Jefe touched the blade to her skin again, this time on her wrist. The rope?
“P-please.” She sniffled then heaved a couple of shuddering breaths for good measure. “I can’t feel my hands.”
“Can you be a good girl?” Jefe trailed a finger down her spine.
“Y-yes. Please untie me.”
With his hand holding her head down, he cut the rope. The instant it fell away, she snapped her free arm forward and shook out her hand. Ah, fuck, it was so numb. But as the sharp biting sensations rushed in with the blood, it really fucking hurt. The shaking didn’t help, and her fingers refused to bend or move.
Her other hand, still attached to the boar, was pulled onto his lap. Jefe released her head, and she straightened, quickly shoving down the hem of the shirt and scanning her surroundings.
Instead of a mask, the driver wore a baseball cap that sat low on his brow. Brown hair? Caucasian? She couldn’t tell.
A three-lane highway stretched out ahead, surrounded by black smudges of farmland. No road signs in sight. If they weren’t heading back to the city, where the fuck were they going?
The boar’s strong fingers massaged her shackled hand, and the cuff on his wrist scraped against hers. The tingling receded, and warmth rushed in. She stifled a sigh and glanced at the hand she was shackled to.
A tattoo peeked out from the cuff of his sleeve. It was too dark to make out the design, but the ink looked faded and old.
Keeping her head lowered, she took in the casual recline of his posture. His legs spread wide, invading her space. He wasn’t oversized or boar-ish. Nor was he average.
His muscled thigh felt like stone beneath her wrist. The coarse material of his fatigues cupped an impressive groin, and the waistband rode low on his narrow hips. His shirt had inched up his navel, revealing a dark dusting of hair and deep indentions of abs.
The bastard was honed like a damn blade. Hopefully, his brain wasn’t as sharp.
She lifted her eyes, following the bulge of a bicep, the stretch of cotton over ridges of pecs, and…a ski mask. Mierda.
Despite the absence of light, the eyes staring back weren’t black. Pale hints of color streaked into inky rings. Gold? Blue? Green?
He watched her without blinking, his intensity edged with thick lashes. Something flickered in the depths. An emotion. She was sure of it. Did he want to fuck her? Kill her? No, it was more complex than that. Whatever it was made her heart pump and her mind scream, Look away.
But she couldn’t. Jefe might’ve been in charge of this team, but this man… He was up to something, and it lodged a boulder in her stomach.
The SUV stopped moving, breaking her trance. Beyond the windshield, the paved road ended at a field, and in the distance sat a small plane. The second Range Rover pulled up beside them and shut off the engine.
Guess I’ll be leaving Austin.
Didn’t matter. The GPS chip worked globally.
When the driver climbed out, the overhead lights remained off. Probably disconnected.
“Stay here.” Jefe joined the driver outside, leaving her alone with the man who disturbed her the most.
“Do you talk?” She turned, intending to give him an impatient glare, then slammed her eyes shut.
You’re scared and weak, remember?
She curled her shoulders forward, balled her hand on his lap, and stuttered, “What are…you going to do…to me?”
“Good question.”
That voice… The blood drained from her face. No, no, no.
“What did you say?” She met hazel eyes and knew she was seeing things. It’s too dark.
“What have you gotten yourself into, mi vida?”
The vibration of his voice was a strong hand massaging between her legs, so familiar and arousing she couldn’t breathe.
She gripped the arm attached to hers and lifted it, using both hands to yank back the sleeve and expose the underside of his wrist.
Swirls of ink blackened his skin, but her focus narrowed on the pockmarked scar of a dog bite. No, this man was probably riddled with knife wounds. Did she even have the right arm?
“How did you get this scar?” She searched his gaze, and it told her nothing. And everything.
Dropping his hand, she went for the ski mask. As she yanked it up his neck, he didn’t stop her. Instead, he gripped her hips and pulled her onto his lap to straddle him.
Her heart galloped frantically in her one-handed effort to bare his face. Shoving and tugging the material higher, she uncovered a chiseled jaw, a dusky shadow of stubble, a wide mouth with full lips…
Her throat closed up, and she jerked her hand away. “You’re not him.”
“I’m not?” His fingers dug into her waist.
With the mask gathered across his nose, she could almost convince herself he didn’t look like an older, more distinguished version of Matias.
“He wouldn’t be here.” A sharp pain twisted in her chest. “He would never support sexual slavery.”
A sinister grin curved his lips. Not a Matias smile. Except there, hiding in the corners…
She lifted her hand to trace the dimples. The same dimples she’d stared at every day for sixteen years. The same dimples that had flashed whenever he put a spider in her hair or peed on her mother’s roses and always when he came in the stroke of her hand. They were the same dimples that had bored into her memories for the past twelve years.
Her heart slammed against her ribs as she yanked off the mask.
Thick strands of black hair fell across a smooth tawny forehead. Dark brows pulled into a V over eyes that would glow citrine in the sunlight. If she pressed her mouth against those firm lips, which memory would he taste like? The first bite of a juicy orange? The full-bodied smoke of a bonfire? A refreshing dip in the spring-fed stream?
He was so sculptured and masculine, all grown up, filled out, and sexier than she could’ve ever imagined.
And he’d come to save her. Whether she needed that or not, he’d actually come for her. Somehow…someway, he’d discovered she would be here and wanted to help her.
She cupped his face, the scratch of whiskers so strange against her palm. “It’s really you, mi vida.”
My life.
She raised her other hand to frame his face, but her arm caught. Shackled. Her vision clouded. No. Oh God, no, he wasn’t her life or her goddamn savior. He enslaved women. Quivering anger spiked through her body. He was…
My captor.
THE FALTER OF CAMILA’S BREATHS, the heave of her full tits, everything about her intoxicated Matias’ senses. She was here, right fucking here, filling his hands with her tight, trembling flesh.
His reaction to her had been instantaneous, darting a possessive jolt down his spine and thickening his cock. But evidently, she needed more time to adjust. After all, he wasn’t here to save her, not in the way she was probably guessing.
Her initial shock at hearing his voice had softened into wonderment, loosening her shoulders and parting her heart-shaped lips. In that moment, she’d seemed lost, completely knocked off her stubborn axle.
Now she glared at him with liquid hatred in her eyes.
Christ, she looked so goddamn fuckable when she was riled. On his lap. Chained to him.
He tightened his fingers around her hips to stop himself from violating every inch of her body. The same discipline he’d exercised the last time he had her alone. Twelve fucking years ago. Not that he had anything in common with that dumbass eighteen-year-old boy.
He’d shed his innocence in exchange for power, every last ounce of chivalry traded for brutal dominance. If he hadn’t, he would’ve been gutted and eaten alive.
And the woman who had smuggled her way into his ruthless world, pretending she was there against her will? She now had the audacity to look deceived.
“Did you expect me to be here?” She shoved at him, stealing peeks at the men outside as her legs kicked to escape the intimacy of their position. “This is…it’s just too coi
ncidental. How did you know?”
“Don’t waste your breath asking questions I’m not going to answer.” He held her against him, chest to chest, with her thighs straddling his hips and her cunt pressing on his erection. Exactly where she belonged.
“Tell me you’re not with them.” Her expression paled in a rictus of angelic horror, her muscles edged with frozen tension as if wrestling to maintain her cover. She had no idea what he and the other men knew about her.
“You should be more concerned about who you are with.” He held up their handcuffed wrists and gave her a taunting smile.
The bright flash of her teeth drew his attention right before she swung her free hand across his cheek. She reared back to slap him again, but he caught her arm and wrenched it behind her.
“You still hit like a girl.” He worked his jaw against the sting.
“Me lo chupa.” She curled her lip and lowered her voice to a harsh whisper. “You bought an enslaved woman. You bought me, Matias! You know what happened to me when I disappeared, what kind of hell I escaped, and still, you do this?” She yanked her arm in the handcuff. “How could you?”
He could ask her the same question. How could she team up with Van Quiso? How could she let that cock-sucking pervert tie her up, toss her in the dirt, and sell her to a cartel? Damn her for being so fucking reckless with her life.