by Hope Anika
“You will protect them,” she said, and it was not a question. “You must promise me.”
“I’ll protect all of you.”
“I do not need you to protect me.” She shook her head decisively. “I need you to protect them.”
Sam only stared at her, his eyes glittering.
“You must promise,” she told him. “Or I am done talking.”
“That’s bullshit.” He scowled and leaned down so close their noses almost touched. “And you know it.”
“Why?” she demanded. “Because I want your promise?”
“Because I’ve been protecting you since the minute I laid eyes on you.”
Lucia flushed. “I meant no insult.”
“Of course I’ll fucking protect them. And you, too, whether you like it or not.”
“No.” Again, she shook her head. “I need to know you will choose.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. His big hands settled against the tree on either side of her, a tall, broad, heated human cage. “Come again?”
“You must promise that you will protect them, even if that means leaving me behind,” she said.
“Fuck that,” he retorted.
“Yes,” she insisted. “You will, if you have to. That is what I am asking.”
“You for them?”
She ignored the growl in his words. “Yes. Will you promise?”
He stared at her, unmoving; he was close enough she could see the furious thud of his pulse in his throat, the ring of green in his eyes, and he was so warm she almost shivered. But that ominous look was again bleeding across his features. “No fucking way.”
“Then I have nothing else to say,” she said, her own pulse a violent drumbeat.
“I won’t make that promise, Lucia. No.”
She glared at him. “They are all that matters. You must know that.”
“No,” he repeated.
Desperation gripped her. “Please. I need to know you will put them first.”
He said nothing, watching her with that singular, relentless focus, so close she could almost feel his heartbeat and the steady rhythm of his breath. Lucia stared at him, painfully aware of the baffling, intense pull she felt toward him, even though she was furious with him, even though she didn’t trust him.
So much stupid. There wasn’t a trophy big enough.
“I’ll do whatever is necessary,” he said after a moment, but his eyes glinted, and she knew it was only lip service. He would do what he believed necessary, which was not at all what she was asking of him.
And arguing the point was fruitless. Until the cows come home. She wouldn’t win, for all her effort. She was just going to have to make sure that, when the time came, she made the decision easy for him.
“Tell me about Alexander,” he said again.
Everything within her rebelled. But there was no choice; if Sam was to help the children, he had to know.
And maybe this time, telling someone the truth would make a difference.
Chapter Sixteen
Lucia crossed her arms tightly beneath her breasts, and her delicate jaw clenched, her reluctance clear.
“I began to work for Donavon Cruz last fall,” she said grudgingly. “I was hired to replace a woman named Rosa Sanchez, who was the boys’ nanny. Rosa had been diagnosed with breast cancer and had to go to Phoenix for treatment. She was an old friend of my mother’s, and she recommended me for the position. Her recommendation was the primary reason Mr. Cruz hired me. That, and my education.”
“Education,” Sam repeated, watching her. Her mouth was tight, her body language both defensive and defiant.
“I have a BA in Medical Sciences and a BS in Biochemistry,” she continued. “I am—was—in my final year of medical school. Mr. Cruz thought my education and medical training would be an asset. I did not—”
“Medical sciences and biochemistry,” Sam interrupted.
“Yes. Are you going to repeat everything I say?”
His gaze narrowed on her. “Maybe.”
“The boys have a tutor, Mrs. Mills. She is very strict. Most of the time, they are with her, studying. But at night, and in the morning, they are with me. I see to their schedules, and monitor their activities.”
“What kind of activities?”
“Benjamin likes to ride his bike.”
“And Alexander?”
“He…draws.”
The hideous sketch of a headless Donavon Cruz flickered through Sam’s head. “What else do you do?”
“I make sure they eat, brush their teeth, put away their clothes, things of that nature.” She shrugged. “I read Benjamin stories and kiss his bumps and bruises better. We play games. Last month, we began to learn the constellations.”
“And Alexander? What do you do for him?”
Her mouth flattened. She said nothing.
“I think it’s time you told me about that,” Sam said.
For a long moment, she held her silence, and Sam wondered what the hell it was going to take to get the truth. And then, in a voice vibrant with quiet fury, she said, “I tried to tell many people.”
He moved closer, just a little, far too tempted to touch her. Her anger sang to him, and he felt the pulse of it echo in his blood. He wanted to sink against her and swim in her rage.
His hunger, his pain, his exhaustion, none of it mattered. There was only this.
Fucking stupid and goddamn dangerous. But he didn’t move.
“Tony,” she continued softly. “A woman at Child Protective Services. A man at the Department of Family Services. I spoke to people at Victim’s Advocate, and the woman who answered the phone at Children Now. I reached out to over a dozen people and organizations, and as soon as I said the name Donavon Cruz, they all stopped listening.”
Sam wasn’t surprised. “I’m sorry.”
Lucia met his gaze, her eyes a blaze of brilliant, glittering gold. “People fear the truth, because then they might have to act. Because abdication is a way of life. What does it matter, so long as it is not them? Until it is.”
“Yes,” he acknowledged softly.
Her pulse was a wild flutter in the hollow of her throat. “I did not want this.”
“No,” he said.
She shook her head. A sharp laugh escaped. “And now I am the criminal.”
Sam only waited.
“Alexander…” She faltered. “He is damaged.”
“Yes,” Sam repeated. “Why?”
Her jaw clenched. “I did not understand at first. His coldness, his rage, his dislike of human contact…I thought perhaps it was genetic. Autism or Asperger’s, or some kind of dissociative state. A disease, not a defense. I should have known better. I should have known.”
“Why?” Sam asked. “Why should you have known?”
But she only shook her head. “Reaching past his isolation seemed impossible. I could not ask Rosa for help, and everyone around him acted like he was perfectly normal. But that was a lie.”
“What did you do?”
Her eyes were dark, glinting amber that burned. “I did nothing.”
Something for which she clearly didn’t forgive herself.
She took a deep breath, then another, so tense she was ready to snap, and Sam reminded himself that he had no comfort to give. Shouldn’t have bitten her. Even if he’d been frustrated and angry. He shouldn’t have touched her. Not like that. Because now the sensory memory of her—the press of her body into his, the silk of her skin against his rough beard, the soft catch of her breath when he put his mouth to her ear—was branded into his brain, and he knew he wouldn’t forget.
Goddamn it.
“It happened when I was supposed to be away,” she continued. “A friend had invited me to Joshua Tree for Easter weekend, and I took time off. I planned to go. But when he called and cancelled, I—”
“He?” Sam interrupted.
“Sí. We—”
“A boyfriend?” he demanded, his voice low; he ignored the voice inside h
im that mocked his determination to observe the lines he’d drawn between them.
“No. A classmate. But he cancelled, and we did not go. So I decided to surprise the boys with an Easter egg hunt. They are rarely allowed such things, but sometimes I would sneak around the rules and do it anyway. They are just children. They need happiness.”
No apology, her eyes flashing.
“When I arrived,” she said, “I discovered Benjamin had gone to attend Mass with his father. I thought the house was empty but for Ivan, who was walking the grounds.”
Fear. Just a flicker spearing through her rage. “Ivan?”
“Ivan the Terrible. He is Mr. Cruz’s head of security. He is…a very bad man. A very dangerous man.” Lucia’s gaze met Sam’s. “He will be the one who comes for me. You must not try to stop him; he will kill you.”
Sam stared at her for a long, silent moment. Ivan the Terrible. Words that wavered, her fear a cold echo that chilled him. But Sam wasn’t afraid of anyone, and her certainty that Ivan the Asshole would be the victor in any battle between them was a fucking insult. “Are you suggesting I let him have you?”
“I will deal with Ivan.”
Sam fought the urge to lift her up and shake her. “What the fuck does that mean?”
“Saving the boys is your priority. I am not.”
Fury bled into his veins; did she really think he would let her take on one of Cruz’s personal assholes by herself? But the answer was clear. She stared up at him, determined, unflinching, and Sam understood then she’d already made the decision.
Accepted what she believed to be inevitable.
Not on my goddamn watch.
“When Ivan comes,” she said softly. “You will understand.”
Sam’s rage pulsed in his blood, and he fought the need to unleash the darkness he held in such careful check. Did she think he was spineless? A coward? Someone who would rather run than fight? Someone who would trade her life for his own?
“Benjamin was with his father that night,” she went on, her voice tight, her eyes flitting from his, and Sam drew a deep breath and made himself listen. They could go back to her decision to martyr herself. Later. “But Alexander was home. I found him upstairs, in the bath.” She paused and swallowed, and Sam could see her gathering herself, and his own spine went taut with tension. “He did not hear me come in. He lay in the tub, curled into a ball. Normally, I would have left him alone. He is ten; he needs his privacy. But there was something about the way he held himself…and then I saw the bruises. Dark, angry purple spots on his hip and buttocks, as if someone had held him in place. I did not understand. Not until I saw the water and realized it was pink. Pink from blood.”
Sam stilled. His brain thrust forward, filling her silence with any number of horrified conclusions, and he ground his teeth and clenched his fists and locked himself into place. Just wait. Just fucking listen.
Even though he knew what was coming.
“I could see no open wounds,” she whispered. “No cuts or scratches, nothing that would bleed so much that it would turn the water pink. And he was weeping. I had worked for Donavon Cruz for eight months, and I had never seen Alexander cry. Not even when he broke his arm while playing on Benjamin’s skateboard.” Her gaze again met his, angry and ashamed. “I did not want to understand, Sam. In that, I am no different than Tony, and I have even less excuse. I had forgotten, and I did not want to remember.” A tear streaked her cheek, and she wiped it away impatiently. “But when I went to Alexander, the look in his eyes… I have seen that look before, too many times. Once you have seen it, it is always recognizable, always the same. Even in a stranger. Fractured and hopeless and…rage is too pale a word. To see that in him…to see the blood, his injuries, what his father had done to him… Donavon Cruz had brutally sodomized his child, and it was not the first time.”
Sam stared down at her, his guts churning, his lungs tight. Her rage was palpable, stirring his own, and he remembered the boy’s terror, his feral defensiveness, his desperation. You promised you wouldn’t give up. And he wanted to tear Donavon Cruz into tiny, bite-sized pieces.
In the silence, the fire crackled and popped; thunder rumbled. Somewhere far off, an owl hooted.
“Did Alexander tell you that?” Sam asked then, because he had to.
“I know rape when I see it,” she replied coldly.
“And you’re sure it was his father?” he pressed, the lawman in him forcing the issue.
“Yes,” she snarled.
“Why?”
“Because Alexander told me,” she hissed. “He did not mean to, and once he realized he had admitted it, he was horrified. He begged me not to tell.” An ugly smile twisted her mouth. “He is ashamed. He believes he has done something to invite his father’s twisted perversions. He believes it is his fault.”
“Fucking Christ,” Sam muttered.
“Yes. I have told him otherwise. I have shared with him the stories of others…but none of it makes any difference. He has accepted responsibility, and nothing will sway him.”
“So you asked for help.”
“Yes. In vain.” Her gaze met his, sharp enough to cut. “I wanted to kill them all.”
Again, her fury resonated. Sam set his jaw. “So you decided to run?”
“No. I wanted to, but Alexander would not agree to leave, and I would not take them against his will.”
But here they were, so something had changed. Something had happened.
“What?” Sam demanded softly. “What happened to make him change his mind?”
Her eyes closed, and another tear escaped. She gulped in a breath, like she had when the old man died, then another. A fine tremor shook her, and Sam found himself tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear; a small act, meaningless, comfort he shouldn’t have sought to give. An act that escaped the bounds of his control, and he didn’t care.
“Lucia,” he murmured when she didn’t speak.
Her thick lashes lifted; her eyes met his, dark, churning, and he almost touched her again.
“Last night,” she replied, her voice uneven, “I found Alexander hiding in his bedroom closet. He was naked, and he was bleeding. There was a knife from the kitchen in his hand, and he was trying to cut his wrist. I only happened upon him by accident. I had forgotten one of my textbooks in his room.” She paused. “I almost put them both in the car and drove away right then. But I made myself wait. Ivan was walking the house, and I knew he would stop me.”
Ivan the Terrible. Her fear resonated between them.
“He’s flesh and blood,” Sam told her flatly. “A man. He will bleed when I cut him.”
Her gaze met his, and Sam could see her doubt. It fucking infuriated him. Not the time. But it would come.
“I snuck them out through the servant’s quarters when Ivan was in the garden,” she said, her voice hushed. “I should not have. I should have waited and done it right. I know this. But I just…snapped.”
“And Alexander agreed?”
“Sí. Because of Ben.”
Sam’s rage throbbed. “He’s afraid for his brother.”
“Yes.”
“That’s why you didn’t have a plan,” he surmised darkly. “The piece of shit car, the lack of preparedness. Little fucking Debbie for dinner.”
“Yes. I panicked.”
He shook his head. “What a shitshow.”
“Yes,” Lucia said again, shooting him an annoyed glance. “I freely admit it was thoughtless and stupid. I was running on fear. On rage. I was rash and foolish; believe me, I regret running without a plan.” Her chin lifted. “But I would do it again. No matter the consequences.”
“You let me handle the consequences,” Sam told her.
“You do not understand. Ivan will come for me, and I am prepared for that. You must be prepared, as well.”
“Oh, I’ll be prepared.”
Her gaze narrowed. “I told you: I will deal with Ivan. You will take the boys to safety.”
Anger slid through him. “That’s a fucking insult, sweetheart.”
“I do not mean for it to be.”
He leaned closer, until he was just a heartbeat away, and he could see the shards of brilliant green spearing her iris. Her heat beckoned, and her scent flooded his pores, and the need to touch her was a drumbeat in his blood. Foolish and impossible. But he wasn’t listening to that voice anymore. He was too damned mad. Her mouth trembled as she stared at him, but she held his furious gaze. Decided. She had decided everything, accepted it, and she would not allow him to help her. To give her hope. The realization infuriated him.
“No one is going to touch you,” he promised, his tone raw. “No one but me.”
Her gaze widened; the pulse in her throat beat like wings. She swallowed.
“You have a plan?” she asked unsteadily, her doubt plain. Painful.
But she would learn. Him. She would learn him, and she would accept his fucking hope, and she would not die on the altar she’d built.
He would make certain.
“Sam?” she whispered.
And he smiled, a beautiful, terrible thing. “Sweetheart, I always have a plan.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Your twenty-fours hours were up seventeen minutes ago. Where are my children?”
Donavon Cruz was tall and well-built, with a sweep of golden hair threaded by streaks of platinum, and gleaming, pale green eyes. Good looking, but not too good looking, a tiny imperfection negated by the vibrant charisma that shrouded him. He wore a custom-tailored, twenty-thousand dollar western suit, a bolo crowned by a piece of rich jade, and a pair of M.L. Leddy hand-made alligator skin cowboy boots. An aura of genteel wealth cloaked him, accentuated by the faint, deeply southern accent which shaped his words.
He didn’t look like a pedophile, Tony thought. But then, few of them did. Shiny did not equal virtue.
