Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
“Where was that?”
“The chip was disabled before you left the States.”
Of course. Tate was probably losing his shit over the dead signal. He would track her last known position—likely some shady airport near the border—and assume the worst.
She blew out a breath. The GPS chip had been a safeguard, simply a backup plan if she didn’t succeed.
But she could die here. In the cartel’s citadel. Tate would never find her, would never stop the depraved transactions that happened within these walls.
She was on her own. A one-woman army against a powerful crime syndicate. And it all hinged on the man sitting across from her.
Matias knew she’d preemptively planted herself here, so there was no point in pretending. Since he hadn’t asked her why she did it, he either knew that, too, or he didn’t care. How much should she reveal? Maybe she should just lay it all out there and demand he put an end to the slave trading.
Right. When she’d woken in the living room, he was all This is business and Go human slavery! Had he been putting on a show for his boss, or had twelve years of crime well and truly carved out his heart? She needed to find out what his agenda was, where his loyalties lay, and how easily he could be turned.
“If I hadn’t been there last night, would you have come?” She poured another glass of water and drank half of it. “Or would you have bought the girl who was supposed to be there?”
“I knew you’d be there.”
“How?”
“I know everything.” He grinned.
She seethed. “Does Nico know about our history?”
“I keep nothing from him.” He watched her steadily from across the table.
He could be lying.
But why would he?
“What about the others?” She set the glass aside. “Do you share your personal life with Frizz, Picar, and whoever else lives here?”
“Some of them, yes. Others haven’t earned my confidence.” His fingers laced together, thumbs brushing lazily one over the other.
Faded ink sleeved both forearms, and at first glance, the matching designs appeared to be stars scattered among leaves. She lingered over the art, her gaze tracing the shaded lines of… Not stars. They were five-pointed blossoms on the branches of fruiting lemon trees. The same delicate blossoms he used to pick for her and put in her hair.
Memories uncoiled, tugging at emotions she’d tried so hard to keep contained. Her stomach hardened as beloved images blotted her vision. She’d spent her entire childhood with him, elbows-deep in lemon trees. His arms had once bore the scratches of mischief and labor. Now, they were permanently branded with those treasured moments, their moments, to remind her of everything she’d lost.
“Remember Venomous Lemonous?” His gaze lowered, resting on his tattoos.
“Si.” She’d hated the old, cantankerous lemon farmer.
She couldn’t remember his real name, but he’d worked in the grove most of her life. She and Matias used to sneak under his lemon trees to have…outercourse. Hands down each other’s pants, bodies grinding, breaths heaving, tongues entangled. Just when they’d reach the heat of the moment, old Venomous Lemonous would slither out of the foliage, hollering and swinging his damn stick.
“He used to tell me”—Matias deepened his voice and scrunched up his face—“keep your root in your pants, boy, or it will do to her what spring does with the lemon trees.”
The memory echoed hollowly in her chest. If Matias had knocked her up, would he have come back for her? Would Van have captured her? Would she be here now, grieving her past?
“Venomous Lemonous must’ve put the fear of God in you.” She released a heavy sigh. “Since you did…you know, keep it in your pants.”
Figuratively speaking. He’d never fucked her, but she’d been intimately familiar with every hard inch of him.
“I’m not that boy anymore.” He slid his tongue across his bottom lip.
“And not just because you don’t keep it in your pants.” Roiling heat simmered in her belly.
Hell knew how many women he’d been with, consensual or otherwise. This was the guy that, less than an hour ago, made her choose which girl he would sell into slavery. Who stood by while a woman was burned, stitched in the eyelid, and hauled away. He was felonious, toxic, heartless.
But there was something else about him, something both troubling and captivating.
He reclined in the chair, legs spread wide and hands dangling loosely on the armrests. Dust covered his fatigues, ridges of muscle strained his t-shirt, and what looked like dried blood flecked the skin on his thick neck. No, that wasn’t what was unsettling her.
Was it his expression? The way he regarded her, all moody and contemplative? Maybe it was the darkness that shadowed his face. The jet black hair that was clipped close on the sides and choppy on top, the stubble on his jaw and throat, the fringe of thick, smudgy lashes, and the heavy ridge of eyebrows that made his golden eyes glow with an intensity she felt beneath her rib cage. God, how he stared at her…