by Pam Godwin
“You have my word.”
She gave a stiff nod, set her gaze on the phone, and rattled off a phone number.
He dialed and put it on speaker.
A dulcet, feminine voice answered on the first ring. “Who is this?”
“Liv? It’s Kate.”
“Kate? Oh, thank God.” Movement sounded through the speaker. “Are you okay? We’ve been worried sick. Where are you?”
“I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”
She ran through her spiel, her voice as strong and mesmerizing as her eye contact. She smiled and motioned energetically with her hands, one-hundred-percent committed to misleading her closest friend. “So you can stop looking for me, okay? I don’t want to be found.”
“Wow, I…” Liv released a heavy breath. “I’m relieved to hear your voice, but we really need to see you. Just tell me where you are and—”
“You’ll what? Check things out to make sure I’m not screwing up? Don’t assume you know what’s good for me.”
Tiago clenched his hand around the phone, his nerves on high alert.
“You’re calling from an untraceable number,” Liv said cautiously. “I know I’m on speaker phone. Is he there? Listening to our conversation?”
“You have every reason to hate him.” Kate gave him a firm look and held up her palm, staying him. “He poisoned Lucia, mutilated Tate’s back, and the thing he forced Tate and Van do together… It’s unforgivable.”
“He told you about that?”
“Of course. He tells me everything. I know he has issues. God, they’re never-ending.”
He narrowed his eyes.
She narrowed hers right back. “But we’re working through them. Together.”
“He kidnapped you, Kate, and it’s not uncommon to become attached and feel affection toward your captor. It’s a psychological response, the mind’s way of surviving.”
“Is that what happened with Josh? You kidnapped and tortured him, so his feelings toward you are just survival tools? Marrying you was his coping mechanism for the hell you put him through?”
“Don’t you dare,” Liv snapped. “You were there, and you know damn well what he and I mean to each other.” Her fuming breaths rattled the phone. “Where’s Tate?”
Tiago hovered a finger over the end button and shook his head.
“I don’t know.” Kate pressed a hand against her breastbone. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but she kept the emotion out of her voice. “I love you, Liv, but I’m going to hang up now. Don’t look for me. Don’t worry about me. I’m exactly where I want to be.”
“Kate, wait—”
He disconnected the call and pocketed the phone, monitoring her expression.
The facade she’d maintained for Liv gave way to a heartbroken stare and hunched shoulders.
“She’ll worry. They all will.” She inched backward in the direction of the exit. “But they won’t look for me.”
He let her continue her tentative retreat through the doorway, holding her teary gaze until she turned away in the corridor. When his ears perked to the soft, distressed sounds she tried to swallow down, he stalked after her.
“Kate.” He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe and folded his arms across his chest.
She paused in the hallway with her back to him, her posture curling in on itself. The call to her friend marked the point of no return. A decision that would haunt her until she died.
She made a deal with the devil, and in the end, the devil always won.
“You wanted two promises from me.” He rested a hand in his pocket and touched the finger blade. “The one you chose guarantees Tate’s freedom while sentencing you to a lifetime in captivity. Or worse. Nothing is stopping me from killing you and hiding your body. Your friends will be none the wiser.”
“I know.” Her rigid back contracted with the heave of her breaths.
“That was your second request, the promise you didn’t choose. You wanted my word to keep you alive after the phone call.”
“Yes.”
She didn’t beg or cower. Didn’t turn around to see if death was coming. Instead, she placed one foot before the other, eyes forward, and slowly walked to her room.
From his stance in the doorway, he watched her crawl onto the mattress and curl up on her side. With a strange pinch in his chest, he closed the door to his room and locked it.
Tomorrow, he would release her from the confinement of the second floor.
But she would never be free.
If she tried to run, he would kill her.
The next day, Tiago woke before dawn with a sense of levity pulling at his lips. The pounding in his head had abated. His vision was clear. No signs of dizziness. For the first time in a month, he didn’t feel like an invalid.
More than that, he had something to entice him out of bed. Something beyond the obligations of running a criminal organization.
His gaze clung to the door as he rose to his feet and stretched. Was she still asleep?
He envisioned all that golden hair fanned out around her serene face. As he showered and groomed, he imagined what her fair skin and angelic blue eyes would look like in the daylight.
By the time he slipped on his boots and stepped into the hall, he was starving for a glimpse of her.
The sun had just risen, spilling faint light into the antechamber, where he found Kate on the bed. Not asleep.
The mattress sat on the floor, and she knelt at the end of it. With her back to him, her hair fell in wet tangles from a recent shower.
“Come on, dammit.” She bent over her knees, scrubbing the bed with a towel. “Fucking shit.”
He prowled closer, craning his neck to see around her. “What are you doing?”
Her hands froze, and her head shot up. She didn’t glance back or meet his eyes as he moved to stand beside her.
She returned her attention to the bare mattress and the red spot at the center, working the towel over the blotch. All her huffing and rubbing only made the stain worse.
“What happened?”
“What’s it look like?” She threw the ruined towel aside. “I started my period.”
“Is this the first time?”
She shot him a bland look.
His groin tightened. Her bitchiness did nothing to negate how goddamn striking her eyes looked in the sunlight. Iridescent shades of blue glimmered beneath long, thick lashes. As he continued to stare, her delicate nose twitched, and her full, pouty lips curved downward.
“Answer the question.” He strode to the doorless bathroom and checked the supplies. Shampoo, soap, toothpaste, toilet paper…
She climbed to her feet, watching him rummage through the shit under the sink. “This is my first period since I’ve been here.”
It had been a lifetime since he’d given any thought to a woman’s cycle. “You’ve been here for…”
“Thirty-six days.” She blew out a breath. “Stress fucks with the body, in case you didn’t know.”
Boones would’ve prepared for this, though he’d done a piss poor job of dressing her. She wore another one of those strapless rags, the linen thin enough to reveal the dusky color of her nipples. The style had been practical when her arms were bound, but Christ.
He forced his gaze away, irritated by the distraction.
“We’ll eat downstairs.” He headed to the door and removed the key from his pocket. “You’re free to explore the house and grounds.”
Her eyes bulged, her whisper a halting, disbelieving exhale. “Really?”
“If you try to run or attack anyone here, you’ll pray for death long before I’m through with you. Get me?”
“I get you.” She swallowed. “Does Tate know I’m with you?”
“No.” He unlocked the door and found Arturo waiting on the other side, as expected.
The six guards on-site spoke both English and Spanish. Tiago was fluent in many languages but primarily used English.
“When she’s outside of this
room, she doesn’t leave your sight.” He strode past Arturo and took the stairs to the ground floor.
The wooden steps groaned beneath his boots, and dry heat seeped from the cracks in the stone walls. More stone greeted him on the main level. Old and musty, the building was erected to withstand the arid climate, without comfort in mind. It was barely habitable, let alone anesthetically pleasing.
When he purchased it years ago, he updated the utilities and brought in enough mattresses to house an army. The isolation of the desert made it ideal for a temporary hideaway, and its solid stone exterior should hold up against gunfire. Hopefully, the latter wouldn’t be tested during his stay.
A peek through the gap in one of the covered, barred windows confirmed everyone on patrol was positioned appropriately. Spread out around the perimeter, three men vigilantly watched the horizon.
He crossed the main room, passing a row of mattresses. The night shift occupied two of the beds, both guards sleeping soundly.
The large space opened to the kitchen, where Boones sat at the table with his gaze on a laptop.
“You’re still on bed rest,” the old man said in perfect English. His eyes didn’t lift from the screen as he switched to Tigrayit, the Afroasiatic language of his people. “Go back to your room before I—”
“Before you what?” he asked in the same tongue. “Are you going to hit me with those brittle, antique sticks you call arms?”
“Idiot. Suit yourself. When you die—”
“Yeah, I know. You’re taking all my money and moving to Florida.”
Boones laughed softly, a deep comforting sound. “Where’s the girl?”
“Bleeding all over the bed.”
The laptop slammed shut, and Boones shoved to his feet. “You’ve been out of your room all of five minutes, and you’re already butchering—”
“She’s alive, asshole.” He smirked, enjoying the opportunity to rile Boones. “She bleeds every month.”
Boones studied him with dark, incisive eyes. Had things gone differently with Kate last night, they would be having a different conversation. Nevertheless, Boones knew her life still hung on a fragile leash. He didn’t like it, but it was the way of this world. He accepted that the day he fled Eritrea.
“I’ll take care of it.” Boones approached, his expression morphing into that of a doctor as he looked over Tiago’s head. “You need to sit.”
“I need clothes, for her and me.” He remained standing. “Jeans, t-shirts…”
Boones made a humming noise and prodded a finger around the skull wounds. “Any dizziness this morning? Double vision?”
“No. Add gym shorts and running shoes to the list.”
“I didn’t approve exercise. Your body needs time to heal and—”
“I need my strength back.” He pulled away from Boones’ examination. “Stop coddling.”
The stairs creaked, and he turned toward the sound.
Kate descended with tentative steps, her eyes taking in her surroundings as Arturo followed closely behind. When she reached the kitchen, Tiago gestured at the massive man at her back.
“Arturo will be your constant shadow when you’re out of your room.” He clamped a hand on the old man’s bony shoulder. “You met Boones.”
She offered a tight smile that faded quickly.
“I have a closet stocked with supplies,” Boones said in English and motioned for her to follow him to the back wall.
She trailed after him, her movements lissome and unintentionally seductive. She was surrounded by violent criminals, her future dark and nebulous, yet she held her shoulders back and spine straight.
As Boones filled a plastic bag with feminine products, she stood beside him, discreetly scanning the kitchen from beneath the veil of her hair. It wouldn’t be hard to find knives, scissors, or any number of things scattered around that could be used to stab or strangle.
Arturo would be on her before she managed to slip even the smallest needle beneath her dress. But Tiago appreciated the fight blazing inside her. He savored it, riveted by the way her hand twitched at her side and how her small toes gripped the stone floor. She had grit.
“I put some weights in the backroom,” Arturo said, breaking his trance. “When you’re ready to work out again.”
Boones glanced back at that, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening with disapproval. But he bit his tongue. He never berated or argued with Tiago in front of others, because he understood the importance of setting an example. Respect was paramount in running a gang.
When Boones shooed her away, she carried her supplies back to her room with Arturo on her heels.
Tiago waited for the door to shut upstairs and switched back to Boones’ native language. “Do you have an update on Lucia?”
“She’s still working her way along the coast.”
“With Cole Hartman?”
“Yes.” Boones ambled through the kitchen, setting out a skillet and gathering eggs.
“I need to speed up her search.” He explained the promise he made to Kate and the phone call to Liv Reed. “If Lucia doesn’t find Tate in six months, I have to release him, which defeats everything I set into motion.”
“Let go of this fixation, son. It’s not healthy.”
He crossed his arms, refusing to engage in another argument about this.
“All right.” Boones cut his eyes at him. “What are you suggesting?”
“Leave some bread crumbs. She’s looking for the picture on Tate’s back. Pay some of the locals in the surrounding towns to tell the story about the Medio del Corazón monastery to anyone asking about gates. Once she hears the folklore, she’ll know to look for him there.”
“Very well. Anything else?”
He ran a hand over his partially-shaved head and eyed the gray fuzz that Boones kept religiously trimmed on his scalp. “Where are your clippers?”
“Bathroom.” Boones thrust a thumb over his shoulder.
He strode down the hall, found a zippered black pouch of barber supplies, and exited the bathroom without a glance at the mirror. When he returned to the kitchen, Kate was on her way down the stairs.
She ate her eggs and toast in silence while he conferred with Boones and Arturo about business in Caracas. As they conversed in languages she couldn’t interpret, Boones seemed more interested in her presence than Tiago’s month-long absence from the city. His questions about her were relentless.
What do you plan to do with her? Will she return with us to Caracas? Is she a replacement for Lucia?
Since Tiago didn’t have answers, he didn’t give any and instead shifted the conversation back to border issues and smuggling routes.
As they wrapped up the meal, one of the night shift guards climbed out of bed and shuffled into the kitchen, scratching his bald head.
“I thought I smelled breakfast.” The man did a double-take at the table, his tattooed eyes fixed on Kate before darting to Tiago. “Jefe.” He straightened and held his arms at his sides. “It’s good to see you up and around, sir. You look well.”
With a nod, Tiago turned to Kate, who sat stiffly beside him with her jaw hanging open. “Kate, this is Blueballs.”
“Blueballs,” she echoed, staring at the man’s blue eyeballs.
Blueballs grinned and widened his eyes to give her a better look.
“How did you…?” She pointed at the freakish coloring of ink that turned the whites of his eyes bright blue.
“The dumbass tattooed his sclera.” Boones stood and carried his dishes to the sink. “He’s lucky he’s not blind.”
“Hey! I’m a professional.” Blueballs shifted back to Tiago. “Speaking of… I’ll get started on Tate’s tattoo today.”
“What?” Kate gasped. “Is he here?”
Tiago clenched a fist under the table, seconds from cutting the tongue out of Blueballs’ blabbing mouth.
“No, he’s…” Blueballs paled, gripped the back of his neck, and recovered quickly. “It’s a long drive, so I need to
head out soon.”
When he dared a glance at Tiago, his stupid blue eyes didn’t blink. He’d fucked up, said too much, and knew the consequences. He wouldn’t be walking out of here alive.
Kate slumped against the back of the chair, watching Blueballs with a downcast expression. “When you see Tate…” She sniffed and rubbed her nose. “Please, be kind to him. He’s suffered enough.”
If she hadn’t bought the lie about Tate’s location, she would’ve shown signs of edginess and glanced at the door, itching to escape and save her friend. She wouldn’t need to run far to stumble upon the gates of the monastery and the shack behind it.
But she believed Blueballs, and her gullibility just saved his life.
“You heard her.” Tiago turned back to his breakfast. “Better get going.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” Blueballs made a beeline out of the house.
Without another word, Kate moved to the sink and started on the dishes. During her preoccupation with the task, she didn’t notice the container of food Boones slipped into his medical bag.
A moment later, he left without announcing his departure. She had no idea he was on his way to deliver breakfast to Tate.
Keeping her in the dark about Tate’s location wouldn’t be easy. If she knew he was less than a mile away, there was no telling what she would risk in her attempt to see him.
The solution was to return to Caracas as soon as possible, take her with them, and leave someone here to care for Tate. But Tiago couldn’t return until he built some of his strength back. He needed to be able to run when necessary, hold a weapon without tiring, and trust that his vision wouldn’t crap out on him.
He needed another week of recovery. Maybe two.
She finished the dishes and turned away from the sink, staring at him expectantly. “I’d like to step outside for some fresh air.”
“You’ll cut my hair first.” Tiago nodded at the trimmer kit on the table.
“Me?” She shrunk back in revulsion and glanced at Arturo. “Why can’t he do it?”
Arturo leaned against the wall, supervising her every move with a deceptively bored expression.
“I said you’re doing it.” He cast her a hard glare.
“You want to put scissors in my hands?”