With her cheek on Van’s thigh, she silently shook with full-body tremors. Tate gave her intense, meaningful eye-contact that said all the things he couldn’t. I’ll kill for you. Die for you. You’ll be okay. You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met.
Van lowered his head and shared a look with Tate, a miserable moment of commiseration. Then Van acceded with a single nod.
Tate closed his eyes, steeling himself. He felt completely and utterly defeated, his body a broken, worthless mess. He could handle the physical damage. He could survive it. It was the emotional blows that would bring him to his end.
He needed a mind-over-matter pep talk. If he were brave enough, the strength of willpower would help him overcome. He’d survived ten weeks beneath Van’s thrusts. He could endure a few minutes, or hours, however long it took.
Reciprocating, however, was something entirely different.
“I found your limit.” Badell stood and leaned against the wall. “It seems you won’t, in fact, do everything—”
“Yes. The answer is yes,” he whispered. “Send her out of the room.”
Badell straightened, his brow lifting in shock before he emptied his expression. “She’ll witness your undoing. That’s nonnegotiable.”
He stepped to the door, opened it, and spoke quietly in Spanish to whoever waited on the other side.
With a hard swallow, Tate returned his attention to Lucia, focusing on their hands and the dismal inches that separated them. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to see this.”
Her mouth moved, and her chest rose and fell with the effort to speak, but nothing came out. She directed her eyes at her fingers, where they stretched toward his, and returned to his gaze.
“Shh. I know.” His breathing accelerated, and he fought to calm himself down. “I’m here. No matter what happens, I’m with you. Only you.”
The door closed, and Badell prowled toward him with three armed guards in tow. The men went to Van, two aiming rifles while the third unlocked his shackles.
Once free, he pulled his arms in front him, rubbing his wrists.
Please, Van. Don’t do anything stupid.
Van thought about it. Tate saw the calculation in his silver eyes as he glared at the weapons pointed at his head. Then he turned to Lucia and lifted her fully onto his lap.
The guards kept their guns trained as he stood, taking her with him. Badell didn’t stop him as he carried her closer and placed her on the floor, on her back, aligning her body against Tate’s.
Thank you. Tate edged toward her with deliriously painful movements until the only thing separating them was his injured arm.
The press of her skin against the wound ignited unfathomable anguish, but he didn’t care. He held the arm against his stomach and wrapped the other across her torso.
Fuck, how he’d needed to hold her like this. He needed her. More of her. More touching. More talking. More smiles. More time.
Their five days together had been the best days of his life. They’d lived in dearth and turmoil in a windowless room, yet they’d craved nothing but each other. It was confounding the way he connected to her so effortlessly, the way she fit so perfectly in his arms, against his body, and inside his heart.
Five days hadn’t been enough. He wanted to laugh with her, fight with her, make up with her. He wanted a life with her. A lifetime. A forever.
Sweat beaded on her sallow face and drenched her t-shirt and jeans. Van had dressed her in those clothes while Tate had been on the phone with Cole. It felt like an eternity ago.
For the past five days, he thought he had this rescue mission under control. He’d sent off the blood samples and just needed a couple more days to receive the results. But it was too late for that.
He should’ve called Matias the moment he made contact with Lucia. Her illness, though… It was an endless, looming threat. Not even Matias had the means to cure her in time. Without the medicine, her fate was dire.
After she was raped, however, all bets were off. Tate had contacted Matias sometime before midnight. If dawn was an hour away, he’d been in this room for seven hours.
And so had she.
He called forth the energy to hug her tighter, savoring the flow of her breaths, the sweet scent of her hair, and the pulse in her throat as he kissed her neck. He ached to see her healthy and smiling and free. It would be the greatest gift, the ultimate definition of happiness.
“I love you,” he whispered.
Her eyes squeezed shut, and her face crumpled with a weak nod.
Badell moved to the far side of the room and perched on the stool. His shoes left deep footprints in the thick puddles of blood.
My blood.
It ran from his body to the wall. There was so much of it on the floor, the wood board, and his jeans, he didn’t understand how he was still breathing. He wasn’t just physically spent. His emotions had run the gamut for hours, churning from intense trauma and helplessness to scathing wrath and hatred. The latter simmered anew as he met his tormentor’s soulless eyes.
“You’ll give her the medicine and let her and Van leave Caracas alive and unharmed.” He lifted his chin with might and rage, eyes hard and breaths seething with vehemence.
“You have my word.” Badell curled a hand beneath his chin, watching him, as if studying a curious object.
He looked away, vanishing the demon from his sight and his mind. As far as Tate was concerned, Badell and his guards were no longer in the room.
That left Van, who circled his feet and lowered to the floor behind him. “Stay where you are.”
It wasn’t like he could go anywhere. The constant state of his throbbing, bleeding torment would prevent him from getting his legs beneath him.
“I don’t want to do this,” Van said in a dead tone.
“I know.”
“It’s karma. I’ve carried this debt for so long. For the crimes I committed against you.” Van leaned in, whispering at his ear. “When this is over, you and I are even. No more bad blood between us.”
Tate nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere, wholly occupied by what was about to happen.
“Give me permission.” Van rested a hand on the button of Tate’s jeans.
There had been a time when Van got off on taking without consent. And while every fiber in Tate’s body screamed in horror, there was only one answer. “You have it.”
“I’ll only touch you where I need to.” A crack in Van’s monotone voice.
The hand on Tate’s zipper moved efficiently, opening the jeans and pulling them down with the briefs to gather at mid-thigh. Then he lifted Tate’s leg as far as the denim would allow and rested his thigh across Lucia’s.
“Too heavy.” Tate groaned through horrendous tremors.
“Stay.” Lucia’s whisper was barely audible as she curled a weak hand around his leg.
He wouldn’t deny her the closeness, but once this began, there would be no eye contact. If he survived the night, he didn’t know how she would be able to look at him the same. He couldn’t bear to see that shift in her gaze now.
Van leaned away, leaving Tate’s body wrapped around the side of hers. His cock and balls lay exposed and lifeless against her denim-clad thigh, his legs slightly spread, and his backside bare and vulnerable.
With his bleeding arm trapped between them, the pain was a sharp, constant presence. But it was nothing compared to the unholy dread amassing inside him.
Van’s zipper sounded at his back, followed by the slapping of a fist against flesh. Van was stroking himself to get hard, and there was a measure of comfort in that, knowing his friend wasn’t aroused.
“Tate.” Her lips trembled through words that found no voice.
He tried to read her mouth.
Me… Look at me…