by Pam Godwin
He chuckled, mocking her. “Your friends are cannibals?”
“No, they’re…” She clamped her molars together, cursing her bungling attempt to threaten him. “They’re coming for me.”
“You’re a remarkably stupid woman. You know what I am, yet you walk in here, spewing nonsense, as if you actually believe you can control your demise.”
Needles pulsated behind her eyes. “So that’s it? I’m going to die?”
“Everyone dies. Some more painfully than others.”
His cold, callous tone validated her assumption. This wouldn’t be a quick execution. He intended to make her suffer.
Terror trickled down her spine, freezing her in place.
Don’t just stand there. Move. Run. Fight, for fuck’s sake.
She unlocked her legs and bolted toward the door.
Two steps was all she managed before the lamp turned off and pitch-black darkness swallowed the room.
Her heart rate exploded as she strained her eyes. How the fuck did he kill the light?
She couldn’t see her hands in front of her face. The exit hovered somewhere to the right, so she crept in that direction, listening for his footsteps amid the eruption of her gasps.
She tried to move slowly and soundlessly, so he couldn’t track her. Then her scalp tingled. The air shifted against her, around her. Panic kicked in, and she burst into a blind sprint.
Heart racing, she made it a few more feet before something thumped up ahead. The sound of the door closing, of air being pushed out as it sealed. Then the lock slid into place.
She froze, her lungs shriveling with ice. Energy bounced against her, a disturbance of atmosphere. He was close, but where?
“Turn on the light.” She swerved backward, spinning, her bound arms throwing her off balance as she swung at nothing.
He made no sound, yet his presence squeezed in on all sides, taunting her with her fear of the dark.
Her hair ruffled, and she pivoted. Was he circling her?
She whirled back, disoriented. Where was the door? Straight ahead? Behind her? She darted forward, and her throat slammed into an iron bar of muscle. His arm. He fucking clotheslined her.
Pain exploded in her larynx, and she staggered backward, expecting a hand to fly out of the blackness. But it was his boot that hit next. Directly in her stomach.
The excruciating impact sucked the wind from her lungs and knocked her flat on her back.
She landed on the mattress, gulping for air, and in the next heartbeat, he was on her. Powerful legs straddled her hips. His hand collared her throat, and the other pinned her arms above her head.
He was too heavy, too strong. Too fucking close.
“It doesn’t matter what you want, who your friends are, or what you think you know about me.” His calm breath feathered her face. “You have no opinions here. No privilege or power. Apparently, you didn’t learn that the last time.”
Her heart crashed against her ribcage as she bucked and twisted beneath his weight. “The last time?”
“Four years ago.”
Oh God, he knew her past. He’d done his research.
“That’s right.” He flexed his thighs against her writhing hips, holding her to the mattress as his hands moved along the rope on her arms. “I know all about Van Quiso and his training.”
“Don’t do this.” She didn’t need her vision to know he was tying her to something on the wall. All-consuming fear jangled her insides, violently shaking her. “Let me go!”
“Try not to shit yourself. If you make a mess in my bed, I’ll make you sleep in it. Not because I’m into that kind of thing. It’s fucking disgusting.”
Her jaw fell open, and a stunned whisper tumbled out. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“We’re not going to get into that. Right now, we’re focusing on what’s wrong with you.” He put his mouth at her ear. “It’s safe to assume Van Quiso did a number on your head. But instead of learning from the experience, you went and got yourself captured again. Let’s be honest, Kate. That was really careless on your part.”
“Careless?” she shrieked. “You kidnapped—”
He clamped a huge hand over her face, covering her lips and part of her nose. “Another outburst, and my next strike will break something important.”
CHAPTER 3
Kate wrestled for air beneath the press of Tiago’s fingers on her face. He already kicked her hard enough to turn her stomach black and blue by morning. If he adjusted his grip by a millimeter, her airway would be completely closed. She had no choice but to heed his threat.
Commanding the rigidness to leave her body, she sank into the mattress and blinked in the darkness.
He released her mouth, then her hands, but his weight remained on her hips.
With her arms stretched toward the wall above her head, she yanked hard. No give. Just as she assumed, the rope was tied to something immovable.
“Now, where were we?” His deep rumble penetrated her chest.
“You were pointing out my faults.” She bared her teeth, not that he could see her with the lights off.
“So I was. Among those faults is this withering scorn you carry around.” He gripped her jaw, gave it a painful squeeze, and let go. “You’re sick of being the underdog, the victim. So you charged in here wearing a cloud of righteous anger, because fuck the man, right? And by man, I mean every prick who’s treated you unfairly. The father who abandoned you. The brothers who bullied you. The roommates who didn’t protect you. The scar-faced bastard who tried to sell you to some fat fuck with fetishes more unspeakable than his own. Then there’s me. You don’t even know what I have planned for you.”
Horror consumed her, constricting and pulling. He just dissected her with all the boredom of a man playing a child’s game. She had no defenses against him, physically or emotionally.
Nothing would stop him from grabbing her throat and ripping out the meat of it. Or breaking her legs so she couldn’t flee. Or he could go for her unprotected core. Her abdomen trembled right there between his thighs. He could pummel her until she bled internally.
Any or all of it was possible, and the thought shoved her into a fresh hell of panic.
What about her friends? Would he go after them next? How did he know so much about her life? Her father was dead. But her brothers… No one knew about them.
Except Van.
Tiago coasted his fingers over her hair, slithering a chill across her scalp. “I appreciate your bravado, but it’s a portal to make-believe land. It’ll get you nowhere.” His hand retreated. “It won’t save you.”
Her head hammered, her eyes wide and unseeing. She might not know anything useful about him, but she knew his type.
Living with five alpha males, she was accustomed to the overbearing display of dominance. The vibration of confidence close to the skin, the puffed-up chests and unwavering eye contact—every action demanded respect and submission. Which begged the question…
“Why did you turn off the light?” She waited through a span of silence, strangling beneath the press of his proximity. “If I’m going to die, it doesn’t matter if I see your face. If you’re the one in control, why are you hiding in the dark? You’ve been holed up in this room for a month. Who are you running from?”
“Now that,” he breathed at her ear, “is the smartest thing you’ve said.”
The light flicked on, and the sudden brightness blotted her vision. As her eyes adjusted, she glimpsed a remote in his hand. He set it aside, and her gaze tripped along a muscled arm to the column of a masculine neck.
Stubble shadowed his chiseled jaw and outlined sculpted lips. A prominent nose, bladed cheekbones, and eyes so dark they could’ve been black—the squared cut of Hispanic features formed a ruthless, shockingly attractive face.
As she took in his unexpected beauty, the corners of his mouth levitated in a macabre smile.
He was madness with straight, white teeth. Corruption with glowing skin. A nig
htmare in a designer suit.
Dipping his head, he brought his eyes into the angle of light. Holographic hues of brown glittered in his irises, but it was the intelligence in that stare that jolted electricity through her heart.
His gaze was deafening. As jarring as a crack of lightning in the night. But instead of chaos writhing in his eyes, she found the steady pulse of self-control and calculation.
He watched her closely, deliberately, as if he knew it unsettled her, and that knowledge gave him pleasure.
His smile widened.
An increase in pressure and temperature swept the room. Her chest rose and fell, fighting for each shallow gasp.
He was so fearsomely, horrifyingly beautiful she had to look away, her focus landing on the only weakness she could find.
A bandage. Multiple bandages, taped in a row from his temple to the back of his head. Thick layers of gauze concealed what lay beneath, but from the size of the wrap, the injury had been severe.
Severe enough to debilitate him for weeks.
“That’s why you haven’t left this room.” Her mind swam as she glanced around at the sparse space, homing in on the duffel bag of clothes. “You fled Kidnap Alley to recover here, to remain hidden until you regained strength. Have you been unconscious all this time?”
“In and out. An inconvenient side-effect of pain killers.”
She was surprised he answered so candidly. Did someone shoot him? Knife him? Was it Tate? She returned her attention to his head, scrutinizing the wide swath of shaved scalp. How serious was the damage?
“You want to see under the bandages.” His voice purred with provocation, licking a hum across her skin. “You’re dying with curiosity.”
“Dying is a poor choice of words, considering.” She pulled harder on her arms and craned her neck to find her hands tethered to a cast iron pipe on the wall. She returned to his eyes, and a deep inhale helped her maintain that contact. “What happened?”
“Lucia Dias.” A twitch feathered along his jaw. “She went vigilante on me with a forty-pound dumbbell.”
Camila’s sister attacked him? He still hadn’t mentioned Tate. Was the attack part of Tate’s rescue mission? Did he and Lucia make it out? Were they alive?
Tiago watched her steadily, devouring the trepidation she couldn’t hide on her face. If he didn’t already know Lucia’s name meant something to her, he knew now.
“What happened to her?” A swallow solidified in her throat.
“You tell me.”
Was he fucking with her? She didn’t know how to play mind games with a psychopath, but she needed to try. Since she couldn’t overpower him, she would have to outsmart him.
How had Lucia survived eleven years in his ranks? She worked for him, but no one understood why. There were so many pieces Tate hadn’t puzzled out. So many unanswered questions. Hell, he’d traveled to Venezuela uncertain if Lucia would welcome him or shoot him on the spot.
“I don’t know her.” She held Tiago’s intimidating gaze. “I assume you provoked her? The fact that she succeeded in injuring you means you didn’t see it coming.”
He nodded, eyes narrowing, losing focus. “She was a special circumstance. As fierce as they come. She survived in my outfit longer than any of the men, and that kind of resilience was rare. It made her useful. Worth having around.”
Every past tense word struck her like shrapnel, shredding her hope that Lucia was still alive. “How did she catch you off guard?”
“I never trusted her, but we had an agreement.” He absently stroked the medical tape on his temple. “I allowed her to live, as long as she followed my rules.”
Bashing his head would’ve been the opposite of following his rules.
“Where is she?” She struggled beneath him, attempting to unbalance his straddled position. “What did you do to her?”
“I let her go.”
“You…” Wait. What? “You said someone took her from you.”
“That’s not what I said.” He scowled hatefully. “Pay attention, Kate.”
“You’re speaking in riddles.” Her arms pulled at the shoulders, and her hips twinged beneath his weight, compelling her to twist about, seeking distance. “Please, get off me. You’re fucking heavy.”
He pondered her request for a moment before adjusting his legs and lifting some of that bulk off her lower body.
She released a slow breath, contemplating his cryptic words. “You said someone took something from you.”
“Yes. I never had her loyalty, but I possessed something more effective. Her fear.” He tipped his head, his gaze invasive. “You, of all people, understand how every aspect of a person’s life can be controlled through terror.”
No use denying it. Four years ago, her crippling fear gave Van Quiso power over her entire being. Lucia must’ve experienced the same with Tiago. Until she attacked him.
“Someone took her fear from you,” she said.
“That’s right.” He flashed an unnerving grin and traced a finger along the gauze near his eye. “I haven’t seen her handiwork. Boones says it’s healing, but he won’t remove the bandages.”
“Boones?” She shook her head. No one entered this room, except… “The elderly cook?”
“He’s a doctor. A damn good one, despite his motherly approach to my care.” He fingered the medical tape, picked at the corner. “Fuck it.”
He gripped the edge of the bandage and ripped it off. She winced as he forcefully tore at the pieces, pulling out strips of hair in the process without a twitch of pain on his face.
“Be honest.” He gave her his profile and smoothed a hand along a jagged, puffy laceration. “How bad is it?”
She stopped breathing as her gaze locked on the damage.
Jesus. Lucia hadn’t just hit him with a dumbbell. Somehow, she’d managed to hit him twice.
The first gash sat so close to his eye it was a wonder he survived the blow. The orbital bones around his eye socket should’ve shattered under the impact. Maybe they did. A yellowish hue discolored his cheekbone where bruises must’ve lingered for weeks.
The second wound carved a huge crescent-shaped groove along the side of his skull. This one appeared deeper and would’ve required more stitches, the skin around it still raw and scabbed over, taking longer to heal.
That side of his head was shaved to the peak above his temple where hair tended to retreat. But there was no threat of a receding hairline. Thick black strands fell over the non-injured side in finger-raked textures, accentuating his rugged features and whiskered jawline.
He was in desperate need of a haircut, one that evened out the sides. The messy-all-over, renegade style no longer worked for him, because hair would never grow in over the deep gouges that ran diagonally from his temple to the back of his head.
Together, the marks would leave a permanent map of scars the length of her hand and almost as wide. A hit like that was meant to be fatal. No doubt he sustained multiple skull fractures.
Too bad it didn’t mash his brain to pulp.
She returned her gaze to his and found him watching her, waiting for an answer.
How bad is it?
It didn’t diminish his disgusting masculine beauty. If anything, the scars made him even more arresting. But she didn’t give a fuck what he looked like. She wanted him to suffer.
“I can’t really see from this angle.” She bent her neck and squinted. “Can you lean in a little closer?”
As he shifted, she reared her head back and slammed it forward. Aiming for his wounds, she hoped to reopen them with the ram of her skull.
In a blur, he dodged left, fisted the hair at the back of her head, and ruthlessly yanked her flat against the mattress.
“Not exactly the spice of originality.” He forced her neck at a painful angle. “I’m disappointed.”
She should’ve known. After Lucia got the drop on him, he’d be hyper-vigilant about strikes to the head.
“You said I don’t have an opinio
n.” She squirmed, unable to relieve his eye-watering grip on her hair. “Then you asked me to be honest about your wounds. Excuse me if I’m having trouble with your contradictory rules.”
She needed to figure out a different way to fight him. If she could reach him with words, say something he found intriguing, maybe he’d keep her alive.
A heart-pounding smile wrenched his lips. So disturbing, that mouth. As it fell into a slack line, his sudden lack of expression produced a sick, buckling sensation in her stomach.
He released her hair, straightened his seated position on her pelvis, and removed something from his pants pocket. “You might think all human skin cuts the same beneath a blade.”
Her pulse quickened as he slipped a small metal instrument onto his index finger and unfolded the tip. It opened like a switch blade and curved into a lethal claw.
All the air vacated her lungs. She couldn’t unfreeze her gaze from the glinting steel, couldn’t feel her heart beat or move her hands and feet. Her fear was brutal, her mind a torture chamber of the grisly things to come as she fast forwarded the swipe of his finger, the sharp edge slicing her from neck to gut, and the slick gush of blood that would bathe her final moments.
He tilted the razor inches from her face, causing light to dance across the surface. “Cutting a woman, it’s different than cutting a man. The blade must be held with a passionate hand, and when feminine skin separates, it doesn’t just bleed. It weeps.”
Throbbing pressure built in the back of her throat and swelled behind her eyes. His words, the clinical apathy in his voice, the unfeeling look on his face… He was deeply deranged, inhumanly evil, and it scared the living hell out of her.
Tremors crashed through her body. She wanted to believe she was a strong person, that she could endure the worst of his depravity without breaking. But she wasn’t and couldn’t. She couldn’t even rein in her emotions at the sight of his blade.
As she shoved down the panic, it bubbled back up. As she blanked her face, the muscles in her cheeks contracted and quivered. She swallowed ugly, miserable sounds, but they broke through, fracturing the silence and exposing her fragility.