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)
What could she do? Comfort the girls? Play nurse? Clean up the bodies? Fuck, she wasn’t emotionally fit for any of that. She needed to sit down.
Matias turned her toward the front of the house. “You need air.”
She needed to know he was okay. With a surge of determined concentration, she shifted back to him and crouched to examine his leg. Her fingers slipped over blood in the ripped part of his jeans on his thigh. “How bad?”
“I’m fine.” He pulled her up and nudged her toward the door.
As she crossed the front room, she glimpsed worn wood paneling on the walls, ratty furniture, dishes piled on a counter in a kitchen that was more like an extension of the front room with a stove, sink, and fridge shoved against a wall.
A little pink backpack and a fuzzy stuffed rabbit sat the corner. Her fingernails pierced into her palms.
The woman lay on the floor, eyes blinking rapidly, face streaked with tears, and lips sewn shut. Just like the slaves at the estate.
Camila froze as the last three weeks started to click into place.
“Who is this woman?” She stopped a few feet from Frizz.
His lips rolled behind his own stitches as he looked to Nico, who stood in the front doorway, smoking a cigarette.
“That woman,” Nico said through a puff of smoke, “is the girls’ mother. Ages nine, eleven, and twelve. The same girls she offered to sell to our slave ring.”
His eyes shifted to the hallway. Then he turned away.
The same girls she’d pimped out to those dead men.
Camila’s vision turned red with murderous rage. “Why is she still alive?”
Blood surged to her arms and legs, her hands fisted, and her pulse screamed through her veins. She flung herself toward the woman, claws out, teeth bared, desperate to scratch eye balls, rip out hair, and ram something sharp and lethal down that vile gullet.
Matias caught her around the waist before she reached the despicable waste of life.
“Shh.” He turned her to face him.
“The slaves at the compound…” she choked. “They’re not innocent?” A wave of chills swept through her, followed by a rush of heat as her mind assembled the pieces. “You torture slave traders. Then you sell them.”
“Oh, I kill them, too, like the one in the back room.” He stared into her eyes, his face splattered with blood and the hazel depths of his gaze stark with sadness. “But every woman and man we capture and sell deserves a fate worse than death. Some traffic humans. Others are like her, sell or whore out their own children.”
Her stomach swooped and flipped. The ages of his slaves, his complete lack of sympathy for them, his reason for doing it…
The answer is right in front of you. All you have to do is fucking look.
He’d wanted her to see a man who loved her so much he would never become a slave trader. A man who loved her to the ends of hell and back as he tracked down the worst kind of monsters and stopped them from harming others.
She swayed with dizziness, her eyes burning with the onset of tears. “I need to sit down.”
He moved her outside to the porch, and she instantly glanced at the dark corner, searching for the lamb. It was too shadowy, too quiet, so she stepped in that direction.
“Frizz wouldn’t have left it there.” Matias’ timbre caressed the rawness of her nerves.
“Oh.” She frowned. “Do you think…?”
“He ended its suffering?” He nodded. “And moved it somewhere you wouldn’t see it.”
She stared out into the gloom of their surroundings, probing for the little lamb’s body. Her stomach squeezed painfully. It was silly to care about a dead animal considering what she’d just witnessed. She must’ve been stretched thin on heartache.
“Sit with me.” He held out his hand.
She joined him on the steps, where they sat side by side and gazed at the vastness of the black sky. A moment later, Nico brought out a couple of towels and returned inside.
Welcoming the distraction, she focused on cleaning Matias’ face, wiping the sculptured edges around his strong jaw, stern brow, and the strands of his thick black hair. His gaze never left hers as she used the corners of the cloth to clear away the splatter around his eyes, perfect nose, the creases in his ears, and his dimples when he smiled gently.
Then she used the clean towel to dab at the knife wound in his thigh.
“Picar needs to look at this,” she said with an achy voice, her mind spinning in a million different directions.
“He’s busy.” Matias grimaced when she pressed too hard. “Frizz can stitch it.”
“Frizz!” she shouted over her shoulder. When he appeared on the porch, she lifted the towel. “Need you to sew up a stab wound.”
His eyes glimmered, and he rushed back into the house. When he returned moments later, he carried an armful of bandages and supplies that he’d probably swiped from Picar’s bag.