by Hope Anika
But he had no right. He was taking too much already.
“No,” she said again. Her heart was a heavy, leaden thud against her ribs. She was almost done sewing him up; just a few more stitches. Stitches he’d sat through with a stillness and self-control that made her aware, once more, of his familiarity with violence and pain. A man so outside the scope of her experience he might as well be an alien.
“I know you found him,” Sam said.
Memory washed over her like a tide, unexpected and unwelcome, sweeping her into the undertow of an event she had tried for years to forget: coming home after school, worried because Elian hadn’t been himself in months, because what he’d told her—what had happened to him—was horrific, because she only partially understood it, and because, for the first time ever, he hadn’t been there to walk her home.
Because she knew something was very, very wrong.
The house, empty, her mother at Church. A strange smell in the hall, Elian’s closed door. The hair-raising, despondent cry of Panther, their mother’s tabby cat. And then opening Elian’s door: his body on the floor, his face gone, the walls red with blood and bone and brains… The screams that had torn from her throat, nearly shredding her vocal cords, screams that brought the neighbors running and made Panther yowl and which still escaped her in the dark of night, when the dreams would come.
“Yes,” Lucia said, hoarse, as if still screaming.
“I’m sorry,” Sam told her softly.
A tear she hadn’t been aware of slid down her cheek, and she wiped it away impatiently. Why did he want to know this? None of it mattered, not anymore. Elian was gone, and had been for a long time. And even if what had happened to him had been the catalyst for where she now found herself, that was not Sam’s concern. That truth belonged to her, and he had no right to demand it from her.
A gentle tug on her hair. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”
“Do not call me that,” she told him. Because part of her was becoming accustomed to it. Part of her was beginning to enjoy it; so much stupid, to wish for something that could not be. So many things that could never be. It made her angry. With him, for pretending, and with herself, for wanting to.
So much anger. At him, herself. Her past, her present, her lost, impossible future.
She secured the final stitch and cut the thread and stood, but before she could move away, Sam caught her arm, a gentle but unyielding hold she knew she wouldn’t escape until he was ready.
“Tell me,” he ordered quietly.
“Tell you what?” she snarled in a low voice, aware of Alexander and Benjamin, of her own tenuous control. A violent tremor moved through her. “That when Elian told me what happened to him I could not even comprehend it? That I did not understand what it meant, or how it would destroy him? That my mother would not listen, would not act, would not even look at him? That his friends called him a liar—and worse!—and turned him into a pariah? That I fell at his feet and bathed in his blood? Is that what you would like to know?”
Sam made a rough sound. The hand that held her arm jerked her toward him, and he pulled her down onto the thigh she’d just sewn shut.
“You will tear your stitches,” she growled.
“Then be still,” he said and slid his arms around her.
Suddenly she was surrounded by the powerful flex of corded muscle rippling beneath naked golden skin, immersed in his immense heat and drunk on that fresh, minty scent. A fine pelt of golden hair covered his chest, which was scarred and stamped with several intricate, triangular tattoos. Both of his nipples were pierced by delicate silver rings. Lucia sat stiffly in his hold, her heart beating with painful intensity, almost shockingly aware of the hard thigh beneath her and the even harder ridge of flesh pressed into her hip. But it was not a sexual hold. It was…
Do not think about it.
But it had been a long time since anyone held her…and never like this.
He stared at her, so close the ring of green in his eyes glinted like cut emerald. “What happened then?”
Grief pulsed in her chest, and her breath grew tight. Lucia didn’t want to tell him. It was not his right to demand anything, to hold her against her will, but once again the words were filling her throat, as if someone had pulled the plug, and everything that had floated around in her for the last thirteen years was ready to pour out.
“I told Tony it should have been him.” She looked down at her clenched hands, where the needle she held stabbed into her palm. “And I told my mother I would never forgive her. By the time I understood, it was too late.” She lifted her gaze to meet Sam’s, but then looked away again, because the compassion—the understanding—she saw was more than she could bear. “Always too late. Elian was dead. I could change nothing, and it ate at me, every moment of every day. My mother would not even say his name. She died that day, too. She stopped eating. Drinking. Being my mother. She locked herself in her room with her rosary and her altar and her guilt, and she gave up. I hate her for that.”
The words were stark, shamed, something of which Lucia was not proud. But they were true.
“She left you,” Sam murmured and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers grazing her neck.
Lucia shivered. “She had lost a child.”
“She lost one; the other, she abandoned.”
Lucia wanted to protest. She loved her mother, still, to this day. And she hated her. As an adult, she understood what had happened, why. The violence in Belize, her father’s murder, Elian’s death, the guilt that had ravaged them both…but the eleven-year-old who still lurked within her felt nothing but rage, pure, undiluted, and she wanted someone to pay.
“What happened to you after she died?” Sam asked softly. He nudged aside the neckline of her t-shirt and traced the naked curve where her neck and shoulder met with a rough thumb. Goosebumps washed over her, prickling her skin.
“Foster care,” she said, her heart beating hollowly, her mouth dry. “Like you.”
Like him. It seemed impossible. This hardened lawman with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, who touched her with tenderness and watched her with lust. So foreign and inexplicable.
“Fuck,” Sam said, low, and although he’d not spoken of his own experience in the foster care system, the word said it all.
“No,” Lucia told him, trying desperately to ignore the hand that was slowly stroking up her throat—learning her—a proprietary touch, his callused skin rasping sensually against her own, thrilling her, terrifying her. “I was lucky. The woman I was sent to was very good to me. She was not…affectionate. Not loving. But she was strong and supportive. She helped me, made me understand I could become anyone I wanted, so long as I was willing to work for it. I do not know who I would have become if not for her.”
Sam’s gaze met hers. “I’m glad.”
His kindness seared through her. She didn’t want him to be kind. It only added to the volatile mix he stirred within her, the yearning for something she didn’t truly comprehend, something she knew could never exist. Not for her.
No matter how good he feels. How warm, how strong, how safe.
The ache in her chest turned white-hot, as if it had caught flame and threatened to burn her through. Sobs crowded in her throat; violent, angry, an old pain reawakened by the unrelenting present. And it did not matter, what she wanted. Only what was.
“Lucia.” Sam’s thumb whispered along her cheekbone. “It’s going to be okay, sweetheart.”
But it wasn’t, and part of her hated him for speaking the lie.
She moved to stand, and his grip tightened, became something to break.
“Let go,” she demanded. Another tear slid down her cheek.
“No,” he said.
She glared at him, all harsh angles and planes, eyes so beautiful it hurt to look into them. “I do not want your comfort, Sam.”
His lashes flickered, and Lucia knew she’d hurt him. Which only made her feel worse.
“This cannot be,”
she whispered helplessly, at a total loss in how to deal with him. Herself. “Please. Let me go.”
He didn’t want to. He fought himself, and her, and for a moment he didn’t move, his eyes bright and hard and unyielding. Then, abruptly, he released her.
Lucia scrambled from his lap, her heart thundering in her ears, part of her—the stupid part—yearning to return.
“This isn’t over,” he warned softly.
But Lucia only turned away, piercingly aware of the truth neither of them could deny, a chasm so far and wide, it would never be bridged. “Everything is over.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“You’ve gone Cat Woman.” Tony smiled at the quelling look Isabel shot him. “I like it.”
She wore a long-sleeved, mock-neck shirt in flat black, hip-hugging, butt-loving pants in the same material and a pair of narrow black boots. A black fitted cap covered her pale hair. All she needed was ears and a tail.
“Meow,” he added and wiggled his eyebrows.
She only snorted and ignored him, but that was okay. He had Isabel’s number now, and no matter how cool and diffident and reserved she was, he knew a warm-blooded, generous heart beat within. Because today, she’d comforted him. She’d leaned into him and centered him; when he was ready to rip Rosa Sanchez’s head off her body, Isabel had pressed her warmth against him and brought him back to himself. And maybe that had been partially self-serving—after all, Rosa needed her head in order to answer Isabel’s questions—but it wasn’t solely Isabel’s end goal that had led her to share the solace of her presence. She might tell herself that, but Tony knew better.
After all, the woman was about to commit B&E with him. They were in it to win it now. He’d spilled his guts about Elian and Lucia and Sam—who he couldn’t reach even though he’d tried a hundred goddamn times, but which was probably his own fault for telling Sam to get off the grid—and Isabel had only stared at him with her dark gray gaze, silent for the entirety of the tale. Then—when he’d feared she would reach for her phone and report his ass to her boss—she’d merely said, “Thank you for telling me. Rosa Sanchez lives on Arroyo and Rochester.”
Not that he thought that would be the sum total of her reaction to what he’d told her. He figured it would surface at some point, but Isabel was very good at compartmentalizing. The woman had the singular focus of a bird of prey, and right now she was focused on Donavon Cruz. Tony almost envied the man; the thought of being Isabel’s sole focus held infinite appeal. And for all that he’d told himself it was impossible, that now was not the time, Isabel was a growing presence within him, a flicker of moonlight in the periphery of his vision that grew brighter with every moment they spent together.
“Better Cat Woman than GI Joe,” she mocked and slid his black camo pants a snarky look.
They sat parked just behind Donavon Cruz’s Dead’s Wilderness property, waiting for Isabel’s contact, Aequitas, to hack into Cruz’s security system. They would have four precious minutes within which to find the evidence they sought—which wasn’t enough, not by half—but it was all they were going to get before the internal override kicked in and reset the system. They could disable the override, but that would alert the security company instantly, and neither one of them wanted Cruz wise to the fact that someone was sneaking around this property. So four minutes was it.
They were going to have to work fast.
“We need a plan,” Isabel continued, her fingers flying over her tablet. “I’ll search out the digital equipment—computer, laptop, hard drives. You should—”
“Why do you get to do that?” Tony protested, just to mess with her.
“Because I’m the one with decryption software.”
“Nice. A gift from your contact?”
“You should concentrate on physical evidence,” she said, ignoring his question. “But you need to be careful. Wear your gloves, and put everything back exactly where you found it. If you don’t—”
“Sugar, this isn’t my first rodeo.”
“Glad to hear it, baby.” So much sarcasm delivered in such cool, austere tones. Tony wouldn’t have thought it possible, but the woman had it down to an art.
“I have zero problems with you calling me baby,” he informed her seriously.
She only shook her head, but he saw the small smile she tried to hide. He wished they sat in sunlight instead of darkness; he bet her cheeks were flush with color. And if they weren’t, he could always—
Down boy. Adrenaline was flowing through him like cheap scotch; his nerves were buzzing, alight with anticipation. The time limit didn’t worry him; it excited him. And to have her joining him—hell, she’d arranged it—only added to the thrill.
“How much time?” he asked, checking his watch. Almost one-thirty in the morning; there was nothing around them but high desert wilderness, and no movement beyond the nocturnal creatures that inhabited that wilderness. No cars, no people, no lights from other residences. Just a harsh, arid landscape washed silver by the narrow crescent of moon above them, which cast just enough light to see.
“Two minutes,” Isabel replied. “You miss it, don’t you?”
“Miss what?”
“The rush. Civilian life can’t be an easy adjustment for a former Army Ranger.”
Tony turned in his seat to study her. “Checking up on me?”
“I check up on everyone,” was her chilly reply, which made him grin.
“I’m flattered. And yeah, I miss it. Every day was a shit show, but the high was addictive. Hard to let it go.”
“Then why did you?”
She was curious. This woman, who rarely strayed into personal territory, was asking him very personal questions. Heat splintered through him, pleasure that had nothing to do with the want she stirred. “It was time. I was sick of killing.”
She looked at him, her eyes the color of slate in the darkness, but she said nothing. Waiting.
Tony obliged. If they were ever going to tangle, there were things she needed to know about him. “I killed more men than I can count. Most of them were evil fucks who needed to be put down. But a fair number of them were just kids—young, dumb, armed and aimed by men who had no problem sacrificing them in order to spill American blood. I’m not proud of that, but a bullet is a bullet. They might have been kids, but they weren’t pulling any punches. Sometimes, there’s no good choice.”
“No,” she agreed softly.
“Sam and I buried a lot of brothers. We came back from Afghanistan, and they started making noises about sending us into Syria, and we knew it was time. I’ve paid my dues; it’s someone else’s turn. So we got out.”
“And both became law enforcement.”
Tony shot her a smile. “Once a soldier, always a soldier.”
She nodded. “One minute.”
They slid quietly out of the SUV and halted at the perimeter of the property. Isabel held her tablet in one hand; with the other, she reached down and grabbed a handful of sand and dirt. A soft chime sounded, and she tossed the dirt into the air.
Nothing. No red grid; no lasers. The system was down.
“Go,” she said.
They sprinted toward the cabin. There was nothing to be done about their footprints; time was too precious to spend erasing their tracks. But they stuck to the stubble of greenery that wove across the property until they reached the back door, a narrow exit with a worn wooden step and hardware befitting a castle. The door was slightly ajar.
Tony cast Isabel a questioning look.
“It’s tied into the security system,” she answered shortly.
And then they were moving slowly through the doorway, halting just inside to click their headlamps on and take stock. Isabel had set her tablet to count down their four minutes audibly: tick-tick-tick. The sound scraped across Tony’s nerves, but it was necessary. In addition, they would have two warning chimes before the security system went back up. The first at two minutes, the second at sixty seconds. By the time the third chime soun
ded, they had to be outside the grid and safely on the other side. Tony had synchronized his watch with the tablet.
“You go left,” Isabel said in a hushed voice. “I’ll go right.”
Tick-tick-tick.
Tony watched her turn and disappear into the shadows. The cabin was one large room; the inside bore no resemblance to the outside. Outside, the wood was grey and aged, weathered and beat to hell. The roof was aged metal, the windows small and narrow. But inside, the floors were laid in thick, gleaming wood, the walls painted some pale color and textured like suede. The furniture was dark, hand-carved: a wooden chair, a bed, a series of nesting tables. A large desk—which Isabel went straight for—and a thick leather sectional sofa. A large, built-in cabinet sat recessed into the northern wall, and thick rugs covered the floor. A small bathroom sat off to one side. Tony checked the bathroom first: nothing but a sink, toilet, and narrow shower stall. Then he went to the recessed cabinet and tried the doors, surprised when they opened.
What was in the cabinet surprised him even more.
Slender leather whips, thin golden chains, and several black crops hung in a neat line. Below them was a coiled cat o’ nine tails, its ends frayed. Beside the cat, a row of aged, steel instruments were displayed: a primitive mask with wide eyes and a slit for a mouth, whose interior was lined with wicked, narrow spikes; a pear-shaped device with four metal leaves curled around a long internal screw thread; a triangular piece of steel with two u-shaped hooks on the long end, turned inward like claws; a long, strange pitchfork with thick tines that were flattened halfway down. Among the oddities, hand saws of all shapes and sizes were mounted in various positions, large, small, curved and straight. It took Tony a minute, staring at the collection. And then—
“Jesus Christ,” he breathed.
Torture devices. An entire collection: antique, rusted, used.
Below them, a line of cubbies contained other unrecognizable items, but he didn’t lean down to get a closer look. No. He couldn’t move, his eyes locked on the objects whose sole purpose was pain, some of which still bore the rusty orange bloodstains of their victims.
