by Pam Godwin
It took him a second to register the overweight man at his feet, sprawled in a dark puddle of gore and leaking from a hole in his temple.
Whoever fired that shot had impeccable aim and could’ve just as easily hit Tate.
A chill swept over him, and he quickly put his back against the building, surveying the perimeter. No movement. No apparent witnesses. The shooter had to have been Van or Lucia.
Another minute passed before the slender form of a woman emerged from behind a car across the street. Lucia.
With a heavy exhale, he seated the gun in the front of his jeans, right next to the delicious ache clenching in his groin. Because fuck him, she was all legs, perky tits, and fearless beauty charging toward him like a warrior princess.
There was nothing sexier than a woman with a gun. But Lucia was more than that. Strong, stunning, and gutsy as all hell, she was badass personified. And to think, she was sick. Dying. She didn’t let it show in the square of her shoulders or the jut of her chin. She looked for all the world like she was bulletproof. Impenetrable.
Except he’d penetrated her, impaled her deeply and thoroughly, and fuck if he didn’t want to do it again.
By the time she reached him, he was so goddamn hard he had to step back and fold his arms across his chest to stop himself from falling on her like a rabid animal.
“Are you pissed?” She crouched beside the body and rifled through the pockets.
“Pissed?” He lowered his arms, dumbfounded. “You saved my life.”
“No, I didn’t.” Pocketing the dead man’s money, she tossed the empty wallet on the ground. “You moved your head. His bullet would’ve missed you. With your gun out and the way you turned so fast, you had the shot.” She glared at the corpse. “Sorry I took that from you. I’ve wanted this kill for years.”
“Why? Who was he?”
“One of Tiago’s stooges.” She rose to her full height and spat on the body. “A serial rapist.”
The pain simmering beneath her voice triggered his protective instincts.
“He hurt you?” He gripped her arm.
“Not anymore.” Pulling away from him, she strode down the alley behind her apartment building.
He wished he would’ve been the one to shoot the fucker. He’d killed before, right alongside Lucia’s sister, and enjoyed every second of it. Evidently, he had an unquenchable thirst for the blood of the guilty.
“What about the body?” he asked her retreating back.
“Leave it.”
He trailed after her, lengthening his strides to catch up. “The police—”
“They can’t touch me.” She set a moderate pace, her steps even and eyes straight ahead. “Tiago, on the other hand, would punish me for killing one of his men.”
His jaw clenched. “Punish you how?”
“Death.” She lifted a shoulder and veered around a dumpster in the narrow alley. “But hey, I didn’t do it, right? I mean, I’ve been in my apartment all night with guards on my door.”
“Jesus, Lucia.” He tipped his head up, probing the dark second-floor windows. “Someone might’ve seen you.”
“Maybe, but it’s their word against that of his two best guards and his favorite girl.”
His favorite girl?
What kind of relationship did she have with Badell? When he gave her medicine, what did she have to do in return? The only information Tate had was the video of her at the compound and Cole’s words.
Her job is to inflict physical and emotional pain. Torture. Sometimes she rapes them.
If she raped the victims, why did she have such a grudging reaction to the rapist she just killed? It didn’t make sense, and he desperately needed to understand.
It would be daybreak in about ten minutes, and they’d reached a bend in the alley where the three arms of her building came together. Her apartment would be right there.
He didn’t know how she would get in from back here, but first, he needed to settle this one thing.
Grabbing her waist mid-stride, he swung her around and held her against him, chest to chest. “How are you his favorite girl?”
She stared into his eyes for a span of several heartbeats, her face an emotionless mask.
“Does he fuck you? Or force you?” He wrapped his fingers around her neck and forged his voice with steel. He wasn’t angry with her. He was angry for her. “Answer me.”
A muscle bounced in her cheek. Then slowly, reluctantly, her aloofness shuddered and broke away. Uncertainty creased her forehead. Disquiet twitched her lashes. Concession sighed from her parted lips.
“You’re possessive.” She raised a tentative hand and traced the corner of his mouth.
His lips felt a little weak and a lot hungry. “I told you you’re under my protection—”
“I don’t mean me specifically. You’re possessive as a general rule.” She moved her finger along the seam of his mouth, exploring with achingly sweet curiosity. “It’s a quality I’ve never given much thought to…until now. It looks good on you. Like really fucking good.”
Her breath whispered against his face, weaving with the flutters of her featherlight touch. A touch he felt all the way down to his balls.
She caressed a path across his cheek and slid her fingers through his hair, all the while inching closer. Hovering her lips just out of reach. Leaving a hairbreadth between stay and go. A sliver between yes and no.
It all blurred together as he leaned in with single-minded focus. Maybe it was just the perfect combination of feminine seduction—the sultry look in her eyes, the drugging feel of her touch, the warm scent of her skin—but he felt buzzed, utterly drunk on this woman, and he needed to kiss her like he needed air.
Only she shifted back. He chased her mouth, and she evaded again, blocking the next advance with a finger against his lips.
He reached up to remove her hand, but her words stopped him.
“I’ve never had sex with Tiago Badell.” She didn’t give him time to respond as she lifted on tiptoes and pressed her lips next to the finger she held against his mouth.
Then she stepped back, pushing against his chest until he released her waist. “Goodbye, Tate.”
Oh, fuck that. He gave a humorless chuckle. “Can’t get rid of me that easily. I’m walking you home—”
“And you did. Thank you.” She turned to the nearest apartment door and removed a key from her pocket.
Given the vicinity of the door and his recollection of the building’s blueprints, she was accessing her next-door neighbor’s unit.
She unlocked the door, and the yap of a tiny dog on the other side confirmed it. There must’ve been a hidden cut through between the two apartments?
He moved to follow her in, but she flattened a hand against his chest.
“I really love how protective you are.” Her voice was gentle, but it felt like she was fighting tooth and nail to hold herself together. “Camila’s lucky to have you.”
Her face was ghastly pale, and her legs trembled to keep her upright. Christ, she didn’t look well at all. It killed him to let her out of his sight, but he didn’t have the medicine she needed. She had to go to Badell.
“I’ll be here when you get back.”
“No. You need to go.” She met and held his eyes as the first light of dawn reflected in hers. “Take care of Camila. Please.”
Then she shut the door in his face.
CHAPTER 12
Lucia must’ve looked like death by the time she arrived at the compound, because Tiago gave her a narrowed glance and immediately led her to his room.
The short walk wasn’t short enough. She kept her expression impassive while dragging her listless feet and fighting the urge to retch. She hadn’t eaten since Tiago’s dinner last night, but her stomach buckled anyway, trying to empty its emptiness.
Her misery had long ago passed the point where she thought she couldn’t endure more. Knowing her days were numbered broke her even further. With each staggering step, she heard
the distant beat of her dying heart, felt it weakening, fading, taking her with it. Then she blacked out.
When she came to, she was being carried, undressed, and separated from her weapons, her consciousness flickering in and out through it all.
She stirred at the familiar prick of a needle. As the medicine trickled warmth through her thigh, she knew she’d live to loathe another day.
Tiago was there, holding her on his lap and stroking the edges of her panties—the only thing she was permitted to wear in his room. It was always the same. Injection in the morning. Dinner with Tiago at night. Torture, ransom, and debilitating pain scattered throughout the day.
“Why are you keeping me alive?” she murmured.
He set the syringe aside and smoothed his hands along her body. “I enjoy you.”
The erection swelling against her backside said his enjoyment was sexual. Without sex.
“I don’t have much time left.” She rested her head back against his shoulder and closed her eyes. “What’s wrong with me, Tiago?”
He cupped one of her bare breasts and rolled the nipple between his fingers. “You’re perfect.”
Over the course of a thousand mornings, in his room, on his lap, she’d grown indifferent to his touch. The caress of his hands, the absence of her clothes, the arousal in his voice—it was all just part of her daily medicine.
But this morning was different.
The feel of his fingers sliding across her skin set her teeth on edge. She didn’t want him touching her, resting his gaze on her nudity, or telling her she was perfect.
What she wanted was Tate. Him on top of her, around her, locking her in the circle of his arms, and keeping everyone else out. Just him and her and the heady glide of their lips.
She’d said goodbye to him, but he wasn’t going anywhere. She was certain he wouldn’t leave until he got what he came for.
Her.
Not a future with her. No, his dream of the future was Camila.
Lucia just wanted a future. Period.
They were both fucked.
“Tiago?”
“Hm?” He nuzzled her neck.
“What if there’s a cure your doctors aren’t aware of? If you’d let me see another physician—”
“Did you know seventy percent of plants with anticancer properties exist only in the Amazon?”
Her blood turned to ice. “Cancer?”
“You don’t have cancer.” He slid a hand to her collarbone and traced the shape of it. “I’m feeling generous this morning. Would you like to hear a story?”
She doubted anything he told her would bring her comfort, but information was a weapon. “Yes. Please.”
“My father was a pharmacist and an expert in medicinal botany. When he died, I brought his medical team here, to work for me.”
Why would his doctors go from saving people to assisting him with kidnappings and torture? Maybe they were never the saving kind of doctors.
Except they’d saved her.
“The rainforest,” Tiago said, “produces thousands of variations of seeds, berries, roots, leaves, bark, and flowers that have healing attributes. Only a small percentage have been discovered by modern man. But as you know, my doctors aren’t modern.”
The medical team of four men were in their sixties and seventies, with thick indigenous accents native to a land she couldn’t place. Their skin, the darkest pigmentation she’d ever seen, bore picturesque scarification—different designs and words than that of Tiago’s, but the welts appeared to have been cut with the same brutality. They reminded her of an ancient civilization, rich in culture and ceremony.
“My doctors know what ails you.” He dragged the backs of his fingers across her abdomen. “And they’ve developed the only known antidote for it. Keep that in mind next time you try to seek a second opinion.”
She already assumed he had the only antidote and often wondered if her illness was a byproduct of the crash in Peru. While chained in the back of a truck with a dozen other slaves, she’d felt the jolting, crashing fall as they tumbled off a cliff, heard the twisting of metal and agonized screams, and smelled the blood. After that, she remembered nothing.
The year that followed had been a drug-induced haze of surgeries and coma-like sleep. She had a scar across her abdomen but didn’t know what damage lay beneath the marred skin.
The strange part was that her illness didn’t surface until three years ago—seven years after the last surgery. Maybe the fix Tiago’s doctors put in her was failing? The medicine erased the pain, but she couldn’t go longer than twenty-four hours without another injection.
“What did you learn at the sex club?” Tiago asked.
“It was a quiet night.” She’d been too busy riding a blue-eyed god to overhear the conversations around her.
“Tell me about the men you were with.”
“There was just one. One of my usuals.” The lie floated effortlessly off her tongue.
“Did he fuck you here?” He feathered his touch across her lips.
“Yes.”
“And here?” His hand spread over the front of her panties, his fingers pressing against the satin crotch.
She nodded.
“I envy him.” His voice, scratchy with desire, rasped at her ear.
Such an odd thing to say, since he didn’t do more than touch her. Did he ever have sex? She never saw him with a lover and knew he didn’t allow anyone else in his room. Yet he was so easily aroused and constantly hard.
He was also distrustful and paranoid and never took unnecessary risk. Maybe he thought sex was too risky. It was, in a way. At the peak of climax, when the body let go and the mind lost all reason, a man was at his most vulnerable.
If she could lure him to the edge of orgasm, she’d use his distraction to stab her thumbs into his eyes and crush the sockets. It was a plausible way to kill a man, right?
Problem was, after spending eleven years with him, he hadn’t shown a single moment of weakness.
Twenty minutes had passed since she received the injection, and the pain had retreated into the sickly place inside her. Her heart rate found a normal tempo, and feeling returned to her legs.
Tiago, who was always attuned to her state of health, nudged her off his lap. “Let’s go see to our newest victim.”
Her insides twisted anew.
He led her to the hall and waited as she dressed. When she tucked the Berettas in her jeans, she let her hands linger on the grips.
She could shoot him. His guards would fire immediately, probably before she even squeezed the trigger. But maybe, just maybe she could get a shot off before she died.
It was a hopeless paradox. On one hand, she wanted to die, ached to end the endless misery. On the other, if one of his guards aimed a gun at him, she wouldn’t hesitate to shoot the traitor to protect Tiago.
If Tiago died, she couldn’t access his safe, didn’t know how to locate his doctors, and wouldn’t be able to find a cure before her organs failed. His death would bring the onset of hers, and as much as she wanted that, there was a brighter, stronger yearning inside her.
She wanted to live.
Her contradictory train of thought circled back to the armed guards. If she were willing to shoot his men to save Tiago’s life, the same must’ve been true for them. This wasn’t an operation rooted in loyalty. She suspected Tiago’s men were indebted to him somehow, and like her, it was in their best interest to keep him alive.
Tiago’s gaze fell to the vicinity of her hands on the Berettas at her back, and she tensed.
A ghost of a smile, deprived of amusement, touched his lips. “Try it, Lucia.”
“I’m not stupid.” She lowered her arms to her sides and stood taller.
“No, you’re not that.” Offering his arm, he escorted her to the basement and the kidnapped victim who waited.
CHAPTER 13
Two hours later, Lucia left the sobbing victim chained to the floor in the chamber. As she stepped into the hal
l and tossed the condom in the trash, she tried to embody the cold precision of a blade, sharpening her expression and steeling her posture. But despair swelled an unwieldy pressure behind her eyes, and every breath was a fight to keep the tears away.
Armando had been the cameraman, and as he followed her out, his probing, over-staring eyes produced a stampede of goosebumps across her nude skin.
“When are you going to milk my nuts?” he asked in Spanish.
The gun was already in her hand, so it only took a fraction of a second to aim at the nuts in question.
“Another time then.” With a grin, he lumbered toward the stairs.
She waited until he was out of sight before lowering the Beretta and pulling on her clothes.
Today’s victim was a middle-aged married man and father of five, who had come to Venezuela on a religious mission.
And she’d just raped him.
If she had any humanity left before she’d stepped into that room, she didn’t now. But despite the man’s wretched crying, he wasn’t broken. If his wife paid the ransom within three days, he’d live.
Lucia dragged the balaclava off her head and let it fall to the floor. She was the one who was broken, and if she lived three more days, she wouldn’t deserve it.
Footsteps approached from the stairs. She holstered both guns in her jeans and turned to find Tiago strolling toward her, flanked by two guards.
He gave her a cursory once-over. “Was it convincing?”
The victim had wept prayers to his god, begged for his virtue, cried for his wife to forgive him, and in the end, ejaculated in the condom, inside her, with a self-loathing howl. As far as torture went, he was emotionally wounded, and the camera caught every second of it.
“Yes.” She breezed past Tiago, anxious to escape the basement. “If his wife has the money, she’ll pay it.”
“I know why you did it.”
Her breath caught. Did what? Rape that man? Or did he know about the one she killed this morning? Oh God, did he find out about Tate?
