by Pam Godwin
The drone changed course, following her as she helped load the body in the trunk of the sedan. That done, she turned toward the man at her side.
The video was too muddy to make out details, but the way he crowded her, standing too fucking close, gave him away.
Tate Vades towered over her by a foot, his shoulders twice the width of hers, and one of his arms was sleeved in black ink. His blond-brown hair, blue eyes, and muscled physique made him an ideal sex toy for a slave buyer with an appetite for strong men on their knees.
Tate’s buyer, however, didn’t live long enough to drive away with his new slave. Matias had collected the body himself, as well as the 5.7×28mm casings that had been left behind. Rounds that could’ve only come from Camila’s FN Five-seven pistol.
Fuck him, but he couldn’t get enough of her murderous spirit.
Apparently, neither could Tate. For the past six years, he’d become a permanent fixture in her life. Lucky for him, his interest in her didn’t dip below her waist. Something to do with his unresolved issues with intimacy. Gracias, Van Quiso.
That didn’t stop her, however, from reaching up and placing her hand on his jaw.
Step away, Tate. Matias zoomed in on the sliver of space between their unmoving postures. His molars crashed together. Step the fuck back, hijo.
Tate raised an arm above his head, holding something away from her. She gripped his neck, her other hand swiping at whatever he kept out of reach. The car keys? Were they arguing over who would deliver the body?
The guy was eager. Eager to protect her and fight for her cause. But if he wanted his dick to remain attached to his body, he’d get eager to remove her hand from his fucking neck.
Their arm-waving dispute ended when Tate broke free and climbed into the driver’s seat of the sedan. Good boy.
She watched him drive away with the body, a hand on her hip and the other holding her phone.
Matias flexed his fingers, cursing every second she delayed. Hit redial, Camila.
A heartbeat later, she did.
He accepted the call on speaker. “Are you afraid of me?”
“Which answer will change the subject?”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
She walked to the yard, prompting the camera to pan to the side. Stopping beneath the perimeter lights, she lay on her back in the grass. Her hair fanned out around her in shiny, black tendrils, like tributaries of the Amazon River at night.
The sound of her breaths marked the space between them. So close he could see her and hear her, yet still too far away. She was stalling, turning his nerves into a breeding ground for desperation, anger, and desire.
“All right. I’ll give you this,” she said. “I’m afraid the reality of you won’t live up to the memory.”
His heart stuttered painfully. Her confession was so fragile, bleak, and…inaccurate. But he’d thought the same about her once, before he started watching her. The tough girl from his childhood had grown into every bit the fierce, beautiful woman he’d imagined she would be.
“I miss…us,” she whispered. “But I’m afraid, if we met again, I’d find that the concept of us is just a jagged mote of a memory. I don’t think I could handle that. I want that part of my life to remain real. Untarnished.”
She had no idea how much of her childhood was a lie. But the thing between him and her?
“What we had…have…” He closed his eyes, fighting the impulse to snap at her for doubting them. “It doesn’t get more real than that.”
“People change. How can you be so sure?”
Over the years, his need for her hadn’t faded. It had become a living, starving thing inside him, ruling his fucking world. There was something else, though. Something beyond his desire to take, overpower, and claim.
It felt like a dark, festering mass knotting around his organs, strangling him with nothingness. Did it have a name? He rubbed his forehead, searching for a way to identify the persistent, agonizing…what?
He opened his eyes. Loss. That empty feeling, the hollow pit in his soul, was her absence. He mourned her. Deeply and endlessly.
“Remember the shack on the north side of the grove?” He traced the edge of the screen, lost in the fuzzy outline of her lying in the grass.
“Mierda.” She laughed. “I was convinced a cannibal lived there.”
“Not just any cannibal. A big, hairy one that buried bones—”
“Children’s bones.”
“—under the floorboards.” He grinned.
“I didn’t make that shit up.” She sounded defensive, but a smile teased through her voice. “Or maybe I did, but I swear I heard their cries from my bedroom window.”
“That was Luisa riding her boyfriend in the backseat of his car.”
“Oh, God.”
A heavy hush settled between them. He wasn’t sure if she was thinking about her sister or the night she finally entered the shack.
“You were so determined to get me to go in there.” She let out a ragged exhale. “I was horrified by the idea.”
“Do you remember what I told you?”
“The fear will haunt me,” she said quietly, “until I step inside and show it my teeth.”
“You took that quite literally.”
He hadn’t known the true meaning of painfully hard until he’d watched her strut her sexy ass inside that dark shack, holding the flashlight like a weapon and baring her teeth.
The moment she’d realized there was no cannibal, no rotting bones, and that she’d well and truly conquered her fear, she aimed the beam of light on her stunning smile and said, “Wanna know who I love? That guy.”
She’d turned the flashlight on his face, and he’d felt her blinding declaration like a magnetic pulse. It had electrified every inch of his body, lighting up his chest and settling at the base of his cock.
They were virgins then, her sixteen, him eighteen. In the months leading up to that night, they’d fumbled and groped without clothes on, learning how to make each other come with fingers and mouths. But the look she’d given him in that shack, her eyes aglow in the shadows of her defeated fears, he knew she’d been ready. For all of it.
He’d pinned her against the crusty wallpaper in the shack’s only bedroom and fingered her until she screamed her declaration over and over. Until his conscience had forced him to step back.
Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted Nico behind the SUV, puffing on a cigarette.
He turned back to the phone. “I should’ve fucked you that night.”
“I should’ve let you.”
His chest clenched. They hadn’t wanted their first time to be in a smelly shack. So innocent. Foolish. He thought they’d have more time, more opportunities, a lifetime of them.
Instead, he gave his virginity to a prostitute in a smelly alcove beside a dumpster.
“I wish I’d known,” she said, voice clipped, “that was our last time together.”
Neither of them had known what the next day would bring. She still didn’t know it was the Restrepo cartel that had led him away with a gun pressed against his ribs. Or why.
“When did you lose your virginity?” All these years, and he hadn’t been able to uncover her sex life. Or come to terms with it.
“I could ask you the same thing, but let’s not do this to ourselves, okay? The answers hurt too much.”
The misery in her voice gave him comfort. Thinking about her with someone else ate at him like a sickness. With her knock-out body, lethal confidence, and fuck-me eyes, she could have her pick of drooling dicks.
In one of her nine phone calls to him since her escape, she swore Van did not take her virginity. Outside of that, however, she remained tight-lipped. She didn’t discuss sex with her roommates, didn’t bring lovers home, didn’t publicly date.
If she fucked, it was in secret and beyond the reach of his cameras.
She sat up and looked at the cabin. “Before I go…” She climbed to her feet, her voice quiet, seriou
s. “I told you what I was afraid of, but you didn’t tell me. What haunts you?”
“You.” He gripped the back of his neck, eyes fastened on the screen. “Your fear of us. When are you going to step inside and show it your teeth?”
“Will I need a flashlight? Or a gun?”
“Neither.” He sharpened his tone. “Tell me when.”
“Someday, maybe.”
“Not good enough.” He drummed his fingers on the console.
“Someday, later.”
“No—”
She ended the call.
Fuck.
Someday was the right answer. She just didn’t know how soon. Everything was finally falling into place, giving him the opening he’d waited years for.
He wouldn’t be leaving Austin without her.
CAMILA SLIPPED INTO THE cabin and kicked off her flip-flops. What the fuck was that?
Her hands shook, her skin fevered, and a deep ache pulsed between her thighs. Not just because she wanted him. Because she’d heard the desire thick in his breath.
As she headed toward the kitchen, muffled voices drifted from the direction of the garage. Christ, she needed to pull herself together before she went in there.
Curling her fingers into her palms didn’t stop the trembling. Damn Matias Guerra to hell! Was it not enough that he’d abandoned her and taken her heart with him? Evidently, the prick wasn’t finished tormenting her.
She could’ve handled the questions he used to throw at her, had been prepared to redirect and volley them back. But his are you afraid tactic? It was dirty and below the belt.
Only he knew how to dig through her tough exterior, grab hold of her fears, and force her to examine them. She shouldn’t have called him back, but like a scab itching to be picked, her obsession with the past overruled her need to heal.
His gravelly timbre had rolled time in reverse, his words transporting her to the safety of the citrus grove. It was as if she’d been talking to him, the boy who showed her how to make a slingshot fork from an orange tree, how to swallow while kissing to avoid unwanted saliva, how to do so many unforgettable things, like fall in love, the conchudo!
She paused in the kitchen, brushed the dust off her jeans, and attempted to straighten out her thoughts. Eighteen-year-old Matias never kept secrets from her. But the man he’d become was a mysterious, unreachable black hole.
Maybe she was just as closed off as he was, but he at least knew what she was involved in. Since the day she’d escaped, she’d told him she was killing slave buyers while he told her absolutely nothing.
Was he still involved with the armed thugs who’d taken him away twelve years ago? Or had he moved on to something worse? Something so awful he wouldn’t, couldn’t, share anything personal with her?
“Why didn’t you come back for me?” she whispered, gripping the edge of the counter.
Why did his secrecy feel like a betrayal? Like he’d chosen his sacred thug life over her?
If he loved her, he would’ve returned for her, taken her with him, and prevented everything that followed. The attic, the bone-deep bruises, the chains of isolation, and the darkness that still pervaded her thoughts, following her everywhere. No, not following. Smothering.
That was the rub, wasn’t it? She’d trusted him to protect her, to always be there, and he’d deserted her, left her to her fate.
She massaged her temples. Why was she wallowing in this quagmire of imaginary angst? It felt a whole lot like self-pity, a bullshit mentality she refused to subscribe to. She’d never been a victim, didn’t need protection or rescuing, and sure as hell didn’t need a dick to get herself off.
What she needed was a mind-numbing drink.
A quick sweep through Van’s cabinets uncovered an impressive collection of tequila. Praise Jesus. Popping off the cap, she drank straight from the bottle. Ah, God, it was the good stuff. Smooth and crisp, the agave slid down her throat like peppery, sweet water.
A few sips turned into a few more. She drank until her tongue tingled and her nerves dulled. She drank until the front door opened.
It snicked shut, and footsteps echoed through the cabin. Tate emerged around the corner, eyed the bottle, and winged up an eyebrow.
“Trouble in Crazy Town?” He nodded at the garage door, where the murmur of their former captors filtered through.
“Nope.” She capped the bottle and put it away.
“Your phone call?” His forearms flexed at his sides. “The body—”
“Will be taken care of.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Or maybe she bounced.
The alcohol buzzed through her veins at a nice, even keel. Not enough to make her stupid, but it was doing its job. Tate’s judgmental scowl had zero effect on her giveafuckometer.
The front door opened again, and a moment later, familiar green eyes came into view. Black hair outlined a golden complexion, boyishly handsome features, and straight white teeth. No one smiled quite like Slave Number Nine.
“Hey, you.” Joshua Carter didn’t waste time closing the distance and wrapping her in a hug.
“Hey.” She laughed, arms clinging to the packed muscles beneath his Baylor University t-shirt.
The warmth in her cheeks wasn’t from the booze. There was something about Josh, a rare kind of inner light that enabled him to focus on the good in every person and situation. Hell, he’d married Liv—after the woman had kidnapped him, beat him, and pegged him with a strap-on. Underneath his rock-hard, linebacker physique was an endearingly squishy and very forgiving soul.
Or perhaps he was just as fucked up as the rest of them.
He released her and scanned the cabin’s open layout, his face growing taut. “Where’s Liv?”
Camila tried not to let his preoccupation with his wife affect her, but there it was, pinching her chest. She didn’t want Josh, but she envied what he had—someone to look for and be concerned about. Someone to love.
Maybe she’d misjudged her tequila intake. It had turned her into a sensitive little girl.
“Liv’s in the garage.” She stepped out of his way. “Thanks for driving Tate back.”
As a high school football coach, Josh had a legit career to protect. But he’d offered to meet at the drop location so that Larry’s car and the incriminating DNA inside it could be disposed with the body.
He and Liv were the only ones in their little circle of freedom fighters who weren’t considered missing or dead. They had a relationship with his parents and Liv’s daughter. A family to spend holidays with. In that regard, they had more to lose than the rest of the group.
“Wish I could help more.” With a pat on her head, he disappeared into the garage.
Tate crossed the kitchen and leaned into her space, his arm braced on the wall behind her.
Her eyes fluttered closed as the scent of his skin permeated the inches between them. His masculine proximity charged her nerve endings and heated her blood. He smelled balmy like a summer afternoon in the grove. Like a breeze ripened with the aroma of lemons and loam. Like the Texan sunshine when it emblazoned his hazel eyes—
She looked up, her gaze colliding with Tate’s icy blue glare.
“What’s going on with you?” He bent his knees, putting them nose to nose.
A dull throb swelled between her legs, engaging her inner muscles. “I need to get laid.”
She needed so much more than the fleeting relief of an orgasm, but she’d settle for a kiss from a man who cared enough to give her one.
His gaze fell, heavy with regret. He didn’t have to read her mind to know what she really wanted. Hands bound, ass spanked, hard, brutal fucking—they’d discussed her desires in detail until it’d become a laughable tirade. But that only made the stricken look on his face harder to stomach. He knew how goddamn lonely and hungry she was, and still, he rejected her.
She knew he had hang-ups with sex, but he shut down whenever she approached the subject. Maybe her tastes were too dark for him, too much like wh
at he’d endured. Or maybe they weren’t dark enough.
“We only have two days.” She ducked around him and headed toward the garage. “We need to talk about what happens next.” A plan that was guaranteed to receive a concerted fuck no from him and the others.
After gathering everyone in the living room, she explained how she intended to use Larry McGregor’s information to infiltrate the human trafficking network in Austin.
Anticipating the most resistance from Tate, she paced the edge of the room, eyes trained on his bowed head as she outlined the initial steps. He didn’t move from the chair by the windows, his gaze glued to the floor.
Van didn’t show the same restraint.
“You’ve lost your fucking mind.” His entire body bunched and flexed as he balled his hands into fists. He probably would’ve leapt from the couch if Amber wasn’t sitting on his lap. “You want me to sell you? As a slave?”
Liv and Josh sat side by side on the love seat. Their rigid postures, narrowed eyes, deeply furrowed brows—they looked like Bonnie and Clyde’s disapproving cousins.
Camila pursed her lips. They didn’t have to like it. They didn’t even need to be here.
“We don’t know who these people are.” Van dragged a hand across the scar on his cheek, his tone harsh. “And you want me to just show up and hand you over? First off, they’re expecting Larry McGregor.”
“They’re expecting a girl, tied-up and blindfolded.” Camila lifted her chin, even as her insides rioted at the idea. “Larry could’ve sent anyone to deliver her.”
“Okay, fine, but you’re like…what?” Van sneered. “Thirty-years old? One look at you, and they’ll laugh their fucking asses off. Right before they cut out your throat.”
“Despégala pues!” Her face caught fire. “I’m twenty-eight, dickhead.”
“He doesn’t mean it,” Tate said softly. He didn’t raise his head, but his eyes drifted upward and locked on Van. “She could pass as eighteen, and you know it. Look at her. They’d pay double the asking price to get their hands on her.”
A heavy feeling sank in her stomach. She wasn’t surprised Tate defended her, but she’d expected a godawful fight from him. No way was he okay with her plan.
