Devastate

by Pam Godwin

  Tate.

  Fury snarled though her veins, surging her upright. The sudden motion knocked her off-balance, and she teetered, falling with the hard smack of her cheek against the concrete floor.

  Pain burst behind her eyes. Overhead lights burned into her skull, and the scuff of rubber soles sounded near her head. She recognized the floor, the unforgiving glare of the fluorescents, and the reek of death that lived in the walls.

  She couldn’t let the basement chamber claim its next victim.

  Must get up. Protect him. Save him.

  Rolling to her back, she immediately noticed her guns were missing. She tried to move her legs and couldn’t. Tried to focus her eyes and couldn’t. Tried to sit up and only made it to her elbows. The room was empty before her. All the activity was at her back—the guttural screams, the scrapes of multiple shoes, and the rattle of chains.

  Swimming in a thick soup of lethargy, vertigo, and nausea, she mentally prepared herself. Given the rawness in his voice and the scent of blood and urine, the torture had been going on for a while.

  “Welcome back.” Tiago stood behind her, bending over her head so he could smile at her upside down. “Still can’t move your legs?”

  She couldn’t fucking feel her legs, and she was two seconds from retching all over his shoes.

  He prowled into her line of sight, his shirt smeared with crimson stains and his index finger tipped with a razored claw.

  The claw he used to carve pictures into flesh and muscle.

  She despised him with such deep, searing, vile hatred it vibrated her bones and popped blood vessels behind her eyes.

  “What have you done?” She choked on the bile rising in her throat, blinking back tears as she fumbled to shift her useless body toward the scene behind her.

  Blood. It was everywhere, dripping from deep cuts in the hanging slab of breathing meat. The dissection was gruesome, and though she’d seen his macabre handiwork before, she still went into shock. Her nervous system shut down. Her lungs froze up, and her mind struggled to process the rivers of red and the stench of carnage.

  She looked away and forced herself to move. Crawling on her belly, she dragged her legs behind her and lost a heeled shoe in the process. Desperate to get to him, she couldn’t stall the burning tears, the wretched sobs, and the violent shaking in her arms as she inched forward with strenuously slow movements.

  Too much blood. I’m too late.

  When she reached the sticky dark pool at his feet, she angled her neck to look up, up, up and…

  She stopped breathing.

  The slaughtered body was too thin, the hair too long and black, and the trousers too baggy and unfamiliar.

  Not Tate.

  Not Tate.

  That man isn’t Tate.

  Her relief was so profound and overwhelming she lost control of her stomach and vomited across the floor.

  “You never appreciate my artwork.” Tiago stepped around her, easing her away from the puke and onto her back. “You look like hell.”

  “Fuck you.”

  His chuckle was worse than any response he could’ve given. She was here for a reason, and like all the other times she’d been in this room, she wouldn’t leave unscathed.

  The man’s wails weakened, ebbing into silence. He must’ve passed out. Or died. With his back to the wall, his head hung toward his chest, eyes closed. Chains wrapped his wrists and suspended him from the ceiling, and his chest… She was certain if she looked close enough she’d see bone in the trenches of some of those cuts.

  She glared up at Tiago. “You’re a monster. A butcher.”

  “You’re a whore. Now that we got that out of the way…” He gestured toward the door. “Armando is waiting.”

  Horror spiked through her heart as she followed his gaze.

  Tall and pear-shaped with an overhanging belly, Armando caught and held her glare. He smoothed a hand over his greasy hair, his grin a rictus of yellow teeth.

  “Waiting for what?” Her question didn’t need an answer. She knew. Deep in the pith of her miserable existence, she knew.

  “He discovered the spy.” Tiago approached the mutilated man and inspected the carved designs. “This was one of my new recruits. Turns out, he works for the competition. Came here to steal from me.”

  He pulled a gun from his pants, aimed it at the man’s bowed head, and fired.

  She averted her gaze as the bang reverberated through her chest, making her shoulders twitch.

  “To reward Armando for bringing him in,” Tiago said, holstering the gun, “I told him he could have anything of mine for one night. Guess what he chose?”

  Me.

  She closed her eyes and tried to temper her runaway breaths. Spasms ignited in parts of her butt and midsection, but feeling still hadn’t returned to her legs. There would be no running. She wouldn’t even be able to kick in defense or clench her thighs together.

  She calmed herself with the reminder that it could’ve been worse. It could’ve been Tate hanging there, carved up and dead. She wouldn’t have survived that.

  But she could survive this. Just like all the times before.

  “I know you’re sick.” He crouched in front of her and slid the other heeled shoe off her paralyzed foot. “But you’re a trooper, Lucia. Spread those pretty legs and show him a good time.”

  She didn’t have use of her legs, but she had a wealth of aggression in her bones. Her body was dying, but her spirit sang with life. Her muscles would give, but her mind would not.

  Armando would rape her while Tiago watched. She would spit and punch and cry until Armando hit her hard enough to knock the wind from her.

  Then they would do it all again.

  No matter how hard she fought—and she would—the result would be the same.

  This was happening.

  Because that was the way of things.

  CHAPTER 20

  Hours later, Lucia hung upside down with a shoulder jabbing her unbearably sore stomach. Her body was too broken to obey her commands, so one of the guards had to carry her to the apartment.

  She’d been punched in the gut so many times the nausea had gone silently numb. Every bone, tissue, and tendon throbbed with fire. Her legs were heavy dead things attached to joints made of sand and dust. Her skull pounded rhythmically. Her swallows felt like serrated blades, and molten lava tunneled between her thighs and buttocks.

  Armando had brutally violated every hole in her body. He’d bitten her breasts and thighs, kicked her ribs and face, and repeated the torment until she lay curled in the fetal position with her arms around her head.

  His cruelty had been so severe Tiago had to interfere several times to stop him from crossing the line.

  But lines had been crossed. All of them. The wreckage was so complete, so excruciating, her body didn’t feel like it belonged to her. It’d become a burdensome, pulsating prison of pain. It had failed her. Over and over again.

  Her arms dangled toward the oily pavement, and the shadows of surrounding buildings rocked with the guard’s heavy-booted steps.

  Then those boots paused, and an impatient hand dug through her pockets and found her key.

  The scraping sound of her door urged her to move her limbs, but she couldn’t. She’d left the last of her strength on the floor in that basement chamber.

  But it’ll be okay now. Tate would be waiting for her inside, like he did every night.

  At that thought, her traumatized heart stirred to life, beating with urgency. She needed Tate so badly. Needed the protection of his arms, the comfort of his voice, and the affection in his kisses.

  He was smart enough to stay hidden until she was inside with the door shut. So she didn’t worry when the guard stepped in, dumped her on the mattress, and set her guns and shoes out of reach on the floor.

  When the door clicked shut behind him, she released a shredded breath and listened.

  Silence.

  “Are you there?” She didn’t hear Tate’s foo
tsteps, didn’t feel his touch, didn’t sense his imposing presence in the dark.

  “Tate?” she whispered, rolling to her stomach with a painful heave.

  The continued silence closed in around her, swelling her throat and heating her eyes. “Tate… Please, I need you.”

  She knew he wasn’t here, but she kept calling for him, kept hoping.

  Where was he? Was he safe? What if he’d left town? Maybe her test results had come back and there was nothing he could do for her. Would he return to Texas without saying goodbye?

  He wouldn’t do that. It was just the voice of misery inside her, taunting her while she was down.

  And she was down, face in the mattress, trapped in a dying, throbbing body. Everything burned and trembled as her injuries set in. There would be bruises, swelling, and possible scars around her rectum, but the surface stuff was negligible compared to the damage wrought inside.

  “Tate… Tate, where are you?” She lay immobile, lifeless, as the tears welled up. She didn’t bother blinking or rubbing them away. There was no one here, nothing to see.

  She was alone.

  Alone was her normal. She learned long ago how to fend for herself, fight for herself, and endure by herself. But she didn’t want to be alone anymore. She was exhausted, hurting, and…done. She was so fucking done.

  So she let the tears fall until she was emotionally bankrupt. Until all that remained was the hollow husk of a battered body.

  Eventually, her eyes dried, and her vision cleared, bringing her guns into focus on the floor across the room.

  One bullet. It was all she needed.

  It would erase the pain. Eradicate the illness. End the loneliness.

  Her arms moved without hesitation, elbows grinding against the hard floor as she hauled her body toward the end.

  She was afraid to die, afraid of the terrible nothingness that awaited. But more than that, she was terrified to live, to endure another day of this vicious circle. She didn’t want to fight anymore.

  As she lugged her body toward the guns, her mind traveled to a better place. She smelled the citrus grove, the sunshine, and the fertile soil. She felt the warm breeze in her hair and the tickle of long grass on her legs. She saw her sister—her beautiful, laughing, vibrant baby sister. Camila and Matias would have such adorable, brown-eyed children. Their love for each other was so strong it would carry through generations.

  Then she heard Tate’s voice, his breathy whispers at her ear. A tearful sigh billowed past her bloodied, cracked lips. She ached. God help her, she ached to see him one more time.

  He had a magic about him, an allurement that went beyond his model-perfect looks. He’d experienced the kind of brutality that would destroy a man, but he’d ridden it out and stood taller, stronger, despite it.

  She felt the strength of his fingers around her throat. Smelled the clean scent of his breath on her face. Tasted his possessiveness on her lips.

  For a moment, she thought he was actually here, but there was only the empty room and the gun that was now within her reach.

  Her hand shook as she lifted the metal frame, her entire body screaming in agony from the effort it’d taken to crawl there. It was a heavy trigger, but she would have just enough determination left to pull it.

  With her cheek on the floor, she positioned the gun in front of her face and stared into the barrel.

  It would bring her peace.

  It would bring the end.

  She wanted it to end.

  She needed the end.

  End it.

  End it.

  End it.

  CHAPTER 21

  A stinging slap across Tate’s face woke him from a violent dream and shoved him into a goddamn nightmare.

  “Wake up.”

  The heartless voice magnified the ringing in his ears, and a furious roar burst from his throat. Except the sound was deadened, muffled by the wad of cloth in his mouth.

  That motherfucking, psycho, bastard fuck!

  He jerked forward, vibrating with rage and out for blood. And he went nowhere. Because he was fucking duct taped to a kitchen chair.

  He glared at the man who had bound him there. I’m going to kill you.

  “You made me knock you out.” Van sat in front of him on the couch, all casual and calm, despite the bloody, swollen mess of his face.

  Tate’s cheekbone pulsed with its own swelling pain, his knuckles split and sore. He and Van had beaten the shit out of each other, and he seethed to do it again.

  After Lucia is safe.

  He hadn’t heard everything that had been transmitted from the bug on her shoe, but he’d heard enough. The dinner, the torture, and Armando’s reward.

  Listening to her being assaulted, violated, and forced by that man had been a horrifying, inconsolable hell. In a fog of murderous wrath, he’d holstered his guns and stormed toward the door intent on raining death and destruction on the compound in his effort to save her.

  But Van had stopped him with a fist. Then they fought with more fists, putting holes in walls and breaking furniture. Until one of Van’s swings caught him on the temple and lights out.

  How long had he been unconscious? He tried to bellow the question, but the gag garbled his words.

  “She’s in her apartment.” Van lifted a phone and held it near Tate’s face. “Alone and quiet.”

  He strained his hearing until he caught the distant sound of her raspy, wheezing breaths.

  His blood boiled anew, steaming through his veins and clouding his vision. He thrashed against the tape across his chest, desperate to get to her.

  Let me go! Let me go! Fucking release me!

  “Calm down.” Van stood and paced through the room, picking up broken pieces of the coffee table. “I saved your life.”

  Fuck off. He growled low and deep in his chest, heaving against the gag.

  “You’re here for her. I know that.” Van dropped the splintered wood in a pile and stepped toward the window to peer down at the alley. “But I’m here for you. To protect you. To keep your stupid ass alive.”

  Tate closed his eyes and drew a sharp breath through his nose. Maybe Van had saved him from a bloody, unproductive death. And maybe he would thank Van later. But only if Lucia was still alive.

  He still didn’t have the blood results back, and the lab wasn’t returning his calls. He’d talked to Cole Hartman earlier today and explained Lucia’s situation. Cole could bring a doctor to her, but it was going to take two weeks.

  She didn’t have two fucking weeks.

  “What’s it going to be, Tate?” Van prowled toward him and gripped his jaw, forcing his head up. “Are you going to be smart? Or dead?”

  CHAPTER 22

  Something soft and warm whispered across Lucia’s lips, rousing her. Arms slipped beneath her body and lifted her from the floor, jostling swollen joints and pushing against bruises. Pain blasted through her bones, and she cried out.

  “Shh.” The satiny sensation returned to her lips, making gentle sounds and infusing her inhales with a clean, minty, familiar scent.

  “Tate?” She opened her eyes to a crystal blue dream.

  “I’m so sorry.” He brushed his mouth against hers again, lingering over the cuts on her lip. “I would’ve been here, but…”

  He raised his head and glared at something across the room. The glow of the night light illuminated a crisscross of gashes on his cheek and around his eye.

  “What happened?” Her pulse kicked up, and holy fuck, it hurt.

  Her heart, her head, her stomach, everything hurt so badly. She still couldn’t move her legs, but she summoned the strength to turn her neck and follow his gaze.

  Van. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned his butt against the counter, his scowl as puffy and battered as Tate’s.

  “We had a disagreement.” Van narrowed his eyes. “Why were you sleeping with a gun pointed at your mouth? With your finger on the trigger?”

  Her thoughts imploded with pain
ful sparks. Flashes of the Beretta in her hand. Echoes of her dismal hesitation. She’d wanted to die, had even tried to squeeze the trigger. But she hadn’t tried hard enough. Hadn’t wanted it bad enough. She must’ve passed out.

  She focused on Tate, on the swirling depths of his vigilant gaze. “I couldn’t do it.”

  Now would be a good time to tell him what happened with Armando. But as his entire body shook against her, vibrating with barely-contained fury, she decided not to throw salt in the wound.

  “If I’d been here, I wouldn’t have allowed you to even consider it.” Another death glare at Van. Then he lowered her to the mattress and stretched out beside her, cradling her against his chest.

  He was so close his short beard tickled her chin. His fingers combed through her hair with agonizing tenderness, and his exhales incited her to breathe.

  He was here. This was real. She was breathing.

  Those merciful thoughts swarmed in with the ugly ones—her abused body, her necessary return to the compound in the morning, and the inevitable fate that awaited her at the end of this.

  But for now, she had him, his arms around her, his hand stroking her hair, and his unspoken intent to take care of her.

  Tears leaked from her eyes and dripped into the cuts on her lips. It was neither sadness nor contentment, but rather the overwhelming weight of the past eleven years finally catching up with her.

  He kissed her cheeks, nuzzling her skin. Then he shifted and cupped her head in his hands to position her on her back. The movement triggered an explosion of agony so sharp she thought she might puke.

  “Fuck.” He bent over her, caressing her hair, and glanced over his shoulder. “Van.”

  Footsteps approached, and the mattress dipped on her other side beneath Van’s weight.

  “Where does it hurt?” Van slung a backpack off his shoulder and removed a huge zippered pouch with a medical logo on it.

  “Everywhere. I think…” The constant pain trembled her voice, and she swallowed. “A shower would be nice if I had help.”