by Pam Godwin
Cutting Kate was different than cutting anyone before her. He felt the vibrations of her labored breaths, the wetness of her silent tears, the very fluid of her life slicking over his hands.
Time became irrelevant. Seconds leaked into hours. He was lost in it. Lost in the passion of creating, the release, the bleeding.
The bleeding.
The bleeding.
It was flowing too fast. He held the gauze to the deepest slash, but no matter how much pressure he applied, blood gushed between his fingers, pooling under his hand, drenching his arm, the bright ruby rivers quickly darkening, tangling, growing thicker.
Organs spilled. Ropes of viscera. Heavy, wet things. The pungent scent of bowels. And blood. God, the blood oozed from everywhere and nowhere, staining everything it touched.
How did he get here? Did he kill someone?
Silence crashed in, thumping hollowly in his ears as he watched Semira die again and again, the pity in her eyes vivid and alive, making him pay.
His pulse went berserk, the agony hitting in waves and turning the blood to acid. All he could do was rock in place, the occasional whimper ricocheting off the walls.
“Tiago!” A faraway voice pleaded with him. “Look at me!”
Everything sharpened, narrowed to a pinpoint of purpose.
Kill.
A flash of glinting steel.
Destroy.
Deadly shades of red.
Slaughter.
“Tiago, dammit! Stay with me!” That voice again. That heavenly voice.
He jerked his head up and looked into the eye of his storm. She stared back, gaze glowing, expression soft, his perfect calm and clarity.
“What happened?” She tilted her head.
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing. You look like you’re seconds from blowing a gasket, and I don’t want to be under that blade when it happens.”
He glanced down at his hand, at the razor on his finger. Blood didn’t flow. Organs didn’t tumble.
What he saw was her pale, toned leg across his lap, her skin etched with the birth of a painting, a carved outline, and the budding blooms of something beautiful.
The sight of his design heated his soul to burning.
“Untie me.” She kicked him in the hip with her free leg, her voice gentle. “Let me touch you. The contact might help.”
Pain would’ve been deep within her thigh now, stinging and smoldering, as if the bone had caught fire. She couldn’t veil the agony on her face, her lips stretched taut, and her forehead beading with perspiration.
But it was the concern in her eyes that moved him up her body. This woman, whom he’d hurt so ruthlessly, had the capacity in her heart to help him.
It made no sense, but he didn’t question it. Instead, he untied the knots on her wrists.
She tossed the rope and tank top from her arms and grimaced at her leg.
“I’m not finished.” He shifted back into position, resting her thigh across his lap.
“I know.” She lay back and gripped the arm he held across her midsection. “I’m not surrendering.”
“I know.”
She turned her gaze to the ceiling, and he returned to the design, cutting a braided pattern across her thigh.
“You had a flashback, didn’t you?” Her body quivered beneath the blade, her teeth sawing the hell out of her bottom lip.
“Yeah.” He reached up and tugged on her chin. “Stop that.”
“Does it happen often? The flashbacks?”
“Never.” He nudged her to her side and continued the lacerated braid to the back of her leg.
“Maybe this is helping?” She whimpered as he carved along a tender spot.
“Helping with what?”
“Your terrible personality.”
He glared at her through his lashes without lifting his head.
“Yeah, you’re right.” She glared back. “Your personality can’t be fixed. But maybe reliving your past is better than bottling it up. It should be cathartic.”
“This, us, you are cathartic.”
She fell silent after that but never removed her touch.
An hour passed before another flashback sneaked in.
She sensed it before he did, and her hand sank into his hair, fisting, pulling, until his gaze latched onto hers. “Stay with me.”
And so he did. He focused on the warmth of her fingers against his skin, on the way they trembled and flexed with her pain. He marked the rapid pace of her breaths and paused often to let her calm down, kissing her body during each break, his lips on her knee, her chest, and everywhere in between before starting again.
Blotting each drip of blood, he felt that flow of life roll through his veins like lava. Soon, he fell into a rhythm, a sensual slide of his hand, the scalpel seamlessly slicing her gorgeous flesh.
Dark, depraved pleasure circulated through his system. Indecent and drugging, sensations swarmed his nerve endings and heated his skin. Christ, he’d needed this.
He flipped her to her stomach to finish the back of her thigh. Numbing balm went into the incisions as he went along, and he forced water to keep her hydrated.
Dinner had long passed by the time he sat back and wiped off the blade. She’d stopped watching a while ago but not once had she withdrawn her touch.
He marked the heavy sag of her eyelids and the slackness of her mouth. “Where are you, Kate?”
“Floating on hatred.”
More like floating on endorphins, high on spikes of pain and stress, exhausted from hours of shivering, and probably lightheaded from the burn out of an adrenaline rush.
She looked ready to pass out, and he was hard as a rock. Cutting her had aroused him to the point of distraction. But this was Kate. Every time he touched her, his cock lengthened.
“Finished?” She inched her gaze to his.
“Yes.” He set aside the supplies. “Ready to see it?”
“It’s beautiful.” She closed her eyes.
“Bullshit.” He gripped her under the arms and lifted her to a sitting position. “I know you made up your mind about it, but you’re going to give me your honest opinion.”
“Fine.” She blew out a resigned sigh and looked down.
As her gaze flicked over the design, her sexy bowed lips separated. She leaned forward and twisted to see around the sides and underneath.
Her bright, glossy eyes and appreciative noises shifted things inside his chest.
“My God. It’s… I have no words.” She hovered a hand over the design, as if itching to touch it. “Why did you choose this? What does it mean?”
“The image will be clearer as it heals. It’s a rope, coiling around your thigh.”
“With a flower trapped under it?”
“Not trapped. It grows out from beneath it, blooming despite the confinement.” He ran a hand along her calf, cupping it to drag her closer. “There are twenty-two petals on the flower, each representing a year of your life.”
“Why?” She blinked, and a tear skipped down her cheek.
“You’re the miracle that grows in the smallest crack of sunlight. The bloom that never gives up.”
“Tiago.” A teary hiccup teetered to her lips, and she smothered it with the back of her hand.
“There’s something that thrives within all living things, a force that drives us to want to live more than anything else. You’re the essence of that. The purest example of resilience. No matter what direction you need to grow—out of the darkness of an attic or from beneath the constriction of braided rope—you do it fiercely, tenaciously, and without fail.” He clutched the back of her neck and brought her face to his. “There’s nothing more vibrant, more beautiful, or more treasured than the flower that blooms in hell.”
“That’s… I don’t…” Her voice creaked, and she feathered fingertips around the perimeter of cuts on her thigh. “How long will it take to heal?”
“Two months. It’ll fade to pink. With time, it’ll be com
pletely white and blend in with your pale complexion. But unlike a tattoo, it has a tactile element.”
“It’ll be raised like yours.” She tickled a hand over the welts on his arm, but didn’t look down at his scars. Those huge, glistening eyes fixed on his. “I like the way they feel.”
Compelled by a force he’d only ever felt with her, he ducked his head and kissed her, running his tongue along the seam of her lips the way he’d imagined for hours.
Soft and wet, her mouth opened for him, salty with her tears, warm with the gust of her breaths.
He plundered her with urgency, devoured her with hunger. Hauling her onto his lap, he took her mouth with feverish strokes, his body moving of its own volition, grinding against her, mindless with desire.
The need between them swelled, and he didn’t hold back. They were an explosion of motion—hands gripping, tongues battling, breaths heaving, hearts pounding. All of it burst into a consuming, soulful integration of her and him.
Her mouth dove to meet his in a kiss that was so unexpected he groaned and shook to his core.
She was unexpected, yet it felt as if his entire life had been building to this. Every tragedy, every crime had brought him here, to this woman, who kissed him with all the hatred and goodness inside her.
Her fingers lifted to his hair as his hands lowered to her chest, cupping and caressing her nude flesh. She rocked on his lap, and he gripped her firm ass, jerking her body harder, faster, until he felt wetness bleed through his gym shorts.
“Kate.” He grunted against her greedy lips. “Kate, wait.”
She pulled back, dazed.
“Your leg. Hang on.” He swept her onto her back and fumbled for the package of gauze. “Don’t move.”
He re-cleaned the incisions and dressed her thigh in soft bandages. She watched his movements with labored breaths, her cheeks flushed, and eyelids at half-mast.
Then her brows pulled together, the depths of her gaze flickering with an inner war.
At any moment, the words I don’t want this or I hate you would fire out, but instead, she reached for his face and traced the line of his jaw.
He lowered his body into the cradle of hers, falling. “You’re wrecking me.”
“You deserve it.” She hooked her legs around his hips.
Shoving down the elastic band of his shorts, he slid the head of his dick along her slit. “You’re mine.”
A pretty growl vibrated her throat. “Shut up.”
“You want my cock.”
“Not even a little.”
“You want to come all over it.”
“Lies.”
Her body didn’t lie. A sweep of his finger through her cunt released a gush of arousal. She made a strangled sound and pressed her hands against his bare chest.
When he pushed back, her fingers caught his nipples and locked on, pinching with an alarmingly strong bite.
He choked, seated his cock against her pussy, and shoved home.
With a yelp that rivaled his throaty groan, she wound her arms around his neck.
“So fucking wet.” He rotated his hips, grinding into her soaked heat, teasing her. “Hear how sloppy you are? You’re creaming all over me.”
“You’re a good kisser, okay?” Her hand speared through his hair and clenched. “I still hate you.”
“You want to hate me, but I don’t think you do.”
Her eyes shuddered, and she looked away. “I want my freedom back.”
“Can’t release you.” He shifted to his side, taking her with him so that her bandaged leg rested over his hip.
“Then, for now, I’ll take a different release.” She rolled her hips, catching a slow ride on his cock. “We both need this escape. You can take from me. I’ll take from you, and just for a little while, let’s get lost in it.”
Her words gripped him deeply, every part of him bowing toward her. An honest touch from her fingers could sustain him forever.
“No more resistance,” he ordered.
“No more restraints,” she ordered back.
He palmed her ass and drove harder inside her. “No more holding back.”
“I’m sick of fighting this.” She gasped on his next thrust. “But I won’t stop fighting everything else. Especially when you’re being a total dick, which is pretty much all the time.”
“Except now.”
She raised her face to his, her expression drunk on desire. “This is a good moment.”
Lying on their sides, he wrapped his arms around her. Then he fucked her gently, taking, giving, fusing them together. She cried out, her mouth agape as he drove into the hot, tight fist of her body.
Hands down the best thing he’d ever felt. Soft lips on his mouth. Thick blond hair against his arms. Lush, toned curves beneath his fingers. Wet, warm pussy sucking in his cock. Heaven. Salvation. She made him feel again.
She made him want to be a man she could love.
Wrapping up the length of her hair in his fist, he forced her gaze to his. Slowed his pace. Stroked in and out in a steady, desperate grind.
Eyes locked, mouths connecting and separating, the connection was raw, unhurried, and heavy. Every kiss thrummed with what-ifs, every touch a climbing step to something huge and unstoppable.
A fever of lust.
A bolt of energy.
A blissful fall.
He came with her, syncing their orgasms by eye contact alone.
Her body clamped down on him, spasming, squeezing, as unholy pleasure hit him from all directions. Her hungry mouth crashed down over his, stealing her name as it rode on his groaning breaths.
After, he lay on his back with her body splayed across his chest and her eyes losing the fight against sleep.
When her lashes stopped fluttering, the fringes spread over her cheeks, he started counting each one.
His heart knocked an unusual beat.
Relaxed.
Peaceful.
Happy.
But it wouldn’t last.
In three days, he would come out of hiding and take Kate with him.
There was no way around it. He’d been holed up in the desert for two months. Eventually, his enemies would find him, and here, he only had the protection of a handful of guards.
He needed to get his ass back to Caracas, where he would be surrounded by the fortification of his neighborhood and the hundreds of loyal criminals who worked for him.
But once he arrived in the city, his enemies would know.
Twelve years ago, he killed some important people and painted a target on his back. That had never mattered to him. Until now.
Until Kate.
There were so many ways he could lose her. So many fucking enemies. DEA, FBI, local crime lords, the Mexican government, neighboring cartels who fought for his smuggling routes, and of course, Lucia’s brother-in-law and capo of the Colombian cartel, Matias Restrepo.
The biggest threat, however, was Cole Hartman.
Hartman had steered Tate directly to Lucia, and now he was helping Lucia locate Tate. Once that job was finished, he would come after Kate.
If anyone could separate her from Tiago, it was that fucking guy.
A tremor attacked his muscles, the barbs of dread sinking in and shredding his insides.
Tightening his arms around her, he pulled her closer against his chest and buried his nose in her hair. In her sleep, she burrowed into the shelter of his body and sighed.
When he lost Semira, he surrendered his humanity.
If he lost Kate, he would surrender everything.
CHAPTER 20
Tiago woke with a start, his pulse pelting against his throat as the hum of a distant car engine lingered in his mind.
Had he dreamed it? Or had he heard it in his sleep?
The sky hung beyond the barred window like a black velvet blanket, hours before dawn.
No one should’ve been coming or going. Not the guards. Absolutely no visitors.
He held himself motionless, his hand po
ssessively gripping Kate’s perfect ass beneath her panties.
He didn’t wear a stitch of clothing. No weapons within reach. He could only stare across the dark room in the direction of the locked door and listen.
The pitchlike silence heightened his paranoia, making him twitchy.
Seconds pounded by. Minutes. His hearing strained against the hush. No sounds. No movement.
Probably just remnants of the dread he’d carried into sleep.
But he couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong.
Reluctantly, he untwined his arms and legs from Kate’s slender limbs, despising the separation from her soft, warm skin.
Moving quietly in the dark, he was careful not to wake her. But as he unfolded from the mattress, her groggy whisper floated up.
“Where are you going?”
He lowered back to the bed and kissed her parted lips.
“Getting some water.” He traced the scalloped hem of her panties and fingered the bandage on her thigh, checking that it hadn’t unraveled. “Need anything?”
“More sleep.” She rolled away, her breathing instantly falling into an even rhythm.
He ran a hand down her spine, smoothing the oversized shirt. His shirt.
He’d fucked her so many times last night she hadn’t been able to keep her eyes open. Eventually, he’d put her in the panties and his shirt, because sleeping beside her nude body…
His dicked jerked. Started to harden.
Yeah.
Rising to his feet, he navigated through the dark room, located his bag of clothes, and pulled on the first thing he found. A pair of sweatpants.
Then he grabbed his phone and checked his messages on his way to the stairwell.
Just after three in the morning. No notifications. No missed calls. A quick peek at the live video of the shack confirmed Tate was safe and asleep.
At the bottom of the stairs, he scanned the main room. Muted light from the kitchen illuminated one occupied mattress. Arturo.
No reason to wake him. Not yet. The other guards would’ve been outside, patrolling the perimeter.
Except there should’ve been more of them asleep at this hour. Three on the day shift. Three on the night shift.
But only Arturo was required to sleep inside as a last layer of defense for Boones.
Pacing to the covered windows, he peered through the slit of one and probed the shadows.
