She sat motionless and silent as he outlined seven years of blackmail, kidnapping, submission training, and rape. He explained how Liv Reed shot him the same night she killed Mr. E, how the slaves escaped over the years, and the roles Camila, Tate, and Matias played in that.
It was agonizing to hear how her sister had been forced to kneel, beg beneath a whip, and suck his dick. But when he confirmed he never raped her, Lucia sagged with relief. Then he spoke about the ten weeks he imprisoned Tate.
“I’m attracted to submissives. Women and men.” Van stood with his back to the window, moving only his lips around an ever-present toothpick. “As you already know, Tate is neither gay nor submissive. I preyed on that. Used it to humiliate him, hurt him, and yes, I fucked him countless times while he fought uselessly in his restraints.”
As Van delivered his monotone confession, Tate smoked one cigarette after another without interjecting a word. She peeked at him, expecting to see fury in his eyes. There were remnants of that in the blue depths, but there were so many other emotions twisting and turning at the forefront. Unease, turmoil, distrust… But she might’ve glimpsed forgiveness there, too.
He’d had six years to come to terms with what Van had done to him. There must’ve been some level of resolution, because here they were, together. During Van’s account of the events, he admitted he wanted to help Tate and Camila any way he could. Even so, the unfinished tension between him and Tate electrocuted the air.
Another thing she noticed… If Van was bisexual, why didn’t he look at Tate with sexual interest? Tate was so damn eye-catching even a straight man would give him a second glance.
Though now that she thought about it, Van didn’t look at her with desire, either. Maybe he had a partner or spouse he was faithful to? If so, he didn’t mention it. Not that she blamed him, given her connection to Tiago.
At some point during the conversation, nausea and muscle aches crept in. Her earlier bout of vomiting had given her a momentary reprieve, but it didn’t always keep the symptoms at bay.
Come what may, she hid the pain and turned to Tate. “If my sister helped rescue all the slaves, does that mean she saved you, too?”
“Yes.” His eyes caught fire. “She’s fucking fierce, Lucia. Brave and beautiful and determined. You would be so proud of her.”
As he outlined the four years that followed Mr. E’s death, his expression grew brighter and more alert. His entire existence seemed to be centered on Camila and her vigilante group, the Freedom Fighters. He’d lived with her, protected her, and even helped Matias reunite with her.
With restless strides, he paced through the room, expounding on Camila’s fight against slavery and the sacrifices she made. After all these years, she and Lucia were still considered missing persons. But Camila had the impenetrable shield of a cartel in front of her, keeping her safe from enemies and invisible to the law.
That explained why Tiago never found her.
And holy shit, Matias was the capo of the Restrepo cartel? He was such a good-looking man in his teens. And one-hundred-percent, head-over-heels in love with Camila. Add to that his powerful position and Lucia couldn’t be happier they were together.
Then Tate told her about her own abduction—how and why Matias’ brother orchestrated it, her parents’ involvement, and their ultimate death at Matias’ hand.
She waited for the tears to come, but she’d cried enough for them when she was taken. They’d sold both of their daughters into slavery. She would mourn them no more.
“You okay?” Tate asked.
“Yeah. How did you find me?”
He detailed the efforts Matias had made to track her to the crash in Peru, the investigators he himself had hired, and finally Cole Hartman, the man who located her here.
When all the hard questions were answered, she asked him easy things—Is Camila happy? Healthy? Still as ornery as ever?—and he was all too eager to answer. The adoration he felt for Camila was as clear as his crystal blue eyes. He spoke of her as if he were eternally bound to her and wouldn’t want it any other way. They shared a connection that had nothing to do with Lucia. He was here, doing what he thought was right, not for Lucia, but for Camila.
Realization gut-punched her. “You love her.”
“I do.”
It stung. Like a thousand angry bees stung. Even though she’d only just met him and her jealousy didn’t make a lick of sense, she felt what she felt and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.
Still, she couldn’t stop herself from pointing out, “She loves Matias. Always has.” She gentled her voice. “That’s not going to change, Tate.”
“I know.” His tone matched hers despite the flare of persistence in his eyes.
Her stomach chose that moment to cramp painfully, but she didn’t let the illness reveal itself, didn’t show a hint of discomfort on her face. “Do you intend to win her heart with news of my survival?”
“No. And let’s talk about that—your survival. I know Tiago’s men pulled you from the crash and brought you here. You’re not locked up, and you’ve already demonstrated your ability to evade his guards. Why are you still in this godforsaken place?”
Her defenses bristled. “Venezuela is a beautiful country. The landscapes alone… Have you even seen the forests and the mountains and the beaches? What about the birds? There’s like fourteen-hundred bird species here. Oh, and the dolphins. Have you seen the Amazon river dolphins?”
She hadn’t seen any of those things, but often when she sat alone in her apartment at night, she imagined what it would be like to leave the slum and become an explorer. Or maybe go to a university and become one of those scientists who discovered new plants that cured diseases.
“You’re not here for the damn dolphins.” He prowled toward her and leaned down, bracing his hands on the couch bed and caging her in. “You’re going to leave with us. I’ll take you straight to Camila and—”
“No.” Panic rose, and she pushed at his chest, unable to move him. “I can’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
“If Camila thinks I’m dead…” Anguish swelled against the backs of her eyes, magnified by a blooming migraine. “It needs to stay that way.”
“That’s not gonna happen.” He straightened, scanning the room until his gaze landed on a burner phone. “I’ll call her right now so you can tell her yourself.”
“Listen to me, goddammit.” She leapt from the couch and grabbed his arm, digging her nails into muscle. “She already mourned my death once. Please, if you love her, you won’t put her through that again.”
“What are you saying?” His voice took on a lethal bite, making her shiver.
“You can’t tell her I’m alive.” She strode toward her weapons on the kitchen table.
With a disbelieving laugh, he stayed on her heels, breathing down her neck. “You need to give me a lot more than that, sweetheart.”
“I’m living on borrowed time.” She reached for her guns.
He knocked her hand away, and in the next breath, he had her pinned against the wall with a fist wrapped around her windpipe.
“You answer to me now. You’re under my protection.” He put his face in hers, his lips so close she smelled toothpaste on his breath. “You will leave with us—gagged, blindfolded, shackled, whatever it takes.” He glanced at Van. “You good with that?”
“Sure.” Van reclined on the couch bed, with an arm bent behind his head.
“What’s it going to be, Lucia? The easy way? Or…” He tightened his fingers against her throat, cutting her airflow. “The hard way?”
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t pry his grip away. The urgent need for oxygen grew stronger and more desperate, but did it really matter? She was alone in the darkness save for the strong grip around her throat. She couldn’t think of a better way to die than fading beneath his beautifully ferocious eyes. But those eyes were traps, the possessive gleam in them compelling her mouth to soundlessly form two words sh
e’d held back.
“What?” He yanked his hand away, freeing her. “Say that again.”
“I’m dying.” She wheezed, clutching her throat as her attention snagged on the paling sky beyond the window. “Shit, I have to go.”