Savage Secrets (Titan #6)

by Harber, Cristin

  I know who you are. His watery eyes nearly glowed. Behind him, two of his thugs stood uninterested in her refusal of entry.

  “Por favor.” The octave of her voice jumped, and she hated herself for it. “I can’t let you in. Daniel va a estar de vuelta en un minuto.” Nerves were getting to her because the Spanish was coming on its own.

  She had to play her part until Rocco came back. He’d confirm their cover. Mr. and Mrs. Locke. There would be no doubt. Their identities had been put together quickly, but they were primo. The room looked like a newlywed couple’s: rumpled bed, lingerie in the closet, condom wrapper… somewhere.

  There was just no way El Mateperros knew they weren’t the Lockes. She’d been too careful.

  He snickered. “I prefer not to wait in the hall.”

  “You should have called.” She wrapped the sheet tighter around her, forcing away the disgust and alarm buzzing in her ears. She couldn’t let years of training become useless. He could overpower her, but she could bring him within an inch of his life and make him beg for mercy. She just needed the upper hand. “My husband will be furious.”

  “Your husband?”

  Maybe he did know. Shit. How? “Yes.”

  “Interesting.” Two of El Mateperros’s henchmen stepped into the hotel room and locked the deadbolt. “Say it again, your husband.”

  This felt all wrong. He asked about her husband, but he wasn’t angry. “Get. Out.”

  “I found another distributor. I don’t need your weapons.”

  “They’re not mine, and I don’t talk business for my husband.” She stepped away but didn’t turn her back. What was that cadence to his voice? “Now, let me get dressed and—”

  His arm shot out and grasped her bicep. “Not so fast, Mrs. Locke.”

  She clenched her teeth. “Let. Go.”

  A rip of her arm and he pulled her close, the sheet tripping her feet, and she slammed into his chest. He breathed her in. “You smell like smut.”

  Her stomach dropped. Arousal tinged his words. Sicko. She struggled in his grip, kneed for his nuts but missed. “He’ll kill you.”

  “A beef-head arms dealer? No chance.” He turned to one of the henchmen. “Start the water.”

  Water? What was this? Did he plan to work her over? And why did he sound turned on? Ugh, disgusting.

  If she could anticipate his moves, then she could survive them. Waterboarding was more mental than physical. If that was his plan, she could last until Rocco came back. What else could he do with water? Soak her and shock her. That was a tough one too. Electrical shock was always hit or miss. It messed with the heart and fried the nerves. Her mind raced down the list of water-related ways he could elicit information from her. Stop. Buy time.

  “No.” She painted fear on her face, terror in her voice. Partially because it was already there, partially she needed to play to his ego. How long would it take Rocco to grab breakfast? “I don’t have anything to do with his business. I don’t know anything.”

  El Mateperros pulled her close. The mint on his breath was so different than the mint that’d been on Rocco’s, and it made her stomach revolt. “I’m not here to talk business.”

  El Mateperros backed her against a wall. Her head hit. Hard. Pain exploded at the back of her skull, and he pushed into her. The crushing effort knocked the air from her lungs. His erection jabbed into her stomach. Her eyes went wide. The fear became real. Shit. Shit. Shit. The man who’d turned the water on came out with the trash pail. He grabbed the second one from the living room.

  “I always like it better when they’re married,” El Mateperros said as the man passed and headed to the door. “Newly married is even more fun.”

  Caterina fought the hold. El Mateperros’s perfect face was flawless, every pore microscopic, each eyebrow hair perfectly in place. Deep breath in and she slammed her forehead into his nose as hard as she could. Pain exploded between her eyes. Stars shone. A dizzying spin almost made her lose her balance, but she recovered, teeth snapping, hoping to sink into his perfect flesh.

  “Bitch!” El Mateperros’s nose bled. He roared back and smacked her face. “Fucking whore!”

  Caterina hit the ground, scampering back on her bare ass, knowing she’d seen Rocco tuck a small caliber pistol under a couch cushion. Her attacker wiped his nose with the back of his hand, smearing the blood but not stopping the flow.

  The man with the trash pails came back into the room, holding them differently—as if they were heavy—and went into the bathroom. The second henchman deadbolted the door. The tub’s water turned off, and she heard a rush, like the sound of ice falling into a glass.

  Ice?

  Ice had filled the two pails.

  Ice was now in the water. In the bathtub.

  What the fuck?

  She lunged to the side, hoping to reach the couch, but El Mateperros was on her. His fingers dug into her scalp and bashed her head against the carpet. Fireworks lit up the hotel room walls. The floral print on the wallpaper burst into an array of colors as she fought to remain conscious.

  “No!” Her head pounded, but her eyes focused. She kicked and clawed. The sheet fell completely away. “Help!”

  He laughed. His weight pressed on her, holding her in place. Caterina pumped her legs. Her arms wanted to swing, her fists wanted to find flesh, but he held her down on the floor and forced her to look up.

  Beneath him, panic and fear paralyzed her body while her mind remained absolutely coherent. No! She snapped out of the shock, shoving her shoulder into his face; another direct impact and his bony nose might even have broken. He threw his head back and she lunged away, growling and grunting, needing to get to a weapon. Or simply get away.

  “Help!” She wasn’t too proud to beg for help. It was him versus her while his two men stood by. Three against her one. “Help!” Her voice screeched, throat ripping in pain, positive she had screamed loudly enough to make her vocal cords bleed.

  El Mateperros clamped his hand over her mouth. Fast breaths tried to force their way out. But didn’t. She couldn’t breathe. Not enough air came through her nose. Panic. Oxygen.

  They battled back and forth, and she had no idea who would win. Her nostrils flared. Moisture seeped out of her nose, her eyes, her mouth.

  “Someone!” Hoarse, harsh pleadings didn’t make it past the hand he held over her mouth. The room went hazy. Not enough air. Too much panic. And she was about to—

  He moved his hand. Caterina gulped for air, drinking it in, coughing and sputtering, trying like hell to maintain consciousness. “Go away.” It should’ve been an order, but it was a sad, weak plea. “Don’t do this.”

  El Mateperros wiped his nose again and nudged her leg with his shoe.

  “She’s a fighter.” One of his bulked up men step forward. “Ready for her?”

  His bodyguards were ensuring he didn’t need assistance? Caterina spat at him. “Fuck you.”

  El Mateperros’s erection tented in his pants while he licked his lips. “No, that’s my job.” She could smell the mint on his breath when he got close. “Take her.”

  Take her? Take her where?

  The other man dragged her away from the Dog Killer. She kicked and clawed, but it did no good. “Help. Help me!”

  The more she yelled, the quieter she got. Her voice was gone. Blood seeped in her mouth from the force of overexerting her throat. Half-dragging, half-carrying her, the man who held her smelled like sweat. He dropped her in a pile. She stared at the ceiling. The bathroom lights blinded her.

  “Here you go. Chill out.” And with a toss, she was off the cold tile floor and landing in the ice bath.

  Frozen agony surrounded her, cramping her muscles and burning her skin as she fell underneath the water. She couldn’t pull up, couldn’t push out. Her legs flayed, arms splashed, trying to push above water and out of the deep two-person tub. A hand held her head down. Ice cold water rushed into her nose and burned, choking her. Ice cubes sloshed around the tub, covering h
er, bumping against her skin. She flailed. Every head turn, each push to come up for air was refuted. Her lungs ached. Her body wanted to gasp but only inhaled water. A hand pulled her head up, just enough to breathe and she gasped and choked, swallowing air. Coughing and sputtering. Her lungs couldn't jump start.

  Where was Rocco?

  Held up by the stinging roots of her hair, she shivered, shaking violently as she dangled from a hulk’s grip. Ice cubes clinked against the tub. Her temperature was in free fall and serious hypothermia concerns poisoned her drive to survive. He pushed her in and out of the water a few more times until she was far past disoriented.

  Just as fast as she’d gone into the tub, she was yanked out. Her head snapped back, and her limbs shook so severely she couldn’t use them to defend herself. Hell, at that second, she couldn’t use them to even stand. Sopping wet, bitterly frozen, she was held by one foot, on elbow and dragged to the bedroom, tossed onto bed.

  El Mateperros lorded over her. “Now she’s ready.”

  Licking his lips again, he turned them up.

  She would kill him. She would. He’d murdered her family, and now he would rape her? Not without her tearing him apart as soon as she could move. Soon as she could run. Save herself and come back, just to slit him open knuckles to nuts and watch him bleed out. Slowly. Goddamn him.

  The metal clink of the buckle brought her back to the hotel room, away from her plans for vengeance. He unbuckled his belt like he was putting on a show. A terrorist, rapist burlesque number, just for her. Every ounce of her strength shot into her ice-numbed limbs. She popped up and pushed back. Her feet fought to find the bed. She kicked, hitting him hard, the heels of her feet beating into him.

  No effect. More kicks, screams…

  It didn’t faze him at all, and a predatory look of arousal blossomed on his face. He was growing more amused, more turned on by the second.

  No. A growl roared from deep in her chest.

  The bastard dropped his trousers. His erection pushed in his briefs, straining toward her, then he snagged her kicking ankles. “I love a cold, wet bitch.”

  His fingers squeezed too tight on her ankle. The bone felt ready to shatter under his strength. Fuck it. Let him break it. She pulled back, hard as she could, grabbing the comforter, the sheets, sliding in the mess of fabric while he laughed. And laughed and laughed. Wannabe necrophiliac bastard.

  He pulled her forward to the foot of the bed and pounced between her legs, shoving himself into the vee of her body. Gorilla fingers gripped her flesh, bruising as he clawed up her body. Knees. Thighs. Hips. She tried to roll. Scream. Kick. His free hand fell hard, slapping her, and blood exploded in her mouth.

  All went white…

  …and she was back.

  She shook her head for focus. Her eyes struggled to open. Then did. His fucking smile. His cock. Greeting her like some sicko jack-in-the-box, bobbing over her. Crushing weight dropped down, smashing her bare breasts, rubbing his vulgar, hard penis all over her.

  He hissed, “Wet and cold.”

  Tears streamed down her face, and the blunt head of his erection pressed painfully against her sex. Her body clamped down. God no. Please. No. God help me. Her teeth steeled together. Blood filled her mouth. She swallowed and choked when he tore into her, sensitive flesh tearing with his invasion. Splitting muscle. Cries coughed out. Tears and snot ran down her face. And he thrust. And thrust. And rammed… grunting. Wrists pinned down. Vomit rose in her throat, into her mouth, stinging into her nose. Hot moisture seeped between them. Blood. She knew it without seeing it. The vicious tear of flesh. The raw burn and the blistering friction that she never could’ve imagined. She couldn’t move her legs, her arms. Pins and needles from his physical restraint and dead weight. Complete desperation paralyzed her. And she sobbed. Harder and more, and her eyes cracked opened. His teeth were sealed together, lips bare, chin jutting every time he slammed into her. The tears wouldn’t stop, and that deep, body-destroying hurt wouldn’t quit.

  His groan cried out, partnered with a thrust so deep that she almost passed out. He shuddered and pulsed, quivering his awful climax into her damaged body. El Mateperros stilled for a heartbeat. His teeth parted, mouth gaping, and his sick grin appeared. He pulled from her quickly, patting her on the chin. “Ice cold and wet. Does it every time.”

  His torso, his cock…. her blood stained his skin. He bent to pull his pants up, the belt clinking as he did, and she threw up, barely turning her head to keep from choking on it.

  But that’s all she could do. Lie in a pool of her vomit, bleeding between her legs and cry…

  El Mateperros’s voice smiled even if she didn’t open her eyes to see it. “Good thing I knew what you wanted.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Rocco strolled up to their hotel room, breakfast in hand, coffee balancing on his forearm. What a morning… Best one yet. He slid his key card into the door. It flashed red, but he pushed forward not expecting the deadbolt to be turned.

  “Open up, Kitten.”

  Key card again. No dice. He knocked and knocked. Caterina wouldn’t have used the deadbolt. Something was wrong. He pulled out his phone, direct connected to Roman. “Cat with you?”

  Roman gave a quick nope.

  Rocco’s stomach dropped. “Caterina.”

  Nothing.

  He tried the card again, same thing. The deadbolt was engaged, and no answer came from the other side. His gut twisted. Overreactions weren’t possible when they were undercover. Everything could be assumed to be an attack.

  “Come on.” Their hotel door was coming down, or she was opening up. One last chance. “Kitten. Open the goddamn door.”

  Nothing.

  He slammed it with his shoulder. Shit, he didn’t have silencer on his .33. Blowing the door handle off would have the cops there in minutes. At least knocking the door down would give him slightly more time before someone dialed the British equivalent of 911.

  Rocco charged the door. Bam!

  Still on its hinges. Not for long.

  Once more. Bam! And a third time—

  The door flew open. Two men his size stood there. They looked like ACG, and they didn’t stand a chance. He charged, ready to take them at the same time. One was on top of him, then the other. His fists flew. Theirs did too. Pounding. Flesh meeting flesh. The thud of muscles colliding charged him. Their two against his one was nothing. Right hook. Left. One grabbed a leg, and he used his knee to crack a nose, maybe break a jaw.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Rocco saw El Mateperros. Clapping. Urging his men on. Like this was sport. Where was Caterina? He gritted his teeth together, and fists flew harder, faster, deadlier. A knife sliced at his chest, and fury ripped through his blood. He was done with damn knives stabbing at his chest.

  Struggling to grasp it, to turn the blade away from his neck, Rocco growled until his temples throbbed and his vision began to shake. A knee to the guy’s junk, and his attacker rolled, doubled over. Rocco brought down an elbow to his temple, and the dude was lights out.

  Rocco hopped to his feet, snarling, beckoning. “Come on, fucker.”

  Now that it was one on one, El Mateperros had backed against the wall. Rocco would get him next. Then he caught site of the bed. Caterina. Naked. Not moving. White rage blinded him. He charged the man in front of him and tackled him to the ground. It took second to incapacitate him. Rocco swiveled around, searching for El Mateperros, but he was gone. Shaking, he stumbled toward the bedroom. Caterina’s eyes were open. They followed him. But her head didn’t. Blood…

  Blood all over her.

  And vomit.

  She was crying. Bawling and sobbing.

  His insides roared, guttural and grief-stricken.

  “No!” The veins and tendons in his neck popped. Sweat covered him in an instant. Dangerous rage tore through. She needed a doctor, and he needed an outlet.

  “Cat. Kitten.” He threw a sheet over her, scared to touch her but desperate to take care of her
. Aggression blinded him, and he couldn’t breathe fast enough. Or slowly enough. Couldn’t figure out which way was up or down. His world shattered, just fucking shattered, lying, bleeding on the bed in front of him.

  Tears choked him. Anger fueled his madness. “What the fuck did he do to you?”

  She wouldn’t look him in his eye, even as he crouched in her line of sight.

  “The police—”

  “No,” she croaked then cried harder.

  Rocco clawed hands into his hair, desperate to release the violence. He was undone. Completely changed. This couldn’t be happening.

  “Cat. Please. Say something.”

  “I…” Her tears streamed. “Hurt.”

  Right then, a part of him died. “A doctor then. Something. Somebody. Fuck!”

  Goddamn it. She needed help, and this cleanup needed more than just him. He touched her face. He’d slice El Mateperros to pieces. Dick first.

  “Take me away from here.” She choked on tears. “I can’t be here.”

  He nodded, held her hand. “Can you move? Can you…” Can she what? Get up, get dressed? What did he want her to do?

  “Whatever it takes. Take me away.” The raspy heartbreak in her words would haunt him.

  Roman. Rocco needed Roman because he couldn't think straight. Grabbing his phone, he direct connected again.

  Roman answered immediately. “What’s going on?”

  Rocco couldn’t form the words. Instead, he gave the shit-hit-the-fan call sign. “Code thirteen. Get up here.”

  “On my way.” The line went dead. He knew Roman was running. Code thirteen was the bring hell, the world’s ending call for assistance.

  Caterina had curled into a ball. Her body shook and shivered, and muffled sobs came from behind the pillow she now had over her head. He placed a hand on her ankle, and she shot back, nearly jumping off the bed. The pillow fell away. Her eyes were wild, mouth wide open. Panting. She blinked.