Disclaim (Deliver #3)

by Pam Godwin

  Jefe touched the blade to her skin again, this time on her wrist. The rope?

  “P-please.” She sniffled then heaved a couple of shuddering breaths for good measure. “I can’t feel my hands.”

  “Can you be a good girl?” Jefe trailed a finger down her spine.

  “Y-yes. Please untie me.”

  With his hand holding her head down, he cut the rope. The instant it fell away, she snapped her free arm forward and shook out her hand. Ah, fuck, it was so numb. But as the sharp biting sensations rushed in with the blood, it really fucking hurt. The shaking didn’t help, and her fingers refused to bend or move.

  Her other hand, still attached to the boar, was pulled onto his lap. Jefe released her head, and she straightened, quickly shoving down the hem of the shirt and scanning her surroundings.

  Instead of a mask, the driver wore a baseball cap that sat low on his brow. Brown hair? Caucasian? She couldn’t tell.

  A three-lane highway stretched out ahead, surrounded by black smudges of farmland. No road signs in sight. If they weren’t heading back to the city, where the fuck were they going?

  The boar’s strong fingers massaged her shackled hand, and the cuff on his wrist scraped against hers. The tingling receded, and warmth rushed in. She stifled a sigh and glanced at the hand she was shackled to.

  A tattoo peeked out from the cuff of his sleeve. It was too dark to make out the design, but the ink looked faded and old.

  Keeping her head lowered, she took in the casual recline of his posture. His legs spread wide, invading her space. He wasn’t oversized or boar-ish. Nor was he average.

  His muscled thigh felt like stone beneath her wrist. The coarse material of his fatigues cupped an impressive groin, and the waistband rode low on his narrow hips. His shirt had inched up his navel, revealing a dark dusting of hair and deep indentions of abs.

  The bastard was honed like a damn blade. Hopefully, his brain wasn’t as sharp.

  She lifted her eyes, following the bulge of a bicep, the stretch of cotton over ridges of pecs, and…a ski mask. Mierda.

  Despite the absence of light, the eyes staring back weren’t black. Pale hints of color streaked into inky rings. Gold? Blue? Green?

  He watched her without blinking, his intensity edged with thick lashes. Something flickered in the depths. An emotion. She was sure of it. Did he want to fuck her? Kill her? No, it was more complex than that. Whatever it was made her heart pump and her mind scream, Look away.

  But she couldn’t. Jefe might’ve been in charge of this team, but this man… He was up to something, and it lodged a boulder in her stomach.

  The SUV stopped moving, breaking her trance. Beyond the windshield, the paved road ended at a field, and in the distance sat a small plane. The second Range Rover pulled up beside them and shut off the engine.

  Guess I’ll be leaving Austin.

  Didn’t matter. The GPS chip worked globally.

  When the driver climbed out, the overhead lights remained off. Probably disconnected.

  “Stay here.” Jefe joined the driver outside, leaving her alone with the man who disturbed her the most.

  “Do you talk?” She turned, intending to give him an impatient glare, then slammed her eyes shut.

  You’re scared and weak, remember?

  She curled her shoulders forward, balled her hand on his lap, and stuttered, “What are…you going to do…to me?”

  “Good question.”

  That voice… The blood drained from her face. No, no, no.

  “What did you say?” She met hazel eyes and knew she was seeing things. It’s too dark.

  “What have you gotten yourself into, mi vida?”

  The vibration of his voice was a strong hand massaging between her legs, so familiar and arousing she couldn’t breathe.

  She gripped the arm attached to hers and lifted it, using both hands to yank back the sleeve and expose the underside of his wrist.

  Swirls of ink blackened his skin, but her focus narrowed on the pockmarked scar of a dog bite. No, this man was probably riddled with knife wounds. Did she even have the right arm?

  “How did you get this scar?” She searched his gaze, and it told her nothing. And everything.

  Dropping his hand, she went for the ski mask. As she yanked it up his neck, he didn’t stop her. Instead, he gripped her hips and pulled her onto his lap to straddle him.

  Her heart galloped frantically in her one-handed effort to bare his face. Shoving and tugging the material higher, she uncovered a chiseled jaw, a dusky shadow of stubble, a wide mouth with full lips…

  Her throat closed up, and she jerked her hand away. “You’re not him.”

  “I’m not?” His fingers dug into her waist.

  With the mask gathered across his nose, she could almost convince herself he didn’t look like an older, more distinguished version of Matias.

  “He wouldn’t be here.” A sharp pain twisted in her chest. “He would never support sexual slavery.”

  A sinister grin curved his lips. Not a Matias smile. Except there, hiding in the corners…

  She lifted her hand to trace the dimples. The same dimples she’d stared at every day for sixteen years. The same dimples that had flashed whenever he put a spider in her hair or peed on her mother’s roses and always when he came in the stroke of her hand. They were the same dimples that had bored into her memories for the past twelve years.

  Her heart slammed against her ribs as she yanked off the mask.

  Thick strands of black hair fell across a smooth tawny forehead. Dark brows pulled into a V over eyes that would glow citrine in the sunlight. If she pressed her mouth against those firm lips, which memory would he taste like? The first bite of a juicy orange? The full-bodied smoke of a bonfire? A refreshing dip in the spring-fed stream?

  He was so sculptured and masculine, all grown up, filled out, and sexier than she could’ve ever imagined.

  And he’d come to save her. Whether she needed that or not, he’d actually come for her. Somehow…someway, he’d discovered she would be here and wanted to help her.

  She cupped his face, the scratch of whiskers so strange against her palm. “It’s really you, mi vida.”

  My life.

  She raised her other hand to frame his face, but her arm caught. Shackled. Her vision clouded. No. Oh God, no, he wasn’t her life or her goddamn savior. He enslaved women. Quivering anger spiked through her body. He was…

  My captor.

  THE FALTER OF CAMILA’S BREATHS, the heave of her full tits, everything about her intoxicated Matias’ senses. She was here, right fucking here, filling his hands with her tight, trembling flesh.

  His reaction to her had been instantaneous, darting a possessive jolt down his spine and thickening his cock. But evidently, she needed more time to adjust. After all, he wasn’t here to save her, not in the way she was probably guessing.

  Her initial shock at hearing his voice had softened into wonderment, loosening her shoulders and parting her heart-shaped lips. In that moment, she’d seemed lost, completely knocked off her stubborn axle.

  Now she glared at him with liquid hatred in her eyes.

  Christ, she looked so goddamn fuckable when she was riled. On his lap. Chained to him.

  He tightened his fingers around her hips to stop himself from violating every inch of her body. The same discipline he’d exercised the last time he had her alone. Twelve fucking years ago. Not that he had anything in common with that dumbass eighteen-year-old boy.

  He’d shed his innocence in exchange for power, every last ounce of chivalry traded for brutal dominance. If he hadn’t, he would’ve been gutted and eaten alive.

  And the woman who had smuggled her way into his ruthless world, pretending she was there against her will? She now had the audacity to look deceived.

  “Did you expect me to be here?” She shoved at him, stealing peeks at the men outside as her legs kicked to escape the intimacy of their position. “This is…it’s just too coi
ncidental. How did you know?”

  “Don’t waste your breath asking questions I’m not going to answer.” He held her against him, chest to chest, with her thighs straddling his hips and her cunt pressing on his erection. Exactly where she belonged.

  “Tell me you’re not with them.” Her expression paled in a rictus of angelic horror, her muscles edged with frozen tension as if wrestling to maintain her cover. She had no idea what he and the other men knew about her.

  “You should be more concerned about who you are with.” He held up their handcuffed wrists and gave her a taunting smile.

  The bright flash of her teeth drew his attention right before she swung her free hand across his cheek. She reared back to slap him again, but he caught her arm and wrenched it behind her.

  “You still hit like a girl.” He worked his jaw against the sting.

  “Me lo chupa.” She curled her lip and lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “You bought an enslaved woman. You bought me, Matias! You know what happened to me when I disappeared, what kind of hell I escaped, and still, you do this?” She yanked her arm in the handcuff. “How could you?”

  He could ask her the same question. How could she team up with Van Quiso? How could she let that cock-sucking pervert tie her up, toss her in the dirt, and sell her to a cartel? Damn her for being so fucking reckless with her life.

  As she glared at him, her seductive eyes seemed to fight an internal war, demanding answers while begging him to tell her this was all a big misunderstanding.

  He wouldn’t tell her shit. Showing her over the coming months, one agonizing day at a time, was the only way they would come out of this whole and together.

  What was taking the guys so long? Matias glanced through the windshield and spotted a rangy silhouette crawling under the turboprop. Must’ve been Chispa, their explosives guy. If there was a bomb on-board, he’d find it.

  Camila slammed her head forward and bit his shoulder through the shirt.

  He jerked her back by the hair, holding her face inches away as he scowled. Jesus, fuck, he wanted to rip into her.

  She jutted out her chin, holding his gaze with a voracious amount of attitude while whispering under her breath, “Who do you work for?”

  Right about now, she was probably more concerned about what the other men knew about her and her dangerous ruse. There was so much she didn’t understand about her situation, and she wasn’t ready to learn the depths of his role in it. Keeping her in the dark was the only way this would work.

  And the things he would do to her in the dark… He imagined trussing her up on a suspension beam, burying his teeth in her perfect rack, and pounding his cock into the clench of her sinful body. Dios mío, she had a knockout figure, with curves to hold on to and toned strength to withstand his cruelest, most sinister appetites.

  He ached to unleash the violence inside him, to spread her open and let her feel what the last twelve years had done to him.

  Instead, he pinned her hands behind her back and crashed his mouth against hers.

  She held her breath, lips pinched, but he pried them apart with his tongue and buried it in the wet heat of her mouth.

  Growling against her lips, he thrilled in her struggle, in the way she sank into the kiss while twisting her arms to get away. She could fight her desire, but she couldn’t disclaim their unbreakable bond, one that had taken root so long ago in the haven of their citrus grove.

  A moan vibrated in her throat as she stretched her mouth and drew his lip between hers, sucking and licking, gnashing and biting.

  Electricity surged through his groin and tightened his balls as he devoured the furious lashes of her tongue. She tasted like home, warm and sugary, nourishing and his.

  The soft familiarity of her lips fueled his arousal while the rigid resistance in her body heated his muscles with aggression. Fucking hell, he got off on her torment, on the stiffness of her spine and the frantic rise and fall of her tits. It only made the slide of her hungry lips taste sweeter, more rewarding.

  He ruthlessly ate at her mouth, and she gave it right back, her tongue seeking and whipping with all the mistrust, anger, and years lost between them. Her frenzied inhales quickened his own, their breaths crashing together as her fingernails scratched at his hands.

  It had been twelve years since he kissed a woman, and she’d been only a girl then with gangly limbs and tiny breasts. Kissing her now blew away the memories. There was no more shyness, no restraint or inexperience…

  Resentment barbed inside him, puncturing holes in his unraveling control. How many men had she kissed? Sucked? Fucked? His vision blurred in smears of red. He needed vindication and intended to take it from her pleading screams, from the give of her body beneath his thrusts. Pain and pleasure. Twisted justice.

  Not yet.

  He tore his mouth away and shoved her off his lap, gasping with the fury of his breaths.

  Her gaze flew to the window. Confirming no one was watching? She looked back at him, lips swollen and eyes smoldering. “Fuck you.”

  “Careful, Camila. You don’t—”

  She launched at him, teeth bared and fists swinging.

  He subdued her easily, wrapping her shackled arm around her torso with her back pressed against his chest.

  “Let me go, you fucking traitor.”

  He covered her mouth with his palm, fingers gripping her jaw shut, as he angled her face toward the window. “You promised Nico you’d be a good girl.”

  She froze, attention glued to the back of Nico’s shirt, and choked an indiscernible sound against his fingers.

  He released her mouth.

  “Jefe is…Nico…” Her free hand touched the glass, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Nico Restrepo? As in capo of the Restrepo cartel?”

  Of course, she knew the name, but not because her parents had been Colombian. Anyone who watched the news knew about the ongoing conflict between the notorious kingpin and law enforcement officials in the U.S. and Colombia.

  What she didn’t know was that the Restrepo cartel had played an instrumental part in her captivity eleven years ago. He needed to guard that secret until she was mentally and emotionally prepared to hear why he was still embedded in the crime family that had banished her to chains.

  “Oh my God.” She dropped her head in her hand, her expression veiled by the tangled mess of her black hair. “This isn’t just some local slave ring.”

  Not even close. She was headed bowels-deep into Colombia’s most powerful criminal organization.

  “You work for the fucking Restrepos?” She twisted on his lap and searched his eyes. “All this time?”

  He flattened his lips into a line, knowing she couldn’t handle the truth.

  “What’s your position exactly? VP of Shipping and Receiving?” She jerked on the handcuff. “Director of Human Slavery?”

  Her jaw set in the defiant way that had always made him hard. He dug his fingers into her skin and tried to ignore the roll of her hips over his agonizing erection.

  “Oh, right.” She tipped her chin up, wearing a corrosive smile. “Even now, those questions are off limits. But you knew I’d be here? You planned this?”

  He rapped on the window, anxious to get her across the border and show her what he thought of her questions. He hadn’t expected her to confess the reason she was here, but whatever scheming she was still doing in that gorgeous head of hers was pointless. Her fate was sealed.

  Nico broke away from his conversation with the pilot, and she instantly hunched her shoulders forward, head down, quivering like the mousy little girl she wasn’t. Nico opened Matias’ door, concealed by his ski mask and casual clothing, all safety precautions to protect his identity—not from Camila, but from anyone who might’ve been watching.

  “Listo?” Matias tightened his grip on her stiffening body.

  “Ready for what?” Her voice cracked.

  “Something came up.” Nico glanced over his shoulder at the plane and returned to Matias. “W
e’re modifying the route.”

  Wasn’t uncommon. Transfers and layovers changed with the intel. Sudden DEA activity, rival gangs mobilizing, anything could’ve compromised their scheduled stopover.

  “Chispa’s done with his sweep.” Nico stepped back. “She’s next.”

  Matias didn’t give her time to fight, hauling her out of the SUV and tossing her over his shoulder. She felt willowy in his arms, but not delicate, not like the tiny girl he used to hoist one-handed into orange trees.

  Stifling the twinge of remembrance, he crossed the field, lifted her into the eight-seat Cessna’s rear door, and set her on her feet. Inside, he pushed her head down, both of them ducking as he guided her past three rows of chairs and shoved her into the front seat.

  She didn’t glance at the stripped-down interior, the exposed cockpit, or the absence of anything that could be used as a weapon. Her glare was all for him.

  “Where are we going?” She tucked her shackled arm against her waist. “This hunk of metal won’t make it to Colombia.”

  No, but their connecting flight would.

  Removing a key from his pocket, he knelt before her and trapped her shins with his thighs. Then he unlatched the cuff from his wrist and locked her to the chair’s frame.

  The tread of soft shoes sounded on the stairs behind him, followed by the scratch of a familiar voice. “Dejamos en cinco minutos.”

  Turning, Matias met the cloudy eyes of their most trusted doctor, Picar. The old man’s hunched spine and stocky frame allowed him to pass through the cabin without too much bending. But his decrepit appearance was deceiving. Picar earned his name by the way he wielded a scalpel. Chop.

  Matias shifted out of the way as Picar slipped by and settled into the seat across the aisle from Camila. A black bag sat on his lap, his gnarled hands rooting through it.

  “Whose shirt is this?” Matias gripped the neckline hanging off her shoulder, gathering the foul-smelling material in his fist. “If you give me a name, I won’t torture him before I kill him.”

  She averted her eyes to the window.

  Van Quiso and Tate Vades were around the same size, but he bet it belonged to Tate. He didn’t put it past that bastard to send her off bathed in his own stink.