by Pam Godwin
It was a moot point. He didn’t ask permission when he fucked her, and he wouldn’t ask permission for this.
“I won’t surrender to that blade. Not ever.” Her lashes fluttered, and her eyes flicked back and forth before pausing on his. “But I’ll make a deal with you. We’re leaving for Caracas in…?”
“Three days.”
“What will you do there? Kidnap more people? Torture them and hold them for ransom? Kill them if their families can’t pay?”
She knew what he did. He didn’t need to fuel her hatred with a response.
“Retire.” Her expression morphed from fearful to determined. “You don’t need the money.”
“No.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both.”
“Then change your business model. You want to live a life of crime? Fine. Stick to victimless crimes.”
He laughed heartlessly and stopped short when he realized she was serious.
“No more kidnapping. No more hurting innocent people. Make me that promise, and I’ll…” Her nostrils widened with a slow, deep inhale. “I’ll be whatever you need me to be.”
“No deal. I want you exactly as you are.”
“If you don’t make me that promise, all you’re going to get from this point forward is a plastic, hollow version of me.” She leaned up, as much as the rope allowed. “Don’t forget. I was trained how to please a sadist. I can make this a memorable experience for you or I can turn it into a robotic musical of fake moans and cheap quivers.”
“You said you wouldn’t surrender.” He rubbed his brow. Christ, this woman. Why was he even entertaining this conversation?
“I can’t surrender to this. Pain doesn’t turn me on. At all. But I can give you the real me.” She pulled on the restraints, trying to lift her face closer to his. “I know you, Tiago Badell. You need this to be mutually honest. No games. No bullshit. Just you and me.”
Heat surged to his balls and swelled his cock.
She jutted her chin. “Stop. Kidnapping.”
“What you’re asking for is ridiculous.” He sat up and hardened his eyes. “Caracas is the kidnapping capital of the world. You don’t survive Kidnap Alley without playing by the rules.”
“If you’re the king, you can do whatever the fuck you want.”
No more kidnapping.
Was it as easy as just deciding to stop? Tiago never had a taste for abducting people off the streets, but he had a reputation to uphold and hundreds of powerful men in his pocket, including law enforcement and politicians. If he so much as appeared weak, he wouldn’t just lose their protection. They would turn on him and everyone loyal to him.
The deaths of his family had led him to this corrupt life. His last revenge kill was in Caracas, and when he finished, he stayed.
He’d slunk into the deepest, darkest corner of Kidnap Alley and became one of them. One of the irredeemable who lurked in the shadows, smuggling contraband, kidnapping tourists, and killing at will. Within a year, he’d become their leader.
His fate was sealed. He was hunted by government agencies, cartels, crime lords, influential people. They wanted him imprisoned, tortured, dead, dismembered, his head on a stake in town square. Didn’t matter. They wanted him gone.
If he left his life in Caracas, he left the protection of his crime syndicate. Walking away was the same as walking toward death row.
But he could make a minor change to the business. If he refocused his efforts on gun smuggling and expanded his routes, he could make the argument to his money-hungry constituents that it was more lucrative than kidnapping for ransom.
He could give her this one thing. He wanted to, and not because he was receiving something in return. He wanted to give her this because it was the right thing to do.
It might be the only good thing he could ever offer her.
“No more kidnapping.” He ran featherlight fingers down her neck, eliciting a shudder in her breath. “Consider it done.”
“Thank you. And you’ll take me to visit Tate before we leave.”
“You have my word.”
All she had was his word, and he could break it at any time. But he wouldn’t. She seemed to know that. She trusted it.
“Untie me.” She stared at him, a silent bid to trust her.
“No.” He climbed off the bed and collected the blade and Boones’ medical bag.
The air between them assembled and charged, a palpable battle of her fear against his anticipation. As he readied the supplies, her anxiety pressed against him, the shallow sounds of her breaths accelerating his.
She deserved so much more than the sickness inside him. But she would remind him of that. The hatred in her eyes, the derisive words from her mouth, she would never quit fighting. He counted on it.
Moving back to the bed, he climbed over her and shimmied her tank top over her head, up her bound arms, and left it gathered around her wrists. Then he lowered his hands to the button on her shorts.
“Do you already know the design you’re going to cut into me?” A sheen of wetness spread over her eyes.
“Yes.” He released the fly and dragged the denim and panties down her legs and off.
“You planned this.”
“Weeks ago.”
“Of course.” Her jaw set, and a quiver raced along her nude body. “How big will it be?”
“The size of my hand.” He splayed his fingers over her thigh, magnifying her shivering. “It’ll wrap all the way around your leg.”
This twenty-two-year-old, petite wisp of a woman, whose hair tangled wildly around her bare chest and bound arms, didn’t flinch.
Life hadn’t been kind to her. She was abandoned by her parents, betrayed by her brothers, tortured by Van Quiso, and now this. Life should’ve broken her, but instead of shattering, she became her own hero. She didn’t even realize she’d saved herself. And in doing so, she saved him.
He cleaned the blade with Boones’ antiseptic and rubbed the homemade compound into the skin on her thigh, something he never bothered to do with anyone, including himself.
And because he couldn’t control the impulse, he leaned down and kissed her pussy, dragging his tongue through her velvety flesh and taking generous sips of her intoxicating essence.
Her hands fisted around the rope, her eyes never leaving his as he worshiped her body.
He needed her in ways he didn’t understand. She satisfied every sexual craving, but this wasn’t just lust. He needed her strength, her defiance, every nuance of her ferocious spirit.
If there was ever a woman mighty enough to break her restraints and stand as his equal, she was it.
She was the one.
With the preparations finished, he fitted the sharp blade onto his finger. The custom-made scalpel extended like a claw, enabling him to cut detailed swirls and precise lines.
Kneeling in the spread of her legs, he lowered the blade to her thigh.
His nerves fired and exploded with excitement. He wanted this too deeply, too vehemently. He could see the finished image in his mind, imagined her wearing his scars for the rest of her life. He was overcome.
“It’s beautiful.” Her shaky voice drew his gaze to hers.
“I haven’t started yet.”
“Doesn’t matter. I have a choice. I can spend the rest of my life loathing the scars every time I remove my clothes. Or I can decide right now they’re as beautiful as the ones that cover you and Boones.” Her eyes flashed. “I already made up my mind about it. Every time I look at the scars, I’ll remember that a crime lord gave up kidnapping in exchange for art.”
Fuck him, she was remarkable. Rare. Perfect.
Mine.
“Hold still.” He steadied his hand and spread her skin taut beneath the scalpel. Then he drew the first cut on her upper thigh.
Her bleak blue gaze creased with pain, but she didn’t look away. Didn’t twitch or scream. She watched him with the eyes of a tortured goddess. Proud. Fierce. Distressed, but not
defeated.
Gathering the gauze he’d set aside, he went to work, focused on the design, and dabbed at the trickles of blood.
He dragged the blade the way a tattoo artist dragged a needle—hunched over, breaths calm, eyes glued to the art, every mark deliberate and meticulous.
Cutting Kate was different than cutting anyone before her. He felt the vibrations of her labored breaths, the wetness of her silent tears, the very fluid of her life slicking over his hands.
Time became irrelevant. Seconds leaked into hours. He was lost in it. Lost in the passion of creating, the release, the bleeding.
The bleeding.
The bleeding.
It was flowing too fast. He held the gauze to the deepest slash, but no matter how much pressure he applied, blood gushed between his fingers, pooling under his hand, drenching his arm, the bright ruby rivers quickly darkening, tangling, growing thicker.
Organs spilled. Ropes of viscera. Heavy, wet things. The pungent scent of bowels. And blood. God, the blood oozed from everywhere and nowhere, staining everything it touched.
How did he get here? Did he kill someone?
Silence crashed in, thumping hollowly in his ears as he watched Semira die again and again, the pity in her eyes vivid and alive, making him pay.
His pulse went berserk, the agony hitting in waves and turning the blood to acid. All he could do was rock in place, the occasional whimper ricocheting off the walls.
“Tiago!” A faraway voice pleaded with him. “Look at me!”
Everything sharpened, narrowed to a pinpoint of purpose.
Kill.
A flash of glinting steel.
Destroy.
Deadly shades of red.
Slaughter.
“Tiago, dammit! Stay with me!” That voice again. That heavenly voice.
He jerked his head up and looked into the eye of his storm. She stared back, gaze glowing, expression soft, his perfect calm and clarity.
“What happened?” She tilted her head.
“Nothing.”
“That wasn’t nothing. You look like you’re seconds from blowing a gasket, and I don’t want to be under that blade when it happens.”
He glanced down at his hand, at the razor on his finger. Blood didn’t flow. Organs didn’t tumble.
What he saw was her pale, toned leg across his lap, her skin etched with the birth of a painting, a carved outline, and the budding blooms of something beautiful.
The sight of his design heated his soul to burning.
“Untie me.” She kicked him in the hip with her free leg, her voice gentle. “Let me touch you. The contact might help.”
Pain would’ve been deep within her thigh now, stinging and smoldering, as if the bone had caught fire. She couldn’t veil the agony on her face, her lips stretched taut, and her forehead beading with perspiration.
But it was the concern in her eyes that moved him up her body. This woman, whom he’d hurt so ruthlessly, had the capacity in her heart to help him.
It made no sense, but he didn’t question it. Instead, he untied the knots on her wrists.
She tossed the rope and tank top from her arms and grimaced at her leg.
“I’m not finished.” He shifted back into position, resting her thigh across his lap.
“I know.” She lay back and gripped the arm he held across her midsection. “I’m not surrendering.”
“I know.”
She turned her gaze to the ceiling, and he returned to the design, cutting a braided pattern across her thigh.
“You had a flashback, didn’t you?” Her body quivered beneath the blade, her teeth sawing the hell out of her bottom lip.
“Yeah.” He reached up and tugged on her chin. “Stop that.”
“Does it happen often? The flashbacks?”
“Never.” He nudged her to her side and continued the lacerated braid to the back of her leg.
“Maybe this is helping?” She whimpered as he carved along a tender spot.
“Helping with what?”
“Your terrible personality.”
He glared at her through his lashes without lifting his head.
“Yeah, you’re right.” She glared back. “Your personality can’t be fixed. But maybe reliving your past is better than bottling it up. It should be cathartic.”
“This, us, you are cathartic.”
She fell silent after that but never removed her touch.
An hour passed before another flashback sneaked in.
She sensed it before he did, and her hand sank into his hair, fisting, pulling, until his gaze latched onto hers. “Stay with me.”
And so he did. He focused on the warmth of her fingers against his skin, on the way they trembled and flexed with her pain. He marked the rapid pace of her breaths and paused often to let her calm down, kissing her body during each break, his lips on her knee, her chest, and everywhere in between before starting again.
Blotting each drip of blood, he felt that flow of life roll through his veins like lava. Soon, he fell into a rhythm, a sensual slide of his hand, the scalpel seamlessly slicing her gorgeous flesh.
Dark, depraved pleasure circulated through his system. Indecent and drugging, sensations swarmed his nerve endings and heated his skin. Christ, he’d needed this.
He flipped her to her stomach to finish the back of her thigh. Numbing balm went into the incisions as he went along, and he forced water to keep her hydrated.
Dinner had long passed by the time he sat back and wiped off the blade. She’d stopped watching a while ago but not once had she withdrawn her touch.
He marked the heavy sag of her eyelids and the slackness of her mouth. “Where are you, Kate?”
“Floating on hatred.”
More like floating on endorphins, high on spikes of pain and stress, exhausted from hours of shivering, and probably lightheaded from the burn out of an adrenaline rush.
She looked ready to pass out, and he was hard as a rock. Cutting her had aroused him to the point of distraction. But this was Kate. Every time he touched her, his cock lengthened.
“Finished?” She inched her gaze to his.
“Yes.” He set aside the supplies. “Ready to see it?”
“It’s beautiful.” She closed her eyes.
“Bullshit.” He gripped her under the arms and lifted her to a sitting position. “I know you made up your mind about it, but you’re going to give me your honest opinion.”
“Fine.” She blew out a resigned sigh and looked down.
As her gaze flicked over the design, her sexy bowed lips separated. She leaned forward and twisted to see around the sides and underneath.
Her bright, glossy eyes and appreciative noises shifted things inside his chest.
“My God. It’s… I have no words.” She hovered a hand over the design, as if itching to touch it. “Why did you choose this? What does it mean?”
“The image will be clearer as it heals. It’s a rope, coiling around your thigh.”
“With a flower trapped under it?”
“Not trapped. It grows out from beneath it, blooming despite the confinement.” He ran a hand along her calf, cupping it to drag her closer. “There are twenty-two petals on the flower, each representing a year of your life.”
“Why?” She blinked, and a tear skipped down her cheek.
“You’re the miracle that grows in the smallest crack of sunlight. The bloom that never gives up.”
“Tiago.” A teary hiccup teetered to her lips, and she smothered it with the back of her hand.
“There’s something that thrives within all living things, a force that drives us to want to live more than anything else. You’re the essence of that. The purest example of resilience. No matter what direction you need to grow—out of the darkness of an attic or from beneath the constriction of braided rope—you do it fiercely, tenaciously, and without fail.” He clutched the back of her neck and brought her face to his. “There’s nothing more vibrant, more beautiful, o
r more treasured than the flower that blooms in hell.”
“That’s… I don’t…” Her voice creaked, and she feathered fingertips around the perimeter of cuts on her thigh. “How long will it take to heal?”
“Two months. It’ll fade to pink. With time, it’ll be completely white and blend in with your pale complexion. But unlike a tattoo, it has a tactile element.”
“It’ll be raised like yours.” She tickled a hand over the welts on his arm, but didn’t look down at his scars. Those huge, glistening eyes fixed on his. “I like the way they feel.”
Compelled by a force he’d only ever felt with her, he ducked his head and kissed her, running his tongue along the seam of her lips the way he’d imagined for hours.
Soft and wet, her mouth opened for him, salty with her tears, warm with the gust of her breaths.
He plundered her with urgency, devoured her with hunger. Hauling her onto his lap, he took her mouth with feverish strokes, his body moving of its own volition, grinding against her, mindless with desire.
The need between them swelled, and he didn’t hold back. They were an explosion of motion—hands gripping, tongues battling, breaths heaving, hearts pounding. All of it burst into a consuming, soulful integration of her and him.
Her mouth dove to meet his in a kiss that was so unexpected he groaned and shook to his core.
She was unexpected, yet it felt as if his entire life had been building to this. Every tragedy, every crime had brought him here, to this woman, who kissed him with all the hatred and goodness inside her.
Her fingers lifted to his hair as his hands lowered to her chest, cupping and caressing her nude flesh. She rocked on his lap, and he gripped her firm ass, jerking her body harder, faster, until he felt wetness bleed through his gym shorts.
“Kate.” He grunted against her greedy lips. “Kate, wait.”
She pulled back, dazed.
“Your leg. Hang on.” He swept her onto her back and fumbled for the package of gauze. “Don’t move.”
He re-cleaned the incisions and dressed her thigh in soft bandages. She watched his movements with labored breaths, her cheeks flushed, and eyelids at half-mast.
Then her brows pulled together, the depths of her gaze flickering with an inner war.