Wicked as Sin

by Black, Shayla

  She winced. Cutter was right…but they were talking about her father. Having a sex life. She’d always viewed him as perfect, above reproach. She’d idolized him, worshipped him. To find out he was only human seemed both obvious and foolishly crushing.

  Then again, she knew how tempting the flesh could be. Every single night, she held her finger over the screen of her iPhone, aching to press the button and call Pierce. She’d missed his gruff smile, his scent, his guttural grunts as he filled her, his unexpected tenderness, the rasp in his voice when he called her pretty girl…

  “Hey.” Cutter snapped his fingers. “Where did you go?”

  Should she tell him everything? Brea had agonized over this a million times in the last month—and still had no answer. At first, she hadn’t confessed her feelings for Pierce to Cutter because he’d been too angry to listen, and she’d been so sure that she and Pierce would never last. But as the days passed and the rugged sniper haunted her, as her body hungered and she’d begun to crave just having him near…

  She realized she cared about him. Very much. And he’d given her way more space than she’d wanted or believed he would ever grant her.

  It hurt.

  But maybe now wasn’t the time to mention it. She needed to stay focused on her father, and she sensed something weighing on Cutter, too.

  “Thinking. Sorry.” She tried to smile, despite the nagging worry about Daddy’s health plaguing her.

  Would the sunrise bring shining new hope for his recovery or cast a glaring light on her harsh new reality without him?

  Cutter was right; she needed to be optimistic. The trick right now, when hope seemed razor thin, was to stay distracted. “You were saying something before Dr. Gale talked to us. You’ll be someplace on Friday, other than the church’s fall market?”

  Cutter’s face tightened. “I don’t know if now is the time to talk about this.”

  “If it will keep me from fixating on my father, please.”

  He looked away with a grimace, then sighed. “I may be in Mexico come Friday. Walker went there almost three weeks ago on a mission. He was taken at gunpoint in a parking lot by a cartel. We might finally have a lead on his location. If it pans out, we’ll be bugging out to extract him ASAP.”

  As soon as his words registered, Brea’s heart—and her world—stopped. Panic ensued. Pierce had been abducted? The big, seemingly invincible warrior with the one-mile kill shot had been overpowered and taken prisoner? No. She couldn’t picture it. Didn’t want to. Couldn’t stand it.

  She heaved in a breath made more ragged by the crushing pain spreading through her chest. It wracked her system. Tears stung her eyes. Any calm she’d found since before Cutter entered the emergency room vanished.

  “Oh, my… A-a cartel? Is he even…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish that sentence. She could barely breathe past her distress.

  He had to be alive. She needed him to be alive.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Please, God, let him be all right.

  But what were the odds that an organization fueled by illegal drugs, money, and greed would keep a hostage alive for weeks?

  “I don’t know. We’re hoping.” But Cutter sounded grim. “The information we’ve collected is sketchy, and with every passing hour it’s getting older. But it’s more than we had to go on yesterday.”

  Brea clung to hope. She had to. If she let herself imagine where Pierce was and what he was enduring, she would melt down. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I didn’t know he was in danger. I didn’t have any idea. I would have prayed for him or…”

  Something. She would have done something. Honestly, anything. But what could a small-town hairdresser really do to save the man she cared for way more than she ought to from a cartel?

  “I didn’t want to bring him up after…you know, everything that happened. You did your best to save me, and you betrayed yourself to do it. I hate how much pain it caused you.”

  She shook her head. “It wasn’t like that. He—”

  “Don’t.” Cutter held up his hands. “Don’t try to make me feel better. I don’t deserve it.”

  The guilt was still eating him alive. “Don’t ever think you’re unworthy. There’s no reason for that. And I don’t regret a thing.”

  Brea didn’t say more. Cutter wasn’t ready to hear that some part of her heart belonged to Pierce and probably always would.

  Cutter closed his eyes with a sigh. “As much as I hate to admit it, as much as I hate who he is and what he’s done, he’s saved my life twice. My bosses are absolutely losing their shit over this. I have to go. I have to help.”

  Even though he despised Pierce, Cutter insisted on being a part of his rescue. Because he was a good man.

  “Please. Promise me you’ll do whatever you can. Whatever you have to…” She grabbed Cutter’s hands. “Bring him home.”

  He nodded. “I know how you feel about brutality and senseless death. Even if Walker’s record is hardly spotless, you would never want more violence or wish anyone dead.”

  All of that was true...but hardly her rationale. She missed Pierce fiercely. Needed him. And she was sickeningly, painfully worried about him. Maybe she hadn’t pictured a life with him—except occasionally, late at night when she missed him like mad. But it nearly killed her to imagine a world without him.

  “Let me know as soon as you have any word. And you keep safe, you hear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He managed a smile for her. “Now call Mrs. Collins. I really think she’d want to be here.”

  It took all her will, but Brea managed to block out her terror and focus on mundane but important tasks. It turned out that Cutter was right. Jennifer didn’t hesitate to jump out of bed, toss on her clothes, and drive through the black night. Tears sheened her eyes when she raced through the doors. The woman sobbed. Brea joined her as they clung together through the long wait for news.

  But as the sun rose, Dr. Gale emerged from the operating room, looking both exhausted and triumphant, to tell the exhausted trio that her father had come through the surgery successfully. He was in recovery, had already regained consciousness, and was asking to see her.

  Brea held back sobs as she thanked God for the miracle. Daddy would always have to watch his diet and weight, not to mention his cholesterol, but she was so grateful to Him for hearing her prayers and sparing her father.

  But inside, she was quietly frantic with unrelenting worry—and shamefully ready to beg Him for one more favor. So as she was escorted back to her father’s bedside, she closed her eyes and asked the Lord above for one more good deed.

  Please, God, bring Pierce back to me whole and alive…

  * * *

  Thursday, September 11

  Guerrero, Mexico—middle of nowhere

  One-Mile had no idea what day it was or how long he’d been out. He pried open one swollen eye. He saw only bare concrete walls—thick and uninterrupted—without a window in sight. No surprise that he was alone.

  He’d figured out a while back that he was being held underground. He knew that because the few times he’d been dragged outside, it had still been hot as hell, but the air on his skin now was almost chilly. Despite that, a wringing sweat covered his body. He trembled. His stomach cramped. His head felt as if it might explode.

  Fuck, he needed to make some decisions.

  He eyed the door. Sure, he should probably check it. But why? The damn thing had been bolted up tight each of the other four thousand five hundred ninety-two times he’d searched for some way to escape. No sense wasting more energy he might need to simply stay alive.

  How much longer before someone came back and stuck a needle in his arm? He both craved and dreaded it. At least afterward he wouldn’t feel the stabbing pain in his jaw or the throbbing of his knee. He wouldn’t care that his back was in ribbons or that he could barely feel his fingers. No, once whatever shit they pumped his veins full of hit his system, he would fade off for…who knew how long? He’d awaken at s
ome point, hungry, dehydrated, sweating, and wondering what fucking day it was.

  Then someone would come in with a meal and a needle…and the cycle would start all over.

  Unless they decided to “interrogate” him again. That was always a fab time. But no one had raised a whip or crowbar to him in a few highs. Unfortunately, that wasn’t good news. If Emilo Montilla and his gang of assholes had given up on him divulging any useful information about Valeria’s whereabouts, that made him expendable. Then they wouldn’t bother beating him again. They’d just give him a double tap to the brain and toss his body into a shallow grave. He’d be buried somewhere in the goddamn desert on foreign soil. No one would ever know what the fuck had happened to him.

  Would anyone even care?

  Brea Bell—maybe. She alone might mourn.

  Not that she loved him. He’d kissed her, even though she belonged to a teammate, because he couldn’t stand not knowing the flavor of her mouth. He’d touched her because he hadn’t possessed the self-control to leave her innocent. He’d worked his cock inside her again and again because he hadn’t been able to tolerate an inch of space between them. Because he wanted her to be his.

  Because he was pretty fucking sure he’d stupidly fallen in love with her.

  Brea was gentle, kind. She would mourn him, if for no other reason than she believed in God, cherished the sanctity of life, and had the purest soul he’d ever had the privilege of knowing.

  Of all his regrets—and he had plenty—he hated that he hadn’t called her before he’d left on this mission and admitted exactly how he felt.

  Now it was too late.

  For a minute, he was tempted to pray to her God, but he didn’t. He didn’t really deserve God’s mercy. Brea didn’t know about his past, but God did…and that was probably why he’d end up dying in the middle of nowhere before they threw a little dirt on him and left him to become coyote shit.

  On that cheerful note, he slumped back on the cot and closed his eyes, shivering against the chills and withdrawals. His sandpaper tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He swore he felt his ribs against his spine. And fuck, he needed to pee.

  The next person who came into this room, he’d kill. Not that it would get him anywhere. Even without a weapon, he’d already offed a handful of them—until they’d started shackling his hands, bashing his kneecaps, and swinging fists at his jaw. They’d slowed him down, sure.

  But unless he was dead, they couldn’t stop him.

  On his left, One-Mile heard the click of the lock. He swiveled his head, opened the one eye he could, and lay deceptively still, waiting to see who came through the door. That would tell him how much effort he’d need to exert to trip the thug du jour and stomp his larynx until the gunman suffocated.

  But it wasn’t some armed-to-the-teeth asshole who entered the room but a delicate Hispanic beauty who looked twenty, max. Her entire body trembled as, tray in hand, she cleared the door. Immediately, it shut—and locked—behind her. She jolted at the sound.

  “Who are you?” The raspy slur of his voice barely sounded human.

  She didn’t look at him. Fuck, he probably should have saved his breath. Besides Montilla, only a handful of people in this shithole spoke English, and his Spanish sucked.

  As she set the tray on the nearby table, she shook so hard the dishes rattled. She finally met his stare. Her brown eyes were wide and full of terror. “My name is Laila, Señor Walker. Emilo is my…um—how do you say?—my brother-in-law.”

  So she was Valeria’s sister? The one the EM team had tried to rescue during their first mission, before they’d been ambushed?

  “I am sorry,” she rushed on. “I have not used my English in too long.”

  The guys who brought his meals usually had a face as attractive as a pug’s ass and a wide sadistic streak, so sending in a pretty, unarmed female was definitely a new tactic.

  He didn’t trust it, but he played along. “Are you going to untie me so I can eat or feed me yourself?”

  “I have been sent to feed you, see to your bath, and”—she swallowed hard—“any other comforts you may desire.”

  Her answer rolled around in his brain. Translation: drugging, starving, and beating him hadn’t worked, so they were going to force this frightened woman to sex him up so he’d get happy enough to betray his bosses back home?

  One-Mile nearly snorted at that bullshit. He would have—just before he set her straight—if he wasn’t one-hundred percent sure Montilla and his thugs were listening in.

  Instead, he played along…for now. “What do you have under that lid?”

  Laila lifted the dome. “Water. Cold beer. Tortilla soup, refried beans, homemade flan…”

  More than he’d eaten in one sitting since he’d been taken captive. And the food actually looked fresh for a change.

  On the far side of the tray, he also caught sight of the needle with the drugs. “That my after-dinner cocktail?”

  A guilty flush stole up her cheeks. “That is up to you.”

  Somehow, One-Mile didn’t think she meant they’d pump him full of shit if he wanted it. But if he proved uncooperative… “I see. How about we eat first?”

  “As you wish.”

  With a gentle hand, she helped him stand, then guided him to the room’s lone chair. Patiently, she stood over him and fed a straw through his swollen lips, past his sore-ass jaw, and waited until he’d managed to swallow half the bottle. He eschewed the beer, slurped the soup down as she guided it—one slow spoonful at a time—into his barely open mouth, then fed him a few beans before finishing with some flan.

  Since that was the most he’d eaten in weeks—or was it months now?—it didn’t take much for him to get his fill. But consuming everything took a long damn time. He did his best to stay patient and use the time to figure out how he could benefit from this change of circumstance. Short of threatening a female half his size and trying to use her as a shield to fight his way out, he wasn’t seeing it. Besides, Emilo wouldn’t have sent her in here if she wasn’t expendable.

  Gently, Laila wiped his mouth with a napkin, then helped him to his feet. “Would you care for a shower now?”

  “And a toilet?”

  “Of course.” She looked up at a camera in the corner of the room. Another internal door buzzed open, and she led him inside. It locked shut behind them. “I am allowed to untie your hands in this room.”

  He held them out and scanned the place. Sure, he’d been here before, but the memories were always hazy since the trips had come after the needle. But his captors had made certain there was nothing he could use as a weapon and no way to escape.

  Slowly, she unwound the bindings from his hands. Blood rushed in, tingling and painful, as full circulation returned. Vaguely, he wondered…if he managed to find some way out of this hell, would he ever fully recover?

  Why fucking care? It was unlikely he’d ever escape, so torturing himself with this train of thought was pointless.

  For the first few days in captivity, he’d hoped the Edgingtons and Joaquin Muñoz would bust in here with the rest of the EM crew and save his sorry ass. But no. First, they probably had no idea where he was. Hell, he didn’t, except that he was a long way from Acapulco. And second, why would they? It was no secret how much Cutter hated him. He’d thought for a while that maybe Logan liked him and Hunter trusted him somewhat…but they more or less thought he’d raped Brea, too. Why would they save him when it was easier to replace him?

  When he’d been taken, Trees had driven away as quickly as possible—as he should have. But he hadn’t fired a shot or come back with reinforcements. Zy was too busy chasing Tessa’s skirt to care about much else these days. And Josiah…who knew where the guy fell? They didn’t talk much.

  One thing One-Mile did know? No one was coming to his rescue. He was going to have to work with Laila.

  She allowed him a few minutes alone in the toilet, then started the shower while he washed his hands and brushed his teeth with t
he toothbrush she had helpfully provided.

  When he’d finished, he pivoted to face her, assuming she’d step out while he washed himself.

  Instead, she began disrobing.

  He watched with a frown. This must be the “whatever he desired” portion of the evening.

  No thanks.

  One-Mile stayed her with a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to get naked for me.”

  Relief stamped itself all over her face—but she kept stripping. “Yes, I do…”

  Silently, he studied her as she peeled her dress from her body and draped it over a nearby counter. She’d worn nothing underneath. Shadows shrouded the feminine hollows of her body. Light clung to her curves. She was a beautiful woman…and she didn’t do a damn thing for him.

  Her breasts bobbed gently as she approached and helped him pull his shirt over his head. The movement hurt his back like a bitch. The wounds had finally scabbed over, but they’d likely leave scars—if he lived long enough for them to heal.

  Then she reached for the button of his jeans.

  One-Mile gripped her wrists to stop her. “Laila…”

  “Shh.” She pushed his hands away and continued on. “Let me. Please.”

  Her eyes begged. Since he didn’t have much choice, he relented with a nod.

  One-Mile stood motionless while Laila shoved his dirty, blood-stained jeans down his legs. He braced against the wall as he stepped out, now as naked as she was.

  Then she took his hand and led him under the hot spray. He hissed and grimaced as the water pelted his healing skin. She merely pressed her body against his with a whisper. “The shower is the only place they cannot hear us.”

  So the girl wanted to escape. She had a plan and something to say to him. He was on board for that. It was a long shot…but any shot was more than he’d had ten minutes ago.

  Smiling, he pulled her close, then bent to murmur in her ear. “Now what?”

  “I want to be gone from here. I convinced Emilo that, if they let me see to you, I could seduce information from you.”