by Pam Godwin
“In and out. An inconvenient side-effect of pain killers.”
She was surprised he answered so candidly. Did someone shoot him? Knife him? Was it Tate? She returned her attention to his head, scrutinizing the wide swath of shaved scalp. How serious was the damage?
“You want to see under the bandages.” His voice purred with provocation, licking a hum across her skin. “You’re dying with curiosity.”
“Dying is a poor choice of words, considering.” She pulled harder on her arms and craned her neck to find her hands tethered to a cast iron pipe on the wall. She returned to his eyes, and a deep inhale helped her maintain that contact. “What happened?”
“Lucia Dias.” A twitch feathered along his jaw. “She went vigilante on me with a forty-pound dumbbell.”
Camila’s sister attacked him? He still hadn’t mentioned Tate. Was the attack part of Tate’s rescue mission? Did he and Lucia make it out? Were they alive?
Tiago watched her steadily, devouring the trepidation she couldn’t hide on her face. If he didn’t already know Lucia’s name meant something to her, he knew now.
“What happened to her?” A swallow solidified in her throat.
“You tell me.”
Was he fucking with her? She didn’t know how to play mind games with a psychopath, but she needed to try. Since she couldn’t overpower him, she would have to outsmart him.
How had Lucia survived eleven years in his ranks? She worked for him, but no one understood why. There were so many pieces Tate hadn’t puzzled out. So many unanswered questions. Hell, he’d traveled to Venezuela uncertain if Lucia would welcome him or shoot him on the spot.
“I don’t know her.” She held Tiago’s intimidating gaze. “I assume you provoked her? The fact that she succeeded in injuring you means you didn’t see it coming.”
He nodded, eyes narrowing, losing focus. “She was a special circumstance. As fierce as they come. She survived in my outfit longer than any of the men, and that kind of resilience was rare. It made her useful. Worth having around.”
Every past tense word struck her like shrapnel, shredding her hope that Lucia was still alive. “How did she catch you off guard?”
“I never trusted her, but we had an agreement.” He absently stroked the medical tape on his temple. “I allowed her to live, as long as she followed my rules.”
Bashing his head would’ve been the opposite of following his rules.
“Where is she?” She struggled beneath him, attempting to unbalance his straddled position. “What did you do to her?”
“I let her go.”
“You…” Wait. What? “You said someone took her from you.”
“That’s not what I said.” He scowled hatefully. “Pay attention, Kate.”
“You’re speaking in riddles.” Her arms pulled at the shoulders, and her hips twinged beneath his weight, compelling her to twist about, seeking distance. “Please, get off me. You’re fucking heavy.”
He pondered her request for a moment before adjusting his legs and lifting some of that bulk off her lower body.
She released a slow breath, contemplating his cryptic words. “You said someone took something from you.”
“Yes. I never had her loyalty, but I possessed something more effective. Her fear.” He tipped his head, his gaze invasive. “You, of all people, understand how every aspect of a person’s life can be controlled through terror.”
No use denying it. Four years ago, her crippling fear gave Van Quiso power over her entire being. Lucia must’ve experienced the same with Tiago. Until she attacked him.
“Someone took her fear from you,” she said.
“That’s right.” He flashed an unnerving grin and traced a finger along the gauze near his eye. “I haven’t seen her handiwork. Boones says it’s healing, but he won’t remove the bandages.”
“Boones?” She shook her head. No one entered this room, except… “The elderly cook?”
“He’s a doctor. A damn good one, despite his motherly approach to my care.” He fingered the medical tape, picked at the corner. “Fuck it.”
He gripped the edge of the bandage and ripped it off. She winced as he forcefully tore at the pieces, pulling out strips of hair in the process without a twitch of pain on his face.
“Be honest.” He gave her his profile and smoothed a hand along a jagged, puffy laceration. “How bad is it?”
She stopped breathing as her gaze locked on the damage.
Jesus. Lucia hadn’t just hit him with a dumbbell. Somehow, she’d managed to hit him twice.
The first gash sat so close to his eye it was a wonder he survived the blow. The orbital bones around his eye socket should’ve shattered under the impact. Maybe they did. A yellowish hue discolored his cheekbone where bruises must’ve lingered for weeks.
The second wound carved a huge crescent-shaped groove along the side of his skull. This one appeared deeper and would’ve required more stitches, the skin around it still raw and scabbed over, taking longer to heal.
That side of his head was shaved to the peak above his temple where hair tended to retreat. But there was no threat of a receding hairline. Thick black strands fell over the non-injured side in finger-raked textures, accentuating his rugged features and whiskered jawline.
He was in desperate need of a haircut, one that evened out the sides. The messy-all-over, renegade style no longer worked for him, because hair would never grow in over the deep gouges that ran diagonally from his temple to the back of his head.
Together, the marks would leave a permanent map of scars the length of her hand and almost as wide. A hit like that was meant to be fatal. No doubt he sustained multiple skull fractures.
Too bad it didn’t mash his brain to pulp.
She returned her gaze to his and found him watching her, waiting for an answer.
How bad is it?
It didn’t diminish his disgusting masculine beauty. If anything, the scars made him even more arresting. But she didn’t give a fuck what he looked like. She wanted him to suffer.
“I can’t really see from this angle.” She bent her neck and squinted. “Can you lean in a little closer?”
As he shifted, she reared her head back and slammed it forward. Aiming for his wounds, she hoped to reopen them with the ram of her skull.
In a blur, he dodged left, fisted the hair at the back of her head, and ruthlessly yanked her flat against the mattress.
“Not exactly the spice of originality.” He forced her neck at a painful angle. “I’m disappointed.”
She should’ve known. After Lucia got the drop on him, he’d be hyper-vigilant about strikes to the head.
“You said I don’t have an opinion.” She squirmed, unable to relieve his eye-watering grip on her hair. “Then you asked me to be honest about your wounds. Excuse me if I’m having trouble with your contradictory rules.”
She needed to figure out a different way to fight him. If she could reach him with words, say something he found intriguing, maybe he’d keep her alive.
A heart-pounding smile wrenched his lips. So disturbing, that mouth. As it fell into a slack line, his sudden lack of expression produced a sick, buckling sensation in her stomach.
He released her hair, straightened his seated position on her pelvis, and removed something from his pants pocket. “You might think all human skin cuts the same beneath a blade.”
Her pulse quickened as he slipped a small metal instrument onto his index finger and unfolded the tip. It opened like a switch blade and curved into a lethal claw.
All the air vacated her lungs. She couldn’t unfreeze her gaze from the glinting steel, couldn’t feel her heart beat or move her hands and feet. Her fear was brutal, her mind a torture chamber of the grisly things to come as she fast forwarded the swipe of his finger, the sharp edge slicing her from neck to gut, and the slick gush of blood that would bathe her final moments.
He tilted the razor inches from her face, causing light to dance across the sur
face. “Cutting a woman, it’s different than cutting a man. The blade must be held with a passionate hand, and when feminine skin separates, it doesn’t just bleed. It weeps.”
Throbbing pressure built in the back of her throat and swelled behind her eyes. His words, the clinical apathy in his voice, the unfeeling look on his face… He was deeply deranged, inhumanly evil, and it scared the living hell out of her.
Tremors crashed through her body. She wanted to believe she was a strong person, that she could endure the worst of his depravity without breaking. But she wasn’t and couldn’t. She couldn’t even rein in her emotions at the sight of his blade.
As she shoved down the panic, it bubbled back up. As she blanked her face, the muscles in her cheeks contracted and quivered. She swallowed ugly, miserable sounds, but they broke through, fracturing the silence and exposing her fragility.
It was such a helpless feeling—the choking breaths, the godawful constriction in her chest, the inconsolable horror. Her chin trembled, chattering her teeth. She blinked rapidly, tried to stop the worst of it before it spilled from her eyes, tried to hold herself together with invisible arms. There was no comfort to be found.
She couldn’t remember the last time she was this terrified. Everything inside her twisted and swelled to the point of unraveling. She ached to surrender to it and mentally played out what it would feel like to give in to the tears, to the uncontrollable sobbing, to abandon the fight and let defeat pull her under. She longed for that, to give up and accept her fate. God, the relief in letting go would be extraordinary.
But when her meltdown was over, there would be nothing left. He would still be here, getting off on her pathetic show. He wouldn’t even have to cut her. Her misery alone would feed his sadism. It would make him stronger.
He didn’t see her as a person. She was an object, a thing to play with and torment. Eventually, he would grow bored and toss away her pieces like a broken toy. Then he would find another.
Fuck that.
A heavy stillness fell over her. A purpose. She wasn’t dead yet. That meant she could change her fate, rewrite the ending. But how?
He ghosted the razor’s edge along her brow, just a whispered touch of steel that put every nerve in her body into cardiac arrest.
With great effort, she dragged her attention away from the blade and focused on the shadows in his eyes.
What made him become so vicious? Was he born into a life of crime? Did he have any loved ones? Anyone important to him?
He seemed to respect Lucia, said she was fierce and resilient. But Kate wasn’t fearless, and he already scolded her for trying to be brave.
There was something broken inside him. That much was obvious. She had no clue how to decode his fucked-up mind, but after her experience with Van, she’d been drawn to documentaries and psychiatric studies about violent criminals.
There was evidential research that linked personal trauma to the making of a murderer. Not all serial killers were victims of abuse, but many experienced brutal childhoods. She couldn’t diagnose him or pretend he was anything other than a criminal, but maybe she could reach him in a way no else had tried?
With the glide of his finger, he curved the razor along the side of her face. His gaze followed the movement, and his breathing picked up.
She held still, paralyzed beneath his deadly touch. “You don’t want to do this.”
His eyes flicked to hers and tapered with warning.
It was a powerful, overwhelmingly desperate moment when the mind recognized that death was only seconds away.
“I can give you something.” She swallowed. “Something no one else has offered.”
“Don’t be naive. You’re smart enough to imagine the range of pleasures women offer me.” He scanned her body with zero interest on his face.
“Not that.” She organized her thoughts and carefully chose her words. “I get the feeling you’ve suffered things. Unspeakable, horrible things that left a deep impact on your life.”
His expression emptied, giving nothing away.
Was she digging her own grave? Her hands slicked with sweat, her lungs shriveling on the cusp of hyperventilation. “Maybe I’m just projecting. When Van Quiso took me, I experienced my own trauma. Whatever happened to you, I can empathize. I don’t forgive you for kidnapping me, but I’m capable of compassion.” She softened her voice. “Surely, that means something to you?”
“Compassion?” He laughed. “I’ve heard of it, but not in this world. Not where joy is nonexistent, and integrity is a luxury.” He hooked the blade under her throat, skyrocketing her pulse. “In this world, the weak are crushed.”
Her chest heaved, and her entire body convulsed with overwhelming horror. Oh God, she didn’t want to die. Not like this. She wasn’t ready.
But what hope did she have? There was no ransom, no way to locate her, and no white knight riding in on a horse.
What if death was her only escape?
“Okay, Tiago.” She wheezed, eyes wide and burning. “I’m scared. Is that what you want? I’m fucking terrified. But I won’t give you the pleasure of watching me fall apart. You want to kill me? Go ahead.” She raised her chin and pushed against the blade, shaking violently. “You have my fear. You’ve taken my freedom. I have nothing left to lose.”
“That’s not true. There is something.”
The blade retreated, and he folded it shut. Her heartbeat reeled as he pocketed it and pulled out a phone.
“I have something you and Lucia want.” He unlocked the screen, tapped it a few times, and met her eyes.
“I don’t understand.” Or maybe she did, but denial was easier to swallow.
He turned the phone and showed her the screen.
A live video of a nude man streamed across the display. He stood in a shack with his back to the camera and a sponge in his hand. He was bathing, using water from a bucket at his feet. Even more crude was the shackle connecting his ankle to a chain that snaked along the dirt floor.
What was on his back? She leaned closer to the screen.
Holy fuck.
Blood pounded in her ears, and ice skewered her veins.
Who would have the stomach to carve up that man’s back so gruesomely? Her gaze shot to Tiago, her thoughts spiraling to the razor in his pocket.
Dread hardened her gut as she returned to the screen.
The mutilation spanned from the man’s shoulders to his waist, the cuts welted and red, but not fresh. Not only that, there were pink scars on opposite sides of his arm, as if something had been recently stabbed straight through it.
God, the pain he must’ve endured… She couldn’t imagine it. Couldn’t take her eyes off the video. She pored over his brown hair, his muscled mid-twenties physique, and the unfinished tattoo on his bicep.
Her breath hitched. Oh, please, no. She knew that tattoo.
“As it turns out…” Tiago’s deep voice broke through her. “Lucia fell in love.”
“No, no, no.” She shook her head, denying the truth even as it forced itself upon her. “That’s not Tate. It can’t be.”
“It’s him, and the man holding the camera has been instructed to kill him, if I don’t call in…” He tilted the phone to check the time. “Five minutes.”
Her heart catapulted to her throat. “Call him!”
He regarded her, head canted and expression composed, as if he had all the time in the world.
Everything inside her snapped. She thrashed and spat and went fucking feral as he watched her with a sick kind of curiosity.
“Please!” She kicked her legs, bucking beneath the straddle of his knees. “What do you want? I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?”
She looked at the phone, at the brutality marring Tate’s back, and her stomach sank. “Lucia loves him? And he loves her back?”
“Yes.” The corner of his mouth bounced. “They risked their lives to be together, and if they’re lucky, they’ll die together.”
“Wh
at are you saying?”
“I have a weakness for tragic love stories. It’s the only reason I didn’t kill them immediately.” He shut off the phone, a scowl darkening his inextricable eyes. “Lucia will find him, unless you fuck it up.”
“Don’t put this on me,” she seethed. “I’ll do whatever you say. Just make the call.”
Fucking Christ, Tiago’s head hurt. He wasn’t in the habit of physically restraining people, especially not while recovering from a fractured skull.
He preferred other means of control, as Kate would soon find out.
“I’m going to remove the rope.” He pulled the finger blade from his pocket. “Be a good girl.”
Her watery gaze stayed with the phone where it sat out of reach. Her fear for Tate was palpable, paling her pretty face to a ghostly shade of white. She would really lose her mind if she knew her friend was being held within walking distance from here.
Tiago didn’t relish the thought of ending Tate’s life. It would ruin everything he’d put into place.
But he would follow through on his threat if Kate didn’t behave.
“Hold still.” He cut through the thick rope on her arms until the fibers unraveled enough to fall away.
She rubbed her wrists, the skin red and raw. A little rope burn was nothing compared to the hurt she would endure before she died. She might as well get used to it.
He rolled off her slender body, and she instantly tried to scramble away.
“Stay.” He pointed the blade at the spot beside him on the mattress.
She froze with a foot on the floor and glared back at him. “You’re going to call your guy? Stop him from killing Tate?”
He tapped the mattress where he wanted her.
Her shoulders slumped, and she crawled to the far end, putting her back to the wall and her eyes on his phone.
Another wave of queasiness hit him sideways, and he braced a hand on the bed, catching himself.
Christ, he needed something for the double vision. Being bedridden for a month left him dizzy and weak. Wrestling a pint-sized woman made it worse.
