by Pam Godwin
It was such a helpless feeling—the choking breaths, the godawful constriction in her chest, the inconsolable horror. Her chin trembled, chattering her teeth. She blinked rapidly, tried to stop the worst of it before it spilled from her eyes, tried to hold herself together with invisible arms. There was no comfort to be found.
She couldn’t remember the last time she was this terrified. Everything inside her twisted and swelled to the point of unraveling. She ached to surrender to it and mentally played out what it would feel like to give in to the tears, to the uncontrollable sobbing, to abandon the fight and let defeat pull her under. She longed for that, to give up and accept her fate. God, the relief in letting go would be extraordinary.
But when her meltdown was over, there would be nothing left. He would still be here, getting off on her pathetic show. He wouldn’t even have to cut her. Her misery alone would feed his sadism. It would make him stronger.
He didn’t see her as a person. She was an object, a thing to play with and torment. Eventually, he would grow bored and toss away her pieces like a broken toy. Then he would find another.
Fuck that.
A heavy stillness fell over her. A purpose. She wasn’t dead yet. That meant she could change her fate, rewrite the ending. But how?
He ghosted the razor’s edge along her brow, just a whispered touch of steel that put every nerve in her body into cardiac arrest.
With great effort, she dragged her attention away from the blade and focused on the shadows in his eyes.
What made him become so vicious? Was he born into a life of crime? Did he have any loved ones? Anyone important to him?
He seemed to respect Lucia, said she was fierce and resilient. But Kate wasn’t fearless, and he already scolded her for trying to be brave.
There was something broken inside him. That much was obvious. She had no clue how to decode his fucked-up mind, but after her experience with Van, she’d been drawn to documentaries and psychiatric studies about violent criminals.
There was evidential research that linked personal trauma to the making of a murderer. Not all serial killers were victims of abuse, but many experienced brutal childhoods. She couldn’t diagnose him or pretend he was anything other than a criminal, but maybe she could reach him in a way no else had tried?
With the glide of his finger, he curved the razor along the side of her face. His gaze followed the movement, and his breathing picked up.
She held still, paralyzed beneath his deadly touch. “You don’t want to do this.”
His eyes flicked to hers and tapered with warning.
It was a powerful, overwhelmingly desperate moment when the mind recognized that death was only seconds away.
“I can give you something.” She swallowed. “Something no one else has offered.”
“Don’t be naive. You’re smart enough to imagine the range of pleasures women offer me.” He scanned her body with zero interest on his face.
“Not that.” She organized her thoughts and carefully chose her words. “I get the feeling you’ve suffered things. Unspeakable, horrible things that left a deep impact on your life.”
His expression emptied, giving nothing away.
Was she digging her own grave? Her hands slicked with sweat, her lungs shriveling on the cusp of hyperventilation. “Maybe I’m just projecting. When Van Quiso took me, I experienced my own trauma. Whatever happened to you, I can empathize. I don’t forgive you for kidnapping me, but I’m capable of compassion.” She softened her voice. “Surely, that means something to you?”
“Compassion?” He laughed. “I’ve heard of it, but not in this world. Not where joy is nonexistent, and integrity is a luxury.” He hooked the blade under her throat, skyrocketing her pulse. “In this world, the weak are crushed.”
Her chest heaved, and her entire body convulsed with overwhelming horror. Oh God, she didn’t want to die. Not like this. She wasn’t ready.
But what hope did she have? There was no ransom, no way to locate her, and no white knight riding in on a horse.
What if death was her only escape?
“Okay, Tiago.” She wheezed, eyes wide and burning. “I’m scared. Is that what you want? I’m fucking terrified. But I won’t give you the pleasure of watching me fall apart. You want to kill me? Go ahead.” She raised her chin and pushed against the blade, shaking violently. “You have my fear. You’ve taken my freedom. I have nothing left to lose.”
“That’s not true. There is something.”
The blade retreated, and he folded it shut. Her heartbeat reeled as he pocketed it and pulled out a phone.
“I have something you and Lucia want.” He unlocked the screen, tapped it a few times, and met her eyes.
“I don’t understand.” Or maybe she did, but denial was easier to swallow.
He turned the phone and showed her the screen.
A live video of a nude man streamed across the display. He stood in a shack with his back to the camera and a sponge in his hand. He was bathing, using water from a bucket at his feet. Even more crude was the shackle connecting his ankle to a chain that snaked along the dirt floor.
What was on his back? She leaned closer to the screen.
Holy fuck.
Blood pounded in her ears, and ice skewered her veins.
Who would have the stomach to carve up that man’s back so gruesomely? Her gaze shot to Tiago, her thoughts spiraling to the razor in his pocket.
Dread hardened her gut as she returned to the screen.
The mutilation spanned from the man’s shoulders to his waist, the cuts welted and red, but not fresh. Not only that, there were pink scars on opposite sides of his arm, as if something had been recently stabbed straight through it.
God, the pain he must’ve endured… She couldn’t imagine it. Couldn’t take her eyes off the video. She pored over his brown hair, his muscled mid-twenties physique, and the unfinished tattoo on his bicep.
Her breath hitched. Oh, please, no. She knew that tattoo.
“As it turns out…” Tiago’s deep voice broke through her. “Lucia fell in love.”
“No, no, no.” She shook her head, denying the truth even as it forced itself upon her. “That’s not Tate. It can’t be.”
“It’s him, and the man holding the camera has been instructed to kill him, if I don’t call in…” He tilted the phone to check the time. “Five minutes.”
Her heart catapulted to her throat. “Call him!”
He regarded her, head canted and expression composed, as if he had all the time in the world.
Everything inside her snapped. She thrashed and spat and went fucking feral as he watched her with a sick kind of curiosity.
“Please!” She kicked her legs, bucking beneath the straddle of his knees. “What do you want? I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?”
She looked at the phone, at the brutality marring Tate’s back, and her stomach sank. “Lucia loves him? And he loves her back?”
“Yes.” The corner of his mouth bounced. “They risked their lives to be together, and if they’re lucky, they’ll die together.”
“What are you saying?”
“I have a weakness for tragic love stories. It’s the only reason I didn’t kill them immediately.” He shut off the phone, a scowl darkening his inextricable eyes. “Lucia will find him, unless you fuck it up.”
“Don’t put this on me,” she seethed. “I’ll do whatever you say. Just make the call.”
CHAPTER 4
Fucking Christ, Tiago’s head hurt. He wasn’t in the habit of physically restraining people, especially not while recovering from a fractured skull.
He preferred other means of control, as Kate would soon find out.
“I’m going to remove the rope.” He pulled the finger blade from his pocket. “Be a good girl.”
Her watery gaze stayed with the phone where it sat out of reach. Her fear for Tate was palpable, paling her pretty face to a ghostly shade of white. She would real
ly lose her mind if she knew her friend was being held within walking distance from here.
Tiago didn’t relish the thought of ending Tate’s life. It would ruin everything he’d put into place.
But he would follow through on his threat if Kate didn’t behave.
“Hold still.” He cut through the thick rope on her arms until the fibers unraveled enough to fall away.
She rubbed her wrists, the skin red and raw. A little rope burn was nothing compared to the hurt she would endure before she died. She might as well get used to it.
He rolled off her slender body, and she instantly tried to scramble away.
“Stay.” He pointed the blade at the spot beside him on the mattress.
She froze with a foot on the floor and glared back at him. “You’re going to call your guy? Stop him from killing Tate?”
He tapped the mattress where he wanted her.
Her shoulders slumped, and she crawled to the far end, putting her back to the wall and her eyes on his phone.
Another wave of queasiness hit him sideways, and he braced a hand on the bed, catching himself.
Christ, he needed something for the double vision. Being bedridden for a month left him dizzy and weak. Wrestling a pint-sized woman made it worse.
It was time to start working out again. The sooner he rebuilt his strength, the sooner he could return to Caracas and reestablish his reign there.
First, he needed to deal with his prisoners.
“If you make a single sound, Tate will die.” He unlocked the phone. “Tell me you understand.”
Her blue eyes flashed, and her teeth sawed through the words. “I understand.”
He dialed Arturo, the guard who sent the video, and didn’t wait for a greeting. “Put Tate on the phone.”
Sounds of movement rustled down the line, followed by an angry rush of breaths.
“Hello, Tate.” Tiago set the phone on speaker, so Kate could hear the conversation.
Tate made a stricken noise. “Where’s—?”
“If you ask about her, the call ends, and you’ll never hear from me again.”
It had been a month since Tate and Lucia saw each other. Tate asked about her relentlessly, but his questions went unanswered.
Tiago needed him to assume the worst. “You’ll spend the rest of your lonely existence locked away in that shack, wondering why I called and what I was going to say.”
Kate sucked in a breath, her expression murderous.
“I’m listening,” Tate said.
“I would be there in person, but I haven’t been feeling well. I’m sure you know why.” As he spoke into the phone, he held her gaze, wordlessly reminding her to keep quiet. “I wanted to offer you something. Let’s call it a last request. Anything you want. This doesn’t include information, and it must fit inside the shack.”
“What is this?” Tate asked. “Like a last-meal request? Am I on death row?”
She tensed, her fingers biting into the mattress.
He shook his head, admonishing her. “I’m offering more than a meal, Tate. You can choose anything—a bed to sleep on, a girl to fuck, a drug to numb your mind. I’m sure you can come up with something creative.”
“Why?” Suspicion laced Tate’s voice. “What do you want?”
“I’ve already taken my payment.” Given the rancor in her eyes, he might have to kill her before the call ended. “Consider this a thank you.”
“What did you take?” Tate whispered harshly.
“Not Lucia. I left her to die in prison. What’s your last request, Tate?”
Kate pressed a hand against her lips, smothering a whimper.
Tiago had spoken the truth about Lucia, but not the whole truth. If Kate sat there and kept her mouth shut, maybe he would enlighten her.
Returning his attention to the phone, he digested the silence on the other end.
Right about now, Tate was likely hitting a very cold, inconsolable rock bottom. Tiago knew too well what that felt like. The suffocating, dire weight of helplessness pulling through the body. The endless chill hardening organs and arteries. The grip of desolation overshadowing self-preservation. An emptiness so profound and consuming there wasn’t enough air to return from the dead.
To have and to hold the entire world, then to watch it be violently ripped away… There was no greater suffering.
Kate was right. Some experiences cut so deeply it gutted a man. Or twisted a good man into a criminal.
Tate’s rasp vibrated the speaker. “Do you have a photo of Lucia?”
“Yes.”
“My request…” He coughed, his voice hoarse. “I want to finish the tattoo on my arm, feel her face on my skin, with me always.”
Tears welled in Kate’s eyes, her nostrils pulsing above the hand she held against her mouth.
Tate had more than proved his love for Lucia in the basement of the Caracas compound. Having her inked into his skin would add a layer of commitment that made his devastation that much more meaningful.
The idea moved Tiago, sinking deep into a graveyard of memories and resurrecting ghosts. He harbored an ugly past, one that made him fixate on rare and beautiful things, like the mutual devotion between two people.
Wrenching Tate away from Lucia had been as cruel as carving a portrait into his back, but that was the point.
The strongest love rose out of the greatest hurt.
With regard to the logistics of Tate’s request, it just so happened one of the local guards was a tattoo artist.
“Very well.” Tiago switched the call off speaker. “Return the phone to the guard.”
After making the necessary arrangements with Arturo, he disconnected and glanced at Kate.
“Can I see another video?” She wiped her damp cheeks. “Proof that your guard isn’t killing him?”
“No.” He locked the phone and tossed it aside.
Her lashes lowered, and another tear slipped out. “Please, let him go.”
If she thought he kept a watchdog on Tate, she was wrong. The few guards Tiago had with him were needed here, watching the perimeter of the house.
When he was carried out of Caracas a month ago, he was comatose and bleeding from two fractures in his skull. Only Arturo and Boones came with him—the two men who saved his life.
Boones had taken care of everything, treating his injuries and transporting him to this isolated area in the Venezuela desert. Tiago owned this land and had decided days before Lucia’s attack that Tate would be captured and brought here. Boones followed through on that plan perfectly.
Only five other guards joined them here, all of which were pulled from Tiago’s other domiciles around the country.
His outfit in Caracas didn’t know about this place, and he intended to keep it that way. He had countless enemies and trusted no one. Except Boones.
Every day, the old doctor delivered Tate’s meals and nursed his wounds. Only then did a guard go near the shack, and that was for Boones’ protection.
If Tate managed to free himself from the ankle cuff, no one would stop him from escaping.
Tiago reclined against the wall and captured her gaze. “When Lucia finds him, he’s free to go.”
“You said Lucia’s in prison.” Her brows gathered. “You also said you let her go.”
“You may not believe this, but I haven’t lied to you. I did let her go.”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
“Good, because you have no—”
“Opinions. I heard you the first time.” She looked away, giving him the profile of her willful chin.
Why hadn’t he sent her back to her room? He wouldn’t need her until later, if at all.
He’d captured her to send Tate and his friends a message. Fuck with the most powerful gang leader in Venezuela and pay the consequences.
As for Kate’s fate, it wasn’t pretty. He would offer her to his enemies as a bribe. Or give her to his guards as a reward for their loyalty.
Or he would j
ust kill her.
He tilted his head and let his gaze wander over her, really taking her in for the first time.
Blond hair hung in wild waves to her elbows. Bony shoulders, smallish tits, she was skinnier and shorter than the average twenty-two-year-old.
For all the profanity and thunderous noise her face produced over the past month, he’d formed a completely different picture in his head. Between bouts of unconsciousness and listening to her bellow in the other room, he’d imagined a tough Amazonian beast of woman. Someone tall and strong with meat on her bones.
Not that he had complaints about the image before him. That was the problem. Kate was a goddamn knockout.
Her fair complexion, ethereal figure, graceful legs, and fuck, her eyes… As vivid as the ocean and too deep to measure, those bottomless blues could enchant a man, make him change course and lose his way.
He should just kill her now and be done with it.
With a slow breath, she sat taller, pushed back her shoulders, and faced him. “Will you tell me what happened? With Tate and Lucia?” Her eyebrows knitted together as she faltered over her next question. “Is Van Quiso alive?”
Interesting how she asked about everyone else while her own life hung in the balance. And Van Quiso no less. The sex-trafficking rapist enslaved her for weeks, no doubt violating her six ways to Sunday. He didn’t deserve her concern.
One might argue that Van couldn’t hold a testicle to the crimes Tiago had committed. Nevertheless, Tiago felt a strange itch to answer her and found himself wondering how she would weigh in on his decision concerning her fate.
His train of thought baffled him. She was nothing more than a prisoner. A soon-to-be-dead prisoner.
Her death would be a waste of a gorgeous body. Most men would sell their souls for a night between her legs. But the lure of a beautiful woman had no power over him.
Lucia spent eleven years at his side, naked in his room, and dependent on his mercy. He’d allowed himself to touch her, to indulge in the feel of her every dip and curve. But he never fucked her. That was his rule. His self-imposed penance.
Kate was no different.
He ran a hand along the cuff of his shirt, unbuttoned it, and did the same with the other sleeve. “After a month of bed rest, this is the first time I’ve put on clothes. Unfortunately, when my bag was packed for me, my casual attire was forgotten in the rush.”