifted to his hip, bending an arm beneath his head and mirroring her position. “He cares.”
Fringes of thick lashes swept downward, hooding his brown eyes as he reached across the space between them. The pad of his finger rested on hers, barely a touch, yet it shivered every nerve ending in her body.
She held still, studying his slack expression. He seemed different, less threatening. Normal. Like a person capable of having a conversation without kicking her in the stomach.
“How do you know about my brothers?” she asked.
“Public records mostly.” His gaze lifted to hers. “Are you aware all three of them are in prison?”
“No.” She waited for a simmer of emotion behind her breastbone and felt only a brief pinch of anger. “For drugs?”
“They were smuggling cocaína for a Mexican cartel. Someone ratted them out.”
They deserved it. After her mom died, they were supposed to be her protectors. Instead, they turned her childhood home into a crack-house, exposed her to a world of drug dealers and addicts, while chasing away every boy who showed interest in her in high school.
In the end, they were the reason she fell onto Van’s radar. He’d overheard them talking about their little virgin sister in a bar, bragging about how they’d protected her virtue. Van followed them home, abducted her, and she hadn’t seen or talked to them since.
Her hand curled into a fist. “Fuck them.”
He pried her fingers open and rested his huge palm over hers. “Tell me about your time with Van Quiso.”
“I don’t want to talk about that.” She slid her hand away.
“I’m not asking.” He caught her wrist and used it to yank her chest against his.
She shrunk back, straining to hold a sliver of space between them. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
Why not just tell him? He probably already knew the details anyway.
With a deep breath, she talked through the ridiculous requirements Van had beaten into her. Kneeling, eyes down, constant nudity, perfect dick-sucking techniques… She was vague about the sexual training, and Tiago didn’t press for details. Just mentioning blow job seemed to put him on edge.
His fingers tightened around her wrist with bruising pressure. “I despise that ceremonious BDSM bullshit.”
“There was nothing sane or consensual about it.” She twisted her arm in the shackle of his fist. “You’re hurting me.”
He released her, and she rolled away from him. But his arm hooked around her midsection and hauled her back against his chest.
“What are you doing?” She shoved at the bar of muscle across her stomach, unable to move it an inch.
“Go to sleep.” His breath caressed her hair.
“Release me.” She squirmed in his grip. “I’ll go get your girlfriend, and she’ll make it real good for you.”
God, she sounded snarky, but she couldn’t stop picturing him fucking Iliana, pile-driving her against a wall or whatever they did together. Her jaw stiffened, and her insides boiled. She needed that venom to remind her she didn’t want to be here, cuddling with a gang leader.
“You’re jealous.” He dragged his nose along her neck.
She flinched at the sensation, confused by his gentleness. “Captives don’t get jealous. They get Stockholm syndrome.”
Soft laughter vibrated his chest. “Tell me about Texas.”
A safe topic. She calmed down, as much as she could in the iron bands of his arms, and shared some impersonal details about home, highlighting scenery, culture, and local food.
She missed it, her friends, the simplicity of everyday life. The more she talked about it, the heavier her heart grew. He listened without comment, and eventually, the effects of the drugged soup pulled her into a heavy sleep.
When she woke, Boones was standing over the bed with a peculiar look on his scarred face. Tiago stirred behind her, his arm still locked around her waist.
“I brought dinner.” Boones pointed a gnarled finger at the tray of tacos on the floor and squinted at Tiago. “Rate your pain on a scale of one to ten.”
“What’s the rating for drugged?”
Boones flattened his lips and blinked. “You’re staying in bed.”
“Good idea.” He pulled her to his chest, fitting her buttocks tightly against his hips and upper thighs. His cock, neither soft nor swollen, rested along the crack of her ass.
And so that was how it went for days. Every hour sanded away the distance she so desperately tried to maintain. She couldn’t avoid him, couldn’t breathe without his eyes on her.
Because he didn’t just confine himself to his room.
He locked her in there with him.
CHAPTER 11
Kate’s demands to leave his room were met with silence. Tiago Badell and his goddamn smugness incited a level of anger unlike anything she’d ever felt. But she’d agreed to obey him. The night she met him, she’d agreed to do anything in exchange for Tate’s freedom.
For days, he abstained from exercise and limited his activity to eating, showering, and napping. There was no Iliana. No business meetings or phone calls. And no fucking freedom.
<
br /> It wasn’t the confinement that made her feel restless and trapped. It was him.
This lazy version of Tiago was suspiciously pleasant, talkative, and sometimes, he was clingy. Not clingy in a dependent, insecure way. But in a growly, aggressive, bring-your-ass-here way.
The next three days came with some startling revelations. Behind the face of a crime lord was an intelligent conversationalist. They talked for hours on end, analyzing Venezuelan politics, arguing about American football, and while finishing off the tequila, he shared his thought-provoking views on religion, extraterrestrials, and the future of technology.
She philosophized with him late into the night, floating in a bubble of complacency, where she let her guard down and basked in his company.
When he flashed that infectious smile, her bitterness dissolved. When he held her tight against the heat of his skin, she didn’t pull away. At some point, her brain decided he wouldn’t hurt her, not here in this quiet one-room world inhabited by two.
Even as she knew he hadn’t earned that kind of trust, she struggled to maintain distance. Meanwhile, he seemed to have no trouble keeping his defenses in place.
He napped with her tucked in the curve of his rock-hard body, but he didn’t sleep soundly. Whenever she thought he’d fallen into a deep slumber, she would move ever-so-slightly, and those sinful eyes would pop open without fail.
Like now.
“I thought you were asleep.” She lay on her side, her legs trapped beneath one of his, and his mouth so close she smelled mint tea on his breath.
He grunted softly and stroked a knuckle along her cheekbone. Heat rolled off that touch, and the air around him vibrated with power and dark suggestions. Her body tightened in response, fearing what he was while aching for what he could offer.
“Christ, you’re stunning.” He said it spontaneously, vehemently, his expression unguarded.
“Thank you.” Captivated, she leaned closer and hovered a hand over the wound near his eye, too scared to touch him. “How’s your head?”
“Fine.” He curled his fingers around her wrist. “Ask my permission.”
The words clogged in her throat, her mouth parched. It was in these suspended moments that he posed the most danger to her, when he made her want things she should never want from him.
