by Hope Anika
Lucia moaned and slid her hands up into his hair, clenching her fingers around the silky strands. She arched against him, forgetting about the throb of her wounds and her aching bones, and stroked his tongue with her own. Another streak of electricity arrowed through her at the hungry sound he made into her mouth. The hand on her neck tilted her head, and he ate at her mouth like a man starving for the taste of her.
Ay, yai, yai! The man could kiss. So fierce but so tender, and so careful of her wounds; his hunger was raw, consuming, matched only by the sudden, burning need that arced through her like live current. She grew soft and wet, and the strong, steady pulse at her core made her press her thighs together in need. He was so—
“You have to have faith, too,” he breathed roughly, breaking the kiss. He pulled back to stare at her. “I can’t do it alone.”
Lucia gripped his hair tight. “I do not believe in faith.”
His brows lowered. He leaned so close their noses brushed. “Do you believe in me?”
Lucia stilled. He watched her, his eyes gleaming, his hands proprietary; she could feel the hard, hungry line of his erection pressing into her belly, just below the wound he’d bandaged only an hour earlier.
“Yes,” she whispered, even though she knew it was an admission she shouldn’t make, because that truth would only bind them tighter, and no matter how good he felt, or how much she wanted him—
“Do you have faith in me?”
Damn him. “Yes.”
A wider, clearly pleased smile, one which made the throb at the hollow of her thighs spread to her blood. A smile. How was that even possible?
“Then no more arguing,” he told her. “I know you were alone, Lu. But you’re not alone now. I’m right here.”
“You should not be,” she told him, more than a little desperately. Alone. So alone she didn’t know how not to be solitary. How to believe. “You should be a thousand miles from this place. Helping us will only do you harm. I do not want that. I never wanted that. Why do you think I tried to send you away?”
“I made my choice on the side of that freeway, sweetheart.”
She was silent for a long moment, staring into that luminescent gaze, her heart beating with painful force. She’d tried so hard to push him away, and yet here he was. And she wasn’t sure she had the energy—or the willpower—to keep pushing. Being alone had never been a choice; it simply was. But it didn’t have to be. That was what he was telling her. What he was fighting for.
“I am sorry,” she whispered.
“For what?”
“For everything.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said roughly.
A sharp laugh escaped her. “I did everything wrong.”
“Sometimes there are no good choices.”
Lucia held his gaze, and such heavy, viscous sadness filled her, her breath caught. “No.”
He frowned. Then he leaned down and kissed her, a gentle, lingering caress where he flicked his tongue against her and made her thighs clench again. “You aren’t the only one who’s made mistakes, you know.”
Something in his tone made her skin prickle. “No?”
“No.” He pressed his forehead against hers. “My mistakes killed a man.”
The hollowness behind his words made her throat tight. “What happened?”
“I trusted the wrong person. I believed the man I was protecting was too stupid to turn on me; I figured he knew better. I was wrong. Fucking arrogant, and when the piece of shit rolled over, he died, and the other deputy working the case—hell, I don’t even know. He was in surgery two days ago. He could be dead, too, for all I know. Either way, it’s my fucking mess, now. I own it. So trust me when I tell you we all make mistakes. It’s how you climb back out of the hole that matters.”
For a moment, she said nothing. Then, softly, “You are a fine man, Sam.”
He made a deep sound and took her mouth. His tongue twined with hers, and Lucia clenched her hands in his hair and rubbed herself against him. Such heat and strength and intoxicating pleasure. She wanted to sink into him and never surface. But Sam pulled away and snarled softly, his fingers clenching into her bottom, which made her inhale sharply. “We’ll cook the fish we caught and eat, then we’ll head out. The rain will provide good cover.”
She shivered when he rubbed his beard against her cheek. “It will be dusk.”
“Yes. There’s a map in the glove compartment, and we have headlights and a compass. We’ll just take our time.”
He was calm and pragmatic, and Lucia tried hard to absorb it. Because he was right: they could only move forward. Even though the knowledge that the boys were chipped turned her blood to ice, and she finally understood how impossible a task it was she’d set for herself, how stacked the deck was, and even though she’d killed a man, and her entire body ached with the force of her wounds, she—they—must keep going.
“What will happen when we get back into satellite range?” she asked, trepidation worming its way through her. “They will find us instantly.”
“I’ve got it covered.”
“Covered how?”
He kissed her, hard, brief, possessive. “I told you,” he said and smiled that dark, dangerous smile. He let her slide slowly down his body, until her unsteady legs hit the ground. Then he gave her butt a lusty smack. “I always have a plan.”
Chapter Thirty-One
“It’s the end of goddamn days out there.”
Isabel looked at Tony in the reflection of the mirror she stood before. He was staring out the window of their dilapidated motel room, into the storm that had nearly washed them from the road and precipitated their stay at The Honeycomb Motel, a squat, disheveled row of seventies-era motel rooms with shag carpeting and diamond-pattered wallpaper. The room smelled of cigarettes and cheap disinfectant, and the towel she was using to dry off was as thin as cheesecloth.
Still, it was shelter from the storm. Even if the walls groaned from the force of the wind, and the rain soaked in beneath the warped door.
Even if they had to share it.
“I hope they’re all okay,” Tony added, shaking his head.
Isabel did, too. The storm had forced them to stop several hundred miles shy of their destination of the Sawtooth National Forest in central Idaho, which according to Aequitas, was the last known location of the Cruz boys’ GPS trackers. So far neither the FBI nor local law enforcement had laid eyes on Lucia Sanchez or the Cruz boys, and hopefully that was because they were so well hidden, and not because they were lying dead in a field somewhere. The storms that had proven such a hindrance in the last forty-eight hours continued unabated, making it almost impossible to get out into the field and conduct an actual search, and in spite of the airspace FEMA had finally opened, no planes or helicopters were braving the hurricane-force winds. The entire investigation had yet to even get off the ground.
Small favors, Isabel thought. Provided Lucia and Sam and the Cruz boys had survived those storms.
“We’re still at least four hours out,” Tony continued. “With any luck, this will blow over by morning, and we can get up there by noon.”
But the weather forecast was grim, and there was no telling what morning would bring. The meteorologists were making educated guesses, but that education was based on knowledge gleaned from patterns—and a stable global temperature—which no longer existed. All they could do was wait and see.
Hurry up and wait. With the weather…and the storm that hovered on the horizon in the form of what Isabel had requested of Aequitas. So far, there was nothing of the video she’d sent her CI on the news or the web, and Isabel wondered what Aequitas was waiting for. But she trusted her source, and if Aequitas said it would be done, it would be done. So…patience.
Something of which Isabel was currently in short supply. She’d not expected Tony to show up at her room and utter that ridiculous statement of solidarity that had flummoxed and pleased her. No one had ever stood beside her with such unwavering
determination, and part of her despised him for it, because now she knew what she’d been missing. She didn’t need him, but it was nice having someone fight alongside her. Someone who was angry and determined and steadfast.
Being beautiful doesn’t hurt.
Which was an asinine thought, but as her eyes traced the broad width of his shoulders, Isabel was forced to recognize its truth. And its influence. She was very attracted to Tony Malone, and his statement that they would be dealing with that attraction—because there is an us, Isabel—was both thrilling and terrifying. Considering how rare such emotions were for her...well.
She was in trouble. Deep, dark waters in which she had no idea how to swim.
You need more. Something to balance out the ugliness, something that makes all the sacrifice worth it. Something that belongs only to you.
But Isabel had given up on that idea—that someone could own her and she them—as a child. And the thought of reassessing that decision was not pleasant. She’d spent her life alone; she felt no loss due to that choice.
Not until she’d met Tony, and she didn’t particularly appreciate the awakening.
But she wasn’t a coward, and the child who’d cut all ties saw something in him. Wanted something from him, and Isabel wasn’t certain she wanted to deny that child. Tony was right: the ugliness required neutralization. Something to soften the sharp edges; a light to illuminate the darkness. Was that him?
Or just wishful thinking?
Isabel was afraid the child had decided to answer that question.
“What are you thinking?” Tony asked, and when her gaze flickered to his, Isabel found him watching her.
“That I’m glad you’re here,” she admitted, shrugging. She ignored the heat that flooded her cheeks; it was only the truth. “I usually work alone.”
The smile that curved his mouth made a pulse flutter suddenly, low in her belly. He abandoned the window and walked toward her.
“No one at the Bureau is a team player?” he asked.
Isabel eyed him, watching him get closer, aware of her heartbeat growing stronger, that harrowing ripple of awareness licking over her skin. “I’m not a team player.”
“Except with me,” he said, halting just behind her. Their eyes locked in the mirror.
Isabel only arched a brow at him.
“I’m honored,” he told her, and color again rushed into her cheeks, because she could tell he meant it, and she didn’t think she’d ever met so honest a man, something which continued to take her off guard. And something she liked. Far too much. “Are you upset at leaving the Bureau? All that time invested lost?”
“No,” she replied. “The Bureau was only ever a means to an end. The badge facilitated the investigations I conducted, but it was never necessary. And today it became a hindrance. The experience was educational, and I made some very good contacts, but there would have always been an end date.”
“Still. I don’t imagine you saw it ending like this.”
She only shrugged. “It is what it is.”
“What will you do now?”
Tony watched her with a stillness that made another rush of awareness wash over her. He was warm behind her, so close she could smell him, and her nape prickled beneath the touch of his breath. The temptation to step back into the tensile comfort of him was strong, more so because she knew he would welcome her, but nothing was over, and neither of them could afford—
“Isabel,” he murmured, his hands landing on either side of her against the countertop she stood before, his skin like sun-kissed gold against the dingy white tile. He leaned down and rested his chin on her shoulder, and his cheek brushed hers, scented by sandalwood and faintly bristled. “Talk to me.”
For a long moment, she said nothing, silently enjoying the rasp of his skin against hers. His heat behind her, his arms almost enclosing her. And she was tempted, so very tempted by him. But he would not be satisfied with one moment, one night, one experience. No. He would want all of her, and while most women would be thrilled by that realization, it scared the bejesus out of Isabel.
Because she wasn’t certain what she had to give him, if anything. Was she capable of baring herself? Sharing herself? And if what she revealed repulsed him? What then?
Would that risk be worth the reward?
“You asked earlier what happened to me,” she said, the words welling forth from a place only he seemed to awaken. Her gaze lifted to meet his in the mirror.
“Are you ready to tell me?” he murmured, watching her closely, so intent his focus felt like a touch.
No. But there would be no “ready” when it came to him. He’d crashed into her much like a runaway truck, and short of leaping entirely out of range, there would be no escaping him. If she took this chance, he would not be an easy lover. He would be demanding. Stubborn. Uncontrollable. But he would also be honest. Strong. Loyal.
A man who stood beside her. And for a woman alone that was…enticing. And terrifying.
“Isabel,” Tony whispered, stepping closer, and she shivered when his hard, broad, warm chest pressed against her back. “You don’t owe me anything. I can wait.”
And he would. Which is what forced her to lift her arm and turn it into the ugly florescent lighting so that the delicate grid of scars that marred her skin shimmered like fine silver mesh. Even after all these years, looking at them made her stomach turn.
Tony made a rough sound.
“My mother,” Isabel told him softly. “Was a very troubled woman.” She raised her other arm, revealing more scars, intricate circles the size of a quarter, their designs as complex as the most difficult maze. They traced their way along her forearm like raised stepping stones. “People always assume men are the worst offenders, but plenty of women are monsters within their own right. Men tend to lash out. Their violence is brutal and reactionary. But women…women plan their cruelty down to the last detail. They often use multiple weapons: physical, mental, sexual. The psychology is different, less visceral, more vicious. In my experience, women are far more malicious than their male counterparts.”
She met Tony’s gaze, and his steady, unwavering look made her chest tighten. “Like Donavon Cruz, my mother was a sadist. She considered herself an artist of the flesh, and I…I was her canvas.”
Hard, strong hands settled on her hips, warm, heavy, but he didn’t speak, he only waited, his cheek warm against hers. Isabel lowered her hands to the edge of her damp t-shirt and slowly lifted the hemline to reveal the whorls and circles and delicate lines that marred the skin of her stomach, her sole, gruesome inheritance. “She preferred x-acto blades; they allowed her significant control in how deep she cut. If you look closely, you can see many different things: birds, butterflies, insects. Flowers and grasses and tree leaves. She was incredibly talented.”
Isabel could feel Tony’s gaze taking in the horrendous opus, one which covered nearly her entire body. No part of her had been too sacred to defile.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “Where the fuck was your father?”
The rage Isabel heard made her take a deep, shuddering breath. That fury, she felt it, like a hammer cracking the cold, adamantine shell she lived within, and she pressed back into the heated, tensile hold of the man behind her, painfully aware of the violent tremors she couldn’t seem to control.
“In his lab. He was a geneticist. Well-known, well-respected, more concerned with manipulating future life than protecting the one he’d already created.” Isabel shook her head. “They lived separate lives; he had no idea what my mother was doing.” She paused, the words jagged in her throat like sharp, delicate nails. “Not until I tried to kill her.”
She felt Tony stiffen, and for a moment panic seared through her. What would he think? What would he do?
Would he still want her?
Scarred and carved into human sculpture; there was no escaping it. She’d grown used to the ridges and circles and fine, delicate lines. The painful stretch of scar tissue over her bones;
the ache that throbbed through her when a storm came. But it was a lot to ask of a man, to see beyond it, to want her in spite of the horror she wore. That thought made her heart hurt, and she knew if he walked away, she would never share it again. He would be the only one. The only chance she would ever take. Which was not, she understood, healthy, but having survived this long had taken everything. Going beyond that was not something she cared to contemplate.
Except with him. Why was that?
“Tell me,” he demanded softly, and his cheek rubbed hers, and tears filled her throat, a sudden, aching mass she had to swallow several times to speak past. So much horror. It was too much; Isabel knew it was too much. His gaze had grown dark, sharp, yet it didn’t waver, steady, relentless, as firm as his hold.
“I don’t remember making the decision,” Isabel told him, her voice muted. “One day she left her blade within reach and I just…stabbed her.” The memory was like a brutal, unexpected slap. “I took her left eye, and when she began to scream, I laughed. Because it was her screaming, instead of me. It felt so good.” Isabel stared at Tony, searching for the horror she still felt. “I enjoyed it, and the only reason she survived was because my father had come home early and heard her screams. He saved her.”
“Her, but not you.”
Tony’s tone was guttural, his hands around her hips like a vise. Isabel pressed back into him, and her hands curled over his and held tight.
“Yes,” she said huskily. “He protected her. His work and his reputation were too important; the truth would have destroyed him.”
“So he let you be destroyed instead,” Tony said flatly, and Isabel shuddered, because she heard the man who would kill to protect those he cared for, the one hidden behind that charming smile and glib tongue. “Where is he now?”
“Dead, both of them. Long ago.” A heavy sigh escaped her. “Thankfully, I was an only child.”
The hands at her hips slid around her waist, and he held her tightly, the bristle that covered his jaw stabbing into her cheek. “I’m sorry.”
