by Pam Godwin
Something had happened to him in his past, something deeper and more painful than the wounds on his head. Though he refused to discuss his life prior to Caracas, she ached to show him compassion. She just didn’t know how.
“I’m growing impatient.” His hand clinched around her arm, fingers biting into bone.
Her eyes felt too wide as the question fell past her lips. “May I touch you?”
He gave an inviting growl and guided her palm to his cheek.
Thick stubble shadowed his face, and beneath the tickle of hair, his jaw felt like solid metal. Not clenched. Just…hard.
Were all men so sharply cut and rigid to the touch? She’d only put her hands on Van Quiso and the few boys she fumbled around with in high school. The sensations from those encounters weren’t worth remembering.
She let her fingers dip, roving past the squared underside of his chin to explore the column of his neck. Sturdy and so very masculine, he felt as strong as oak and granite, any of nature’s most durable materials.
Her gaze darted to his, and the intimacy in that eye contact stole her breath.
“Don’t you get sick of looking at me?” She withdrew her hand.
“You have one-hundred-and-ninety-three eyelashes on the top lid of your right eye.”
“You did not count them.” She rubbed the lashes in question.
“Stop.” He gripped her arm and drew her gaze to the single brown eyelash stuck to her fingertip. “Now it’s one-hundred-and-ninety-two.”
A profound happening pulsed between them, a metamorphosis she couldn’t explain away. It flapped loudly in her chest and sizzled static across her skin, refusing to be ignored.
Maybe she was having a mental breakdown.
“You can’t say things like that.” She wiped her hand on her shirt.
“Things like what?”
“I don’t understand why I’m here.”
“We talked about this. You’re a payment—”
“No. Why have I been in this room for the past three days? Am I one of your experiments?”
“What does your gut tell you?”
“I only hear my captor, and not once has he told me I’ll survive.”
His expression closed off, and he rose from the bed. “I need to take a shower.”
He wore jeans today, and off they went on his way to the bathroom. Kicking them free at the doorway, he disappeared around the corner, wearing only boxer briefs. A moment later, the shower turned on.
Panic crept in. She’d pricked the bubble they’d been floating in and sent them plunging back to reality. This wasn’t some profound happening. He was her captor, holding her against her will. That was the ugly truth.
She climbed from the bed and paced, eying the door to the corridor, the door to the bathroom, and pausing on the jeans he left on the floor.
Her pulse sped up. It wasn’t uncommon for him to leave his clothes unsupervised within her reach, as if he thought she were too afraid of him to try anything. Well, fuck that.
She raced toward his pants on silent feet and searched the pockets. Phone, finger blade, keyring, wallet—it was all there.
The splash of water around the corner announced his movements in the shower. She focused on the phone, tried to unlock the screen and make an emergency phone call. It required a code, and after too many attempts, the keypad prompt locked her out.
Shit!
She tossed it aside, removed the cash from his wallet, and shoved it into her pocket, along with the finger blade. Arturo would follow her down to the ground floor. If she could lead him outside, catch him off guard with the blade, cut his throat if she had to, she might be able to make a run for it.
Her heartbeat shot into overdrive, nearly exploding. It was a risk, one that would either set her free or end her life.
Palming the keyring, she bolted out his room, down the hall, and paused at the door to the stairs. Pipes groaned in the old walls. He was still in the shower.
Her hand grew slick around the keyring. One key unlocked this door. The others could’ve been for the cars, the house, a safe? She didn’t want to tip off Arturo, so she tried the handle first.
It gave beneath her grip, and she sucked in a breath. Then she opened the door.
Arturo stood on the other side and leveled his eyes at her. Then they lifted, pointing at something behind her.
Sinister energy crept over her back. The hairs on her arms prickled, and her stomach rolled over in violent waves. Reaching through the paralyzing dread, she gathered the courage to peek over her shoulder.
“You disappoint me, Kate.” Tiago’s gaze, black as coal, burned into her face from a few feet away.
Dressed in the jeans she’d ransacked, he prowled toward her, holding a bundle of rope. His hair was dry. Not a drop of moisture on his shirtless chest. Yet the sound of water still ran through the pipes.
The fake shower, the discarded jeans… It had been a test. One she failed.
“I’m sorry.” She whirled to face him and inched back. “I was scared and—”
The cold, sharp edge of steel caught her beneath the chin, driving her head upward. With a gasp, she dropped the keyring, grabbed Arturo’s arm, and teetered back against his chest.
“If you speak or move a muscle without permission, Arturo will slice you open from ear to ear.” Tiago tossed the rope at her feet. “Drop your arms.”
Tears burned the backs of her eyes and scorched down her throat as she obeyed.
He gripped the front of her shirt with both hands, ripped it down the front, off her shoulders, and flung it aside. When his fingers bumped her bare chest, she bit down on her lip and tasted blood.
She trembled to scream, beg, bargain, to do anything to remove that heartless, frightening look on his face. But it was too late for that. She’d fucked up and wrecked their imaginary peacetime.
Crouching before her, he removed his belongings from her pockets. Then he yanked down her jeans and panties, stripping the last of the clothing from her body.
A feverish chill swept through her, simmering into convulsions that wobbled her knees and dotted her vision.
He didn’t grope her or stare at her nudity, didn’t so much as look at her.
“Take her downstairs.” He picked up the rope and tossed it to Arturo. “Tie her to the table.”
CHAPTER 12
Four limbs tied to four table legs, Kate lay face up and stretched open, her nude body arranged like an X-shaped centerpiece for the sick and depraved. She shook so viciously the table rattled beneath her. Because she knew what was coming.
He lets his guards rape his prisoners.
He likes to watch.
When Arturo had dragged her into the kitchen, Boones took one look at her and disappeared into the bedroom down the hall. Tiago hadn’t come downstairs yet, but there were two others in the kitchen, staring, anticipating.
Iliana perched on the chair to her right with a hand gently massaging Kate’s wrist near the rope. If the touch meant to calm her, it was a wasted effort.
Sitting at her left, Arturo braced his elbows on the table and held the tip of his knife against her neck. Dishes cluttered the tabletop around her, emitting aromas of fried meats and stomach-turning spices. She was going to throw up.
Her mouth flooded with saliva, and she swallowed, battling the fear that attacked her so cruelly. She hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved without permission, acknowledging the verity of Tiago’s threat in the blade at her throat.
Arturo and Iliana didn’t speak, either. The entire room held its breath, waiting for el jefe.
Too soon, the tread of boots sounded on the stairs, triggering a fresh surge of shivering panic. He strolled into the kitchen, showered, and decked out in black dress pants and a white collared shirt, unbuttoned at the throat.
Trenches rutted his wet black hair from his fingers pushing through it, his jaw cleanly shaved and hard as stone.
Approaching the table, he paused at her feet. A short conversation with
Arturo followed in Spanish. Then he looked down and helped himself to an eyeful of her spread thighs and everything intimate and vulnerable in between.
Liquid fire filled her eyes, blurring her vision and spilling from the corners. She glued her gaze to the ceiling, pinned her lips together, and bit back the sounds of her grief.
Since the night she’d been taken from the diner, she knew it would come to this. The past forty-six days had only dragged it out, delayed the inevitable. Crying about it wouldn’t change a damn thing.
That was exactly why she’d jumped on the opportunity to steal his weapon and escape. She wouldn’t regret the boldness of her actions. She only wished she could dredge up some of that bravery now and face her punishment.
The soles of his boots scraped the stone flooring as he stepped closer and leaned in. Bent over her, he braced his hands on either side of her hips. The heat of his gaze ghosted across her pebbled flesh, his presence a smothering, inescapable force.
Now would’ve been the time to beg, but a mere swallow jogged her throat against Arturo’s blade. Her heart thundered, every thrashing beat a plea to survive.
She didn’t want to look into the eyes of the crime boss, but she needed to know. If there was any trace of the man who counted eyelashes and snuggled during naps, maybe she could connect with him, make him remember she was a person.
With agonizing effort, she inched her gaze to the buttons on his shirt, up to the bronzed skin of his throat, and higher to his sculpted lips, straight nose, and the coldest, darkest eyes she’d ever seen.
There was no soul in the depths, no humanity or mercy as he silently commanded, Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.
How could something so evil be so enticingly, flawlessly beautiful?
She’d fallen for the devil’s trickery, and now she would pay the price.
Letting her muscles go slack in the restraints, she conceded. There was no escaping his intent, and she would need her strength for it.
“Let’s eat.” He lowered into the chair between her bound feet and filled his plate.
The meal was an eternal hell. The chewing, the leering, the laughter from discussions in a foreign language… They carried on while she slowly died inside. The one time she glanced down the length of her body, she found Tiago with a knife in his hand, cutting his meat and glaring at her pussy.
He was a psycho with the face of a model in a men’s fashion mag.
Please, make this end.
When utensils finally clattered to empty plates, Arturo started clearing the table.
Tiago turned to Iliana, his lips lifting in a chilling smirk. “Remove your clothes.”
A growl clawed up Kate’s throat, and she trapped it behind her lips.
Iliana rose from the chair, eyes smoldering as she slowly peeled away her shirt, jeans, and everything underneath.
No matter how hard Kate tried, she couldn’t look away. The woman had a body that wouldn’t quit, all hourglass curves, heavy breasts, and toned, tanned flesh.
She sashayed toward Tiago and wriggled her way between his chair and the table, blocking Kate’s view of what they were doing.
If he intended to hurt her by fucking Iliana in front of her, then… Yeah, that would do it.
Her hatred for him stabbed punishing heat through her veins, spawned from a jealousy that made no sense. She hated him too much to want him. She hated him for making her think that wanting him was even a possibility. She hated him for fucking with her head so thoroughly she didn’t know what to do or feel.
Don’t give up. How about that? Pull your sniveling shit together and stay strong.
There was nothing stronger than the human spirit. She needed to stop underestimating herself. She’d survived horrors worse than this. She’d obeyed Van’s countless rules and restrictions, watched him fuck Liv for weeks, and came out of that experience smarter and tougher than ever. She would survive this.
“Turn around and bend over the table.” His deep, husky voice sent her fingernails into her palms.
Iliana twirled in place and leaned into the triangle of Kate’s bound legs, with her nose right there, up close and personal.
Kate screwed her eyes shut, but her imagination choreographed Iliana’s ass in his face, his fingers between her legs, and his hard prick straining beneath his zipper.
In a burst of anger, Kate jerked her arms, her legs, and twisted her hips, fighting against the rope. Until a knife skimmed the curve of her throat.
She flinched, and her eyes flashed open, colliding with Arturo’s narrowed glare.
Don’t move. Don’t make a sound.
She swallowed a whimper and held herself as stiff as a board.
“Put your tongue in her cunt,” Tiago said to Iliana.
Kate’s mouth opened on a horrified breath, unable to silence the wheezing from her lungs.
Arturo inched back the blade just a little as Iliana edged closer, focused on her target.
Detestation curdled in Kate’s stomach. Iliana might’ve been following orders, but the woman was going to enjoy every second of it.
Refusing to watch, Kate closed her eyes again.
There was no build up. No easing in. Iliana stabbed her tongue inside, fast and deep, with a harsh suck of her lips. A scrape of teeth. A hungry moan. All of it rolled into a rude, nauseating open-mouth kiss.
Enduring the invasion wasn’t physically painful, but humiliation and helplessness built a searing pressure in Kate’s throat. Tears clamored in, burning their way across her vision and dripping down her face.
She opened her eyes and found Tiago staring at her from behind Iliana’s bent position.
Heat inflamed that vicious glare as he watched with an invasiveness that felt more penetrating than the tongue lashing inside her.
He was doing this, commanding this cruel molestation for his own perverted pleasure. His eye contact struck her with the severity of a fist. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t hear or feel anything but rage as a million rapid-fire heartbeats pounded into the space between them.
If she thought he had a heart, she’d been wrong. There wasn’t a hint of humanity or softness in the sharp angles warping the sick perfection of his face.
The slash of that hard mouth parted, speaking to Iliana without looking away from Kate. “Describe the taste.”
“Sweet. Lively. Heaven.” Iliana leaned up, blocking the view of Tiago as she met Kate’s gaze. “The essence of want-to-get-fucked.”
Bitch, Kate mouthed.
Iliana laughed, a tinkling sound of joy. She was in her happy place, stark naked between Kate’s legs, with her ass arched in his face like a cat in heat.
He stood and moved his chair a few feet away, positioning himself with a sidelong view of the show. “Arturo.”
The massive guard pocketed his blade and lumbered around the table to stand behind Iliana. A zipper sounded, and a heartbeat later, Iliana’s mouth fell open in a silent scream of rapture.
Good for her.
She writhed and bucked and bounced her breasts in the spread of Kate’s legs. Arturo didn’t hold back, his gaze locked on Iliana’s backside as he slammed his hips and scooted the table across the floor.
Each thrust evoked the groans of impending orgasm. Their bodies heaved and slapped together, but no part of them touched Kate. They didn’t have his permission.
She didn’t look at him. Not as the scent of sex infused the kitchen. Not as five minutes pounded into ten. But eventually, her eyes moved on their own, rolling in his direction.
He wasn’t watching them fuck. His stare fixed directly on her, his jaw tight and hands fisted on his thighs.
Fire spread through her, chilling her skin and hardening her nipples. She sucked in a jagged breath, detesting the effect he had on her, hating that he hadn’t forgotten she was here.
He was just biding time, tormenting her with it, until he could hurt her in deeper ways.
Jerking her gaze to the rafters, she couldn’t help the tears that tri
ckled down her temples and collected in her hair.
Eventually, Iliana moaned and trembled through her climax, marking the end of the pre-show.
Kate’s pulse detonated. She was up next.
“Move her to the edge of the table,” Tiago said, his voice a languid drip of sex and smoke.
Iliana floated around Kate, adjusting the rope for the new position. As the tension on Kate’s wrists released, the bindings on her ankles took up the slack.
Calloused hands gripped her thighs and yanked her to the end of the table, drawing her attention to Arturo. He was still clothed, save for the sag of his pants and the angry, wet erection jutting from his open fly.
Bile hit the back of her throat, and her insides clenched against full body tremors.
He couldn’t put that thing inside her. He wasn’t gentle. Or small. It would rip her apart.
He stepped between her legs, his fingers biting into her thigh as he positioned himself.
The trembling in her chin shook more tears loose.
Why was she so terrified? It was just sex, just sex, just sex. People did it all the time.
She needed to loosen the tension down there, make her inner muscles more pliable. Liv had coached her about that, hammering on the importance of relaxing the rectum during anal. But her body refused to calm down. She felt as though she were careening toward a complete loss of heart function, breathing, and consciousness.
“Shhh.” Iliana put her mouth at Kate’s ear. “He’s gonna feel good, babe. I promise he’ll be the best you’ve ever had.”
She’d never had vaginal sex, anal sex, or any kind of sex. Who knew which hole he would tear open? She only knew she didn’t want it, not like this. Not tied to a table, against her will, in front of an audience.
“Fuck her, Arturo.” Tiago’s voice thrummed with impatience. “Make sure she feels it.”
She locked her jaw down so hard it throbbed. The pain flared into defiance, and she twisted her neck, giving Tiago the full force of her eyes.
As he met her glare with a meaner one, she poured all her fear and misery into that shared look. He didn’t twitch, didn’t react with a trace of emotion. There was no moving him.
