Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
“No. Just nauseous.” She remained as immobile as possible beside the chair, refusing to give him any reason to send her away.
“Coughing blood?” Rolling up his sleeves, he approached her slowly, like a lazy lion with all the power and strength in the world.
“No blood since last time.” Her attention fixated on the syringe cradled in his fingers. Please hurry.
He took his time walking toward her, knowing full well he held her life in his hands.
When he finally lowered in the chair and patted his thigh, she didn’t hesitate to sit on his lap and recline back against his hard chest.
Her leg moved on its own, hooking over the armrest and bringing her thigh within his reach. A tremble shook through her and her hands flexed, joints cracking and tendons straining—the anticipation all-consuming.
He cleaned the injection area with the supplies on the side table and plunged the needle into the middle of her thigh. It was just a prick, nothing compared to the aches that endlessly tormented her.
“Shhh.” He caressed her quivering abs, tracing the serrated scar from her breastbone to her hip. “It’ll feel better soon.”
“Thank you.” She relaxed against him and waited for the relief to come.
It would take fifteen, maybe twenty minutes to saturate her system. In the meantime, he would hold her in this position, as he did every morning, and use his hands to fuck with her head.
When he set the syringe aside, he trailed fingertips around her breasts, ribs, hips, and the crotch of her panties.
“You’re beautiful, Lucia.” He found the seam of her pussy and slid his touch along the slit, up and down, keeping that small scrap of satin between his finger and her flesh. “You love to fuck, even though you pretend otherwise.”
For as long as she could remember, she’d been a highly-sexual person. She gave her virginity to a Texan boy when she was fifteen and explored her sexuality with countless guys in high-school.
Then she was abducted, and all her choices were taken from her.
With her back against his chest and his hands roaming her body with distracting affection, it was easy to forget how cruel he was. When they were alone, he coddled her, cared for her, and whispered seductive compliments in her ear. But when they left the privacy of his room, his ruthlessness took center stage.
A numbing sensation trickled through her abdomen, and she inhaled deeply, relishing the initial effects of the injection. “Why do you make me fuck other men?”
His cock swelled against her backside, and he nuzzled his nose in her neck, his breaths growing heavier, faster. “It pleases me.”
So vague. So damn mysterious. She knew nothing of his background or the thoughts that churned his mind. He had no family to speak of. No close friends. No wife or mistress. Yet the artwork that covered his arms meant something. It told a story. His story.
She lifted a hand and stroked the raised welts on his wrist. Scarification, he called it. She assumed he’d cut the images into his skin himself, only because she’d seen him do it to others. It was his preferred method of torture and the most barbaric thing she’d ever witnessed.
Suppressing a shudder, she traced the scarred outlines of animals and landscapes that marred his forearm. “Is this tribal-inspired?”
“You must be feeling better.” Lifting her off his lap, he set her on her feet. “Leave.”
A bout of dizziness made her sway, but the cramps in her stomach had faded to a dull ache.
With the flick of a finger at the door, he propped a foot on his knee and stared at the unused fireplace.
She lingered for a moment, willing him to look at her, to reveal something of himself. A twitch. A word. An emotion. Anything that might clue her in on what he was thinking. If he was angry, she wanted him to lash out, hit her if he had to. Then she would know.
Knowing was better than walking out of his room, wondering if a gun was trained on her back. Because he had no moral code. When he killed, his victims rarely saw him coming.
As she stepped toward the door, the space between her shoulders blades tingled and chilled. She didn’t breathe until she entered the hall, grabbed her guns and clothes, and heard him turn the lock behind her.
CHAPTER 5
Tate leaned against the window of the second-floor apartment Cole had leased, growing more impatient by the second.
Come on, Lucia. Where are you?
The rustling of Cole’s papers sounded behind him, followed by the clink of Van’s tequila against the coffee table.
“Do you miss your wife yet?” Tate stared down at the grungy alley through a pair of high-powered binoculars.
“I missed her the instant I left the driveway,” Van said from the couch.
They’d only been in Caracas for three hours, and in that time, Tate had watched a man drag a woman out of the apartment next door to Lucia’s, punch her in the face, and stroll away. She called the police, and the five uniformed officers who showed up two hours later decided to rob her instead of helping her. They left with their arms loaded with shit, including a TV, a laptop, and her tiny dog. She’d crumpled on the sidewalk as they drove away and was still sitting there, head down, smoking a cigarette.