by Pam Godwin
“You’ve lost your damn mind. How can you think about that right now? You just killed like fifty men, drove an hour on a motorcycle while bleeding and half-dead. Not to mention you don’t even have enough blood in your body to get it up. Oh, and we’re probably surrounded by snakes, spiders, and random other venomous—”
“Shut the fuck up, Kate.” His pale lips failed to form the T in her name.
“Shit.” She reached for the red-soaked gauze on the side of his chest. “You’re still bleeding.”
“Apply pressure.” His voice was weak, reedy. He was fading fast.
Flattening her hands against the wound, she pressed hard and held it. His lashes lowered, hiding the agony in his eyes.
“Tiago.” She didn’t know if his injuries were life-threatening, but keeping him awake seemed important. “Stay with me, dammit.”
His eyes snapped open, sharpened, drilling into hers. “Need to tell you something.”
“What?”
“I love you.”
Her heart skipped. “You’re insane.”
“Love is insanity.”
Desperate to keep him alert and talking, she leaned in and asked, “What do you love about me?”
“First off…” He lifted his unshackled hand to her face. “Everything.”
His eyes fluttered shut, and his arm dropped.
Passed out.
I love you?
Kate blew out a ragged breath.
Maybe those words would’ve meant something if Tiago weren’t caught in the delirium of blood loss, but right now, he didn’t know what he loved.
“Tiago.” Pressing against his wound with one hand, she pried open his eyes with the other. “Wake up.”
Nothing.
Her nerves rioted, quickening her pulse. “Tiago!”
When he didn’t stir, her anxiety burned to anger.
She was shackled in the middle of a jungle in Venezuela. At any moment, she could be ambushed by a rebel group, attacked by a man-eating panther, or strangled by an anaconda.
If he died…
She eyed the machete sticking out of his backpack, recalling how he’d freed her from the last dead body.
Fucking hell, she didn’t have the stomach for that.
“Wake up!” she shouted in his face.
Was he even breathing? Her heart raced as she scanned him for signs of life.
“Damn you, Tiago. Nothing says I love you like handcuffing me to your dead body.” She pressed shaky fingers against the pulse point on his throat, panicking. “This is sick and fucking twisted, even for you.”
A breath huffed past his lips, and he cracked open an eye.
“I’m not dead.” He shifted, groaning in pain. “Would drag my ball sac through ten miles of broken glass for another chance to be inside you.”
“Oh my God.” She groaned with a mix of relief and annoyance.
“You’re so beautiful.” His eyes glossed over and faded beneath the descent of thick lashes.
“No, no, no. You need to stay awake.”
“Did you fuck me unconscious?” The corner of his mouth crooked, but his eyes remained closed.
“You wish. Where’s your phone?”
“Boones will come.” A slurring whisper.
“Before or after you die?”
No answer.
She gripped his square jaw. Too slack. Too cold.
Too unconscious.
Fuck.
If he survived this, she was going to kill him.
She eased the leather jacket from beneath his lolling head and located his phone in the pocket. It was locked, of course, with a passcode she couldn’t hack. She couldn’t even tell if there was a signal.
What if they were in a dead zone? Was cell service required for tracking?
She checked the bullet wound, and it appeared to stop bleeding. Turning her attention to the backpack, she removed all the knives and tried each one on the handcuffs. None of them made a dent in the chain. Not even the machete.
She tried to pick the lock. That only ended in cursing, screaming hysterics.
Her mouth felt like stale toast, despite the mugginess in the air. There was no water, no way to hydrate. She hadn’t had anything to drink since last night.
Out of options, she turned her anger to the unconscious man at her side. “I hate you.”
The words tasted sour and made her stomach hurt.
She needed to hate him, but she couldn’t. She needed him to live, because if he didn’t, she would feel that loss in ways she didn’t want to examine.
An ache burned the backs of her eyes, and her chest caved beneath the constriction of fear.
“Don’t die.” She stretched out beside him and snuggled in under his uninjured shoulder, pressing herself so tightly against him she felt the slow thud of his heartbeat.
“Don’t you dare give up.” She buried her face into his neck and let the tears fall.
With her free hand clinging to the hilt of the machete, she forced herself to stay awake, her awareness heightened with every rustle and buzz in the jungle.
As the residual effects of adrenaline abandoned her, exhaustion barreled in. She fought the overpowering need to close her eyes, perking her ears, watching the trail, waiting.
When the rumble of a distant engine broke the silence, she shot to her feet and heaved the machete out in front of her.
Her pulse exploded as the vehicle approached. It could be anyone. Someone more interested in killing Tiago than saving his life.
A van emerged through the trees, slowing on the road at the entrance of the trail. Twenty feet away.
Only the front of the vehicle had windows, and through the glass, she made out two faces.
Faces she didn’t recognize.
Her hands shook as she planted her feet on either side of his body, crouching over him and holding out the machete.
The arm connected to hers limited her range of motion, but she had a weapon. Multiple knives. They would have to go through her to get to him.
The doors opened and shut. Her muscles trembled with enough force to stop her heart.
“Don’t come any closer!” She adjusted her grip on the hilt and bit down on her cheek, sawing through tender tissues.
Footsteps approached. Big men, wearing sunglasses, heavy boots, and armed to the gills with holstered guns and knives.
They didn’t run at her. Didn’t free their weapons and start shooting.
“Who are you?” she shouted. “What do you want?”
A creak sounded near the van. The back door closed, and a tall, gray-headed, black man emerged on the trail.
The warm, familiar face swarmed her with overwhelming emotion. The surge crashed through her so violently she nearly fell beneath the weight of it.
The machete tumbled into the foliage, and she buckled over, giving into the sobs that piled in her throat.
Boones reached her side and gripped the handcuffs on her wrist, staring at the link to Tiago’s arm. She didn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t the laughter that burst from his chest.
The comforting sound of it combined with the gentle squeeze of his fingers around hers reduced her to a hot mess of sobbing, laughing, maniacal hiccups.
“He’s lost so much blood.” She sobered and quickly walked him through the gruesome points of Tiago’s injuries.
The other two men gathered the backpack and weapons, and two minutes later, they had Tiago in their arms, up the trail, and laid out on his back in the rear of the van.
The handcuffs pulled her along. Boones joined her in the cargo space, which was loaded with multiple medical bags and equipment.
As much as she wanted the damn manacle off her wrist, she didn’t mention it as Boones went to work on Tiago’s wounds.
The light in the roof illuminated his steady scalpel and meticulous stitches, his face aglow with remarkable concentration.
She found a case of water amid the supplies and guzzled three bottles. She used another
to wet Tiago’s lips and clean the blood from his body.
As Boones taped on the bandages, she filled him in on the events at the warehouse, explaining how things ended with Iliana.
He caught her up on what happened during the attack at the house. The news that Arturo was the only surviving guard hit her harder than she expected.
When Boones finished the last bandage, he nodded at the driver waiting in the front seat.
The engine rumbled to life, and the van shot into motion, speeding toward Caracas.
She took in Tiago’s rapid breathing, slack face, and bruised body, willing him to look at her. But his lashes didn’t stir.
It tightened her chest. “Is he going to live, Dr. Frankenstein?”
Boones cut his eyes at her, his expression disgruntled.
“You didn’t create the monster.” She clutched Tiago’s limp hand, linking their fingers. “But you’ve been patching him up for twelve years.”
“He’s not a monster.”
Flashbacks of the past few hours peppered her mind in blood and bullets. “He is when he needs to be.”
His face softened, relaxing the scars on his cheeks. “I’ve been his accomplice through it all. He will always have my support, even when he makes mistakes.”
“He’s made a lot of mistakes, Boones. Just in the past couple of months. With me.”
“Yes, but he’ll learn from them. I don’t always agree with his actions, but I believe in him.” He crooked a finger at her. “Let me look at you.”
She scooted around Tiago’s body and let Boones clean the injury on her face. Then he removed the bandages on her thigh. His body language gave nothing away as he cleaned the swirling cuts and applied a tingling cream.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She searched his eyes.
“Yes.” He redressed her leg with clean bandages. “You’re healing him.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s been hurting for a long time. I can only heal the body. But you…” He clutched her hand and placed it against Tiago’s chest. “You heal the rest.”
She didn’t know about that, but there was one milestone she could share with him.
“He’s giving up the kidnapping business.” At the widening of his eyes, she felt a shimmer of pride. “He made that deal with me last night.”
Boones studied her with an unreadable expression. Then a smile broke through. “See? You’re good for him.”
She nodded, accepting the truth in that. “So how about helping me out of these handcuffs?”
“Not a chance.” He turned to his medical supplies and started putting things away.
“Why not?”
“He secured you that way for a reason, and they will stay until he decides to remove them.”
Dammit.
“You didn’t answer my first question.” She took in Tiago’s pallid complexion and the bandages that covered half of his torso. “He’s going to live, right?”
“He’s very lucky. If the bullet hit anywhere else on his chest, even just slightly to the left, it would’ve damaged organs or bones. Surgery in a van is less than ideal.”
“He would’ve died.”
“Yes.”
“What about the blood loss?”
“No arteries were nicked. He’ll be weak for a while, but he’ll recover. The priority right now is getting him to safety.”
The hairs on her nape lifted. “Are we in danger?”
“He’s a wanted man.” He stared down at Tiago’s face with a troubled look. “There will always be danger.”
She considered the long list of enemies he’d acquired over the years. No matter what he did going forward, he would never escape what he’d done.
“He can’t leave this life, can he?” She swallowed. “Even if he wanted to?”
“When he avenged my daughter’s death, he was labeled as a criminal and forced to live like one. He’s safer here, among other criminals, than out there in normal society. Here, in the heart of hell, he’s protected.”
She shivered at what his words meant. What they meant for her. If she didn’t escape, his violent world would become her life. If she managed to get away, she would lose him.
“Are we going to his compound?” she asked. “That’s where he lives, right?”
“He did.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m taking you to his penthouse in Caracas.”
“He has a penthouse?” She couldn’t imagine it.
“It’s a luxury he owns but never indulged in. He kept it for my brothers and me. He didn’t want us sleeping in the filth of his slum, and he doesn’t want you sleeping there, either.”
“No more mattresses on the floor?”
“He has a very nice, very large bed in the penthouse that has never been slept in.” He cast her a knowing look. “Or used in any way.”
She refused to acknowledge his response and held up her shackled arm. “What happens when we get there and I need to pee?”
“Hold it or release it. The handcuffs stay on.”
Tiago woke to the immaculate face of an angel. She floated over him, her vivid blue eyes backlit by a halo of golden hair. The seam of her cupid lips separated, and he wanted nothing more than to hear her voice, taste her kiss, and lose himself in her ferocity.
“I must be dead.” Confusion poked at his muddled brain. “Except angels don’t exist in hell.”
“Not dead.” The angel scowled. “But you should be.”
Kate.
Alive.
Relief cut through the dull pain in his chest. “Where are we?”
“The garage of your penthouse.” She leaned to the side, revealing the interior of a cargo van.
At the rear, Boones stood in the open doors, flanked by two men. Tiago didn’t know them, but he trusted Boones to choose only the best for his personal security.
There would always be traitors, but Iliana’s death should serve as a deterrent for the time being.
He flexed his arms and rolled his neck, testing his strength and mobility. Muscles protested, but the pain didn’t make him want to hurl his guts. Definitely an improvement from the jungle.
“What’s the damage?” He glanced down at his torso but could only see clean bandages.
“You’ll live.” Boones stepped back and motioned at the men. “They’re going to carry you up.”
“Fuck that.” He pushed to a sitting position and swayed beneath an onslaught of vertigo.
“Tiago.” Kate gripped the metal bracelet on his wrist and tugged at the other half still attached to her. “Remove the handcuffs. It’ll be easier if you’re not dragging me along beside you.”
No way would he release her until she was safely locked behind the doors of the penthouse.
Shifting to the rear of the van, he lowered his boots to the ground, rose to his full height, and waited for the dizziness to pass.
The walk to the elevator was a short trip of staggering steps, grabbing hands, and glowering disapproval. Most of the scowls came from Kate, but her fingers gripped his arm with the kind of support no one could give him but her.
By the time he entered the top floor, his body was drenched in sweat and the pain had morphed into a fire-breathing entity inside his chest.
“Idiot,” Boones said in his native tongue and walked past him, heading toward the master bedroom.
“If the roles were reversed…” She trudged along beside him, surveying the contemporary interior of the penthouse. “I’d be draped over your shoulder like a caveman’s whore.”
“Give me a couple of hours, and I’ll carry you like that again.” He caught himself on the doorframe of the master bedroom.
“A couple of hours?” She gaped at him. “You’re going to be in bed for days. Maybe weeks.”
He refused to admit she was right.
The rush of water sounded from the master bath as he forced his heavy feet across the bleached wood flooring.
Bold, colorful artw
ork punctuated the white walls, and the sleek, minimalist furniture satisfied his modern aesthetic. The penthouse didn’t drip in gold accents or conform to the lavish styles of a moneyed Venezuelan, but it was exorbitant, nonetheless.
“I ran a hot bath.” Boones stepped out of the en suite. “Use it, but keep your chest above the water.”
A bath sounded perfect, especially with the woman handcuffed to his arm.
“You can’t leave the penthouse.” Boones ambled toward the hall. “No one knows you’re in Caracas, and it needs to stay that way until you’re recovered.”
Because of Kate.
Word of Tiago’s return would spread, and when that happened, Matias Restrepo and Cole Hartman would learn her location.
Tiago had planned for this complication upon his return, but those plans hadn’t included getting shot and stabbed.
He needed to meet with the biggest, most powerful constituents in his network, attend their parties, and prove to them he was still strong and undefeated. Only then could he petition them for their support in keeping her friends out of Caracas. If he didn’t, Matias Restrepo would snake his way in and turn the entire city against Tiago.
“I want you in bed after the bath.” Boones gripped the doorframe, looking as tired as Tiago felt. “Breakfast will be brought in shortly.”
“Thanks, Boones.”
The penthouse had a full-service staff, such as an on-site maid, cook, and personal guards who had been here for Boones since the beginning.
Tiago owned the entire building, and the security was the best money could buy. No one could penetrate these walls without getting blown to bits in the process.
He made his way to the desk in the corner of the bedroom, with Kate keeping pace at his side. She angled toward the nearby window that overlooked the violence, poverty, and despair of the slums below.
“It’s weird.” Her brows pinched as she took in the view of crumbling concrete and rusted metal roofs. “The top floor of this building feels like a palace, and it stares down at that. It feels wrong.”
He agreed, which was why he’d never stayed a single night here. He deserved to be down there amid the strife and misery, but she didn’t.
“When the economy went to shit, many of Venezuela’s aristocratic families moved to Miami, including the untouchable enchufados.” He dug through the desk drawer and grabbed a paper clip. “I bought this abandoned tower for a steal and fortified it to keep Boones and his brothers safe.”
