by Pam Godwin
“Got it.” Cole stood and tossed the chain away. “I’ll run and get the jeep.”
“I can walk.” Tate twined his fingers with hers and strode to the door.
“It’s rocky—” She was jerked forward by his grip on her hand and stumbled to keep up.
He crossed the hot, rugged terrain on bare feet with his free hand shielding his eyes. He didn’t wince or slow, his gait matching Cole’s in strong, efficient strides. The only thing he wore was a small blanket, and as her slower pace put her behind him, his back moved into her line of sight.
The image was just like she remembered, only cleaner, free of infection, and healed. The raised skin from each cut formed an artistic illustration of pillars along his sides, a double gate hanging between them, and a silhouette of a woman levitating in the opening with the arc of the sun behind her head.
It was terrible and beautiful, summoning extreme reactions from horrific agony to profound wonder.
“You’re staring at it.” He glanced at her over his shoulder.
“Have you seen it?”
“No.” His tone held deep anger, and he tugged her forward.
Cole explained the history of the monastery as they passed the stone structures, including the tragic love story that had compelled her to come here.
She and Tate didn’t speak, but they watched each other, their eyes sharing three months of loss, one night of lasting torture, and a future that didn’t need to be defined. Wherever they went from here, they would go there together.
When they reached the gate, he stopped abruptly and released her hand.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“That’s…” He stared up at the towering wrought iron bars and reached behind him, sliding his fingers over the welts on his back. “I’ve felt this so many times, trying to figure out… That’s it, isn’t it? He carved those gates on my back?”
Her chin trembled as she nodded. “I think he did it to see if I would find you. That’s why it took me so long. I’ve been searching for gates and—”
“There’s something else.” He moved his hand up his spine.
She edged back, watching as his fingers traced the feminine figure.
“It’s a silhouette,” she said on a serrated breath. “A woman.”
“Show me.” He pointed at the gates before him. “Walk through them.”
A swallow lodged in her throat. She glanced at Cole, who waited patiently behind her, surveying the perimeter. Then she moved to stand in the opening of the gate, facing Tate exactly as it was depicted on his back.
The sun sat high in the sky. If it were a few hours later, it would’ve been at the right height behind her head.
“It’s…” His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “Beautiful. You’re absolutely stunning, Lucia.” He twisted to look at Cole. “Is that what my back looks like?”
“Pretty much.” Cole flicked his gaze between the gate and the illustration. “It’s uncanny, really.”
Tate regarded her for an endless moment before he lowered his head and stared at the ground.
“Okay.” He anchored his hands on his hips and made a sharp sniffing sound that almost resembled a laugh. His lips twitched, and he met her eyes. “Let’s go home.”
“Where’s home?” She reached her arm toward him, stretching her fingers.
He caught her hand and squeezed. “Wherever you are.”
CHAPTER 33
Four days later, Tate exited the physician’s room in Matias’ extravagant estate in Colombia. His muscles twitched with restless energy, and something in his chest pinched, urging him to go look for Lucia.
He couldn’t bear to be separated from her. Every time he left her side, it felt as though his limbs were being ripped from his body. He needed to get over that. Missing her was one thing. Smothering her was unhealthy.
He’d visited Picar, the old crusty resident doctor, three times now. But this meeting had been his last, because Picar had just given him a clean bill of health. No infections. No STDs. And other than the scarring on his back and the twinging discomfort in his arm, there was no permanent damage to his body.
He stepped onto the causeway and strolled through an open terrace sitting area. There was no one around, so he allowed himself a moment to enjoy the warm breeze and breathe in the aroma of loam and thriving vegetation.
The estate was expansive and luxurious, ensconced in the Amazon rainforest and protected by the best security available. He’d been here many times, and it always felt like paradise. But it wasn’t home.
When Matias’ helicopter picked them up in Venezuela, Lucia offered to go back to Texas with him. He would’ve preferred that, but she needed to spend time with Camila. She needed a reprieve from the bustle of reality. So he insisted they come here.
From the moment she floated into the shack like an angel, they’d been inseparable. But they hadn’t spent much time alone, without others around. She had twelve years to catch up on with Camila, and he wanted that for her.
She was probably with Camila now, and as much as he craved her and ached to have her in his sights, maybe he needed a moment, too, just to…be.
The last four days had been a whirlwind of reunions and conversations. Everyone was here—Van and Amber, Liv and Josh, Livana and his roommates. Everyone except Kate.
Kate had disappeared the night he was tortured. A month later, she called Liv from an untraceable number and said she didn’t want to be found. She’d demanded that no one look for her.
Lucia had recalled Tiago Badell saying something about relocating. That he’d found a new interest he was pursuing.
Then there was Tate’s phone conversation with him.
I’ve already taken my payment. Consider this a thank you.
What did you take?
Badell took Kate. There wasn’t a doubt in Tate’s mind. Cole Hartman was out there looking for her. Tate would’ve gone with him, but Lucia had begged. She’d pleaded with tears in her eyes for him to stay.
He would do what he could for Kate and help with the investigation. But Lucia came first. She didn’t want him putting himself in harm’s way, so he wouldn’t.
Leaning against the railing of the causeway, he soaked in the sunlight. What he felt for Lucia was all-consuming. It itched and vibrated beneath his skin. His pulse soared, and his cock hardened just thinking about her, but they hadn’t shared a single sexual moment since before that night in the basement.
They spent the majority of the past four days talking. They analyzed Badell’s mental health, his cruel romanticism, and his motivation for bringing them together in such a brutal way. Tate told her everything he remembered during his time in the shack. She recounted her attack on Badell, their escape from the compound, the prison, and her three-month quest to find him.
She’d also spent some time with the cartel’s cantankerous doctor. The poison Badell had been feeding her was completely gone from her system, but the crash in Peru had resulted in the removal of her uterus. She’d taken the news in stride, turning to Tate to say, “You were a child without a mother once. If you want a baby, I would love to save one.”
Her tenacity and bravery awed him to no end. Several times, he found himself lying beside her on the bed in their room, face to face, content with simply staring at her as she stared back. Christ, he fucking loved her.
She slept beside him every night. She kissed his face when they were in the company of others. She caressed his back every time he removed his shirt. She held his hand when they strolled along the causeway. Every glance she cast in his direction made him want to shred her clothes like an animal and fuck her against the wall. But he held back.
His body didn’t feel like his own. He’d shaved his face, cut his hair, and scrubbed his skin with scalding hot water. But he was wearing borrowed clothes and sleeping in a borrowed bed. He was still underweight, still overwhelmed, and so fucking out of sorts.
On the bright side, he’d completely lost the craving for
cigarettes.
So he’d made use of Matias’ gym. His strength would eventually return, but his mind… He wasn’t broken. There was just something stuck there. Something he needed to un-stick.
Part of it had to do with his feelings of failure and the misery Lucia had gone through when he was too weak to protect her.
The rest of it had to do with Van. He’d seen the man around the estate and chatted with him about anything, everything, except what had happened that night in the basement.
He needed to talk to Van privately. And soon.
Decision made, he turned toward the common area to search for him.
“Tate.” Camila’s sweet voice drifted over his shoulder.
He pivoted, grinning instantly at the sight of her huge brown eyes. “Hey.”
“Hey.” She gave his clean-shaved face a quick caress. “Much better. I hated the beard.”
“Yeah?” He rubbed his jaw, silently agreeing with her. “Where’s Lucia?”
“Matias is showing her the citrus grove.”
“Citrus grove?”
She bit down on her smile and hugged her waist. “He grew it for me a long, long time ago.”
Because Matias loved her. He’d loved her his entire life, and apparently, Tate had to go through hell and back to truly understand the meaning of that.
“You know…” He gripped the back of his neck. “The feelings I had for you—”
“I know.”
“It’s different now.”
“I know.” Her eyes glistened as she smiled.
“You’re my closest friend. That isn’t going to change.”
“Dammit, Tate.” She pressed the heels of her hands against the corners of her eyes. “Don’t make me cry.”
“Come here.”
He held his arms out, and she stepped in for a hug.
“Lucia’s pretty fucking amazing, isn’t she?” she mumbled against his chest.
“Yeah, she really is.” He nudged her back and held her teary gaze. “We good?”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “Thank you for finding her. Words can’t express—”
“You’re welcome.” He appreciated her smile, but it wasn’t the one he craved. His heart hammered, begging him to go find Lucia, but first… “Do you know where Van is?”
“Did you check his room?” She motioned toward the east wing. “He doesn’t let Amber out of bed.”
He chuckled. “Okay, I’ll check there.”
Ten minutes later, he stood at the door to Van’s room, fist raised to knock and a million thoughts clashing in his head.
Just say what you need to say. In and out and move on.
He drew in a breath, slowly released it, and rapped on the door.
A few seconds passed before Van answered. Dressed in only a pair of jeans that weren’t fully zipped, he glanced behind him before opening the door to let Tate in.
As Tate stepped through the doorway, he caught a glimpse of Amber crossing through the far side of the room, wrapped in a sheet and her hair a tangled mess of just-got-fucked.
Camila hadn’t been joking.
“If I’m interrupting,” Tate said, pausing in the entryway, “I can come back.”
“Let’s go out to the patio.” Van turned and strolled toward the back door.
Tate followed him. The guest rooms were set up like hotel suites, with kitchenettes, sitting areas, private bathrooms, and artfully decorated beds and furnishings.
It never ceased to amaze him how much wealth could be amassed through corruption. He didn’t know what the Restrepo cartel was involved in. No one knew but Camila. That said, Matias spent a great deal of time and money fighting a war against human slavery. Tate admired the man deeply for that.
The room reeked of sex. Several belts lay on the king-sized bed, and clothing scattered the floor as if they’d been stripped in a hurry.
A shiver crept up his spine as he entered the private patio and lowered onto the chair beside Van. It was blissfully hot outside, even at dusk. Moisture infused the air, so unlike the parched heat of the desert.
“How long will you stay?” he asked Van.
“Until I know my family will be safe in Texas.”
That wouldn’t be the case until Tiago Badell was six feet in the ground.
Matias had brought in a private teacher for Van’s daughter, so she was probably getting a better education here. But Liv and Josh would lose their jobs if they stayed much longer.
“Spit it out, Tate.” Van shifted his gaze from the tropical landscape and rested it on him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Amber moving through the living area and decided to start there. “Does she know what happened?”
“Of course. I don’t just fuck my wife. I confide in her, lean on her, and trust her. I tell her everything.”
Tate nodded, letting that settle through his rioting nerves. “How did she take it?”
“She cried.” Van’s frown twisted into a smirk. “Then she demanded I talk to you when you returned.”
“I’m not good at this.” Tate leaned forward, bracing his elbows on knees. “I think what’s been digging at me the most is the damage I might’ve done to you.”
“Well, you have a huge goddamn cock, and I felt every inch—”
“You know what I mean.”
“Right.” Van heaved in a heavy breath and leaned back in the chair. “I was raped as a child. You don’t really get over that, but you get through it. I’ve done that, and so have you.” He removed a toothpick from his pocket and set it between his teeth. “What happened between us in that basement might not have been willing, but it wasn’t violent or cruel. You didn’t abuse me the way I abused you all those years ago. You understand the difference?”
“Yeah.”
“The hardest part for me was betraying my wife.” Van twisted in the chair and tracked Amber’s movements through the window. “She sees me at my weakest, and she still loves me.”
“You weren’t weak in Caracas. What you did for me—”
“I was messed up in my head when I returned to her, but she has this deep well of sympathy in her, an ability to identify with how and why I do the things I do.” He rolled the toothpick between his lips. “Don’t know what I did to deserve her, but she’s stuck with me, for better or worse. So to address your concerns, there’s no damage on my end. What about you?”
He laughed uncomfortably. “The sex was the least painful part of that night.”
“But the most painful to come to terms with.” Van softened his voice. “Have you fucked her since you returned?”
“No.” He set his jaw. “I can’t get out of my damn head.”
“Go fuck your girl, Tate. The second you’re inside her, controlling her in the way you both need, the mental blocks will disappear.” Van rose from the chair and held out a hand. “No bad blood.”
He stood, ignoring the offered handshake, and pulled Van into a one-armed hug. “Thank you for everything you did in Caracas. We’re more than even. No bad blood.”
“Good to hear.”
Tate left Van’s room, hellbent on taking care of Lucia in the way she deserved—deeply, passionately, and thoroughly. The intimacy he’d wrongfully denied her, the urgency to connect with her on every carnal level possible, and the cravings he felt every time she was near—it all swelled to hard, pulsating life.
The breath of his soul had been a distant whisper for so long he thought he’d lost it. But he heard it now, felt it growing closer, coming back to him. Maybe it hadn’t been his body that was different, but rather his spirit. That was the part of him that had been severely wounded, reduced to damn-near nothingness.
He found her on the veranda, surrounded by Camila, Matias, and several men in the cartel he couldn’t name.
As he approached Lucia’s back, his emotional aches retreated, fading into the background of his thundering heartbeat.
He stopped behind her chair and brought his mouth to her ear, “Come with me.�
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She spun around with a huge grin, and the tabletop candlelight danced behind her, sharing his excitement.
A casual red dress molded to her curves and flirted with her knees as she stood.
His breath stuttered. Three months of poison-free health looked so fucking good on her. Sun-kissed skin, glossy black hair, full tits, a Latina ass that didn’t know when to quit, and their room was a five-minute walk away. He was so fucking hard there was no way he’d make it there.
He clamped a hand around her arm and led her out of the dining area and toward the causeway.
The air around them sparked with hunger—his and hers. She didn’t ask where they were going. She saw it in his expression and fed from it. He didn’t have to be an empath to sense her desire. It materialized in the gasping hitch of her breath, the pebbling nipples beneath her dress, and the look in her eyes that didn’t stray from his face.
He tried to focus on steps. One foot forward. Turn left at the next hall. Pass the kitchen. Watch the wet spot on the marble.
Wet spot. Short skirt. Long, sexy-as-fuck legs. Panties, pussy, tight heat…
Fuck this. He hooked an arm around her waist and shoved her back against the nearest wall. His hands went under her dress. His fingers found the satin crotch of her panties. Her mouth slotted against his, and they crashed into a frenzy of kissing, licking, biting need.
He ground his hips against her, letting her feel the swollen length of him. Then he yanked her panties down and buried his fingers inside her.
Her moan vibrated against his mouth, and goosebumps dotted her arms. The warm, wet clasp of her body sucked on his fingers, clenching and taunting as he imagined her sliding along his cock. Her pussy was the hottest thing he’d ever touched, and it was even hotter when she climaxed.
It’d been three months. Three harrowing months without the taste of her lips and the squeeze of her cunt.
He kept his tongue in her mouth, panting and feasting as he thrust his hand harder, faster, mindless in his pursuit to feel her come. He needed it. Goddamn, he’d missed her so much.
Footsteps approached the corridor, slowed to a stop, and moved on. He didn’t care. Her nails scored his shoulders, and her moans intensified. Her orgasm was within reach.