“Luke—”
“I didn’t fuck her.” He brought their foreheads together, his gaze digging deep. “I didn’t touch her or kiss her or do anything I wouldn’t want another man doing to you.” His voice cracked against her lips. “Believe me. I need you to do that more than anything else. I need you with me. Please.”
It was his plea that penetrated the ice in her chest. His mouth latched onto hers, seizing, heating as if attempting to thaw the blood in her veins.
She resisted for the space of a breath, then surrendered, opening upon a cry, her hands closing around his shoulder and neck.
His deep, sweeping strokes simmered with desire and something much deeper. This wasn’t a kiss to satisfy a physical need. It was emotional. Poignant. Staggering. Sheer madness.
As she took the warm, firm, skillful lick of his tongue between her lips, she replayed everything he’d said. In his arms, pressed against him, she tasted the truth. She felt it. Every conversation, look, and touch they’d shared backed up his claim, driving away all argument and leaving only her belief in him, in his strength and unstinting heart.
This man, his body, his veracity, his gallant devotion to those he loved—he had endured the unthinkable, escaped the same hell she’d been trapped in, only to return so that he could make the world a safer place.
She saw that man the night they met and his agonizing turmoil when he gave a tortured girl a merciful death. He wasn’t a killer of innocents. At his core, he was an avenging hunter.
He hadn’t come for her specifically, but she believed him now. He wouldn’t leave without her. And she wanted it. All of him.
In that defining moment between love and hate, heaven and hell, life and death, she lost her heart, definitively, irrevocably. It was his.
The kiss melted into mingled breaths, the air heavy with unspoken words.
“That man, Van Quiso…” She framed his chiseled face in her hands, absorbing his tragedy. “He raped you for eight weeks? That was your horrifying, unfortunate event?”
“The unfortunate event that led to a fortune.” His expression showed no trace of shame. Only a pure appreciation for life. “Because of Van, I have the deepest friendships, a family who loves me, and a vital purpose. In that, I’m the wealthiest man alive.”
He was the bravest man. Noble. Dauntless. Beautiful inside and out. She’d known it all along and had refused to accept it.
“This purpose…” She ran her fingers through his hair, unable to resist the urge to touch him. “How can I help?”
“I came here to find Vera Gomez and—”
“Vera?” A chill froze her bones, and her heart slammed against her ribs. “You knew that name before you arrived?”
“Yes. Her half-sister is Hector’s daughter. Tula Gomez—”
“What do you know about her?” She staggered backward, pulse racing, emotions leaking, freaking the fuck out. “Where is she?”
“Until a few months ago, she was in prison.” He stayed with her, eying her suspiciously. “She’s safe now. Protected by my team. What’s wrong?”
She clapped her hands over her mouth, strangled by a torrent of rising sobs. Confusion, fear, relief, joy—it all collided in a jumble of face-drenching tears.
“I’m not interested in Vera.” He caught her jaw, searing her with cold, angry eyes. “I only sought her out because her sister—”
“Tula is my sister.” She grabbed his wrist, squeezing ruthlessly. “She’s mine!”
“What did you say?” He shook his head, his face stark white as he stared at her, surveying her features as if seeing her for the first time. “That’s not possible.”
“I’m Vera.” She closed her eyes, choking on the secret. “I’m Vera Gomez.”CHAPTER 21For the first time in nearly three years, Vera felt alive, electrified, and impossibly, wonderfully free. To say her name out loud, to verbally own it… What an empowering goddamn relief.
And petrifying.
She scanned the surrounding grove, her skin crawling with paranoia. The cartel couldn’t have heard her. But if they somehow learned that she’d broken the rules, they would kill her and the only family member she had left.
Except Tula was safe?
“You said your mother is a famous actress.” John…Luke stood unmoving, every muscle flexed to strike, his face an unholy sculpture of retaliation. “Vera’s mother is dead.”
She flinched. “I had to give you something. You wouldn’t leave it alone. So I lied.”
Panic paralyzed her, for even in the dark shade of the trees she saw the enraged glint in his eyes, the cruel set of his unforgiving mouth, the animosity in his stance. He was not happy about her dishonesty.
Without warning, he grabbed her. Imprisoning her neck in a startling grip, he bent it roughly to the side and pushed away the hair behind her ear.
“Stop!” She shoved at him, unable to free herself. “What are you doing?”
“You can’t be Vera.” His thumb pressed against the back of her ear, folding it forward. “She has a tattoo. A small black—”