Wicked as Sin (Wicked & Devoted 1)

But as the sun rose, Dr. Gale emerged from the operating room, looking both exhausted and triumphant, to tell the exhausted trio that her father had come through the surgery successfully. He was in recovery, had already regained consciousness, and was asking to see her.

Brea held back sobs as she thanked God for the miracle. Daddy would always have to watch his diet and weight, not to mention his cholesterol, but she was so grateful to Him for hearing her prayers and sparing her father.

But inside, she was quietly frantic with unrelenting worry—and shamefully ready to beg Him for one more favor. So as she was escorted back to her father’s bedside, she closed her eyes and asked the Lord above for one more good deed.

Please, God, bring Pierce back to me whole and alive…

Thursday, September 11

Guerrero, Mexico—middle of nowhere

One-Mile had no idea what day it was or how long he’d been out. He pried open one swollen eye. He saw only bare concrete walls—thick and uninterrupted—without a window in sight. No surprise that he was alone.

He’d figured out a while back that he was being held underground. He knew that because the few times he’d been dragged outside, it had still been hot as hell, but the air on his skin now was almost chilly. Despite that, a wringing sweat covered his body. He trembled. His stomach cramped. His head felt as if it might explode.

Fuck, he needed to make some decisions.

He eyed the door. Sure, he should probably check it. But why? The damn thing had been bolted up tight each of the other four thousand five hundred ninety-two times he’d searched for some way to escape. No sense wasting more energy he might need to simply stay alive.

How much longer before someone came back and stuck a needle in his arm? He both craved and dreaded it. At least afterward he wouldn’t feel the stabbing pain in his jaw or the throbbing of his knee. He wouldn’t care that his back was in ribbons or that he could barely feel his fingers. No, once whatever shit they pumped his veins full of hit his system, he would fade off for…who knew how long? He’d awaken at some point, hungry, dehydrated, sweating, and wondering what fucking day it was.

Then someone would come in with a meal and a needle…and the cycle would start all over.

Unless they decided to “interrogate” him again. That was always a fab time. But no one had raised a whip or crowbar to him in a few highs. Unfortunately, that wasn’t good news. If Emilo Montilla and his gang of assholes had given up on him divulging any useful information about Valeria’s whereabouts, that made him expendable. Then they wouldn’t bother beating him again. They’d just give him a double tap to the brain and toss his body into a shallow grave. He’d be buried somewhere in the goddamn desert on foreign soil. No one would ever know what the fuck had happened to him.

Would anyone even care?

Brea Bell—maybe. She alone might mourn.

Not that she loved him. He’d kissed her, even though she belonged to a teammate, because he couldn’t stand not knowing the flavor of her mouth. He’d touched her because he hadn’t possessed the self-control to leave her innocent. He’d worked his cock inside her again and again because he hadn’t been able to tolerate an inch of space between them. Because he wanted her to be his.

Because he was pretty fucking sure he’d stupidly fallen in love with her.

Brea was gentle, kind. She would mourn him, if for no other reason than she believed in God, cherished the sanctity of life, and had the purest soul he’d ever had the privilege of knowing.

Of all his regrets—and he had plenty—he hated that he hadn’t called her before he’d left on this mission and admitted exactly how he felt.

Now it was too late.

For a minute, he was tempted to pray to her God, but he didn’t. He didn’t really deserve God’s mercy. Brea didn’t know about his past, but God did…and that was probably why he’d end up dying in the middle of nowhere before they threw a little dirt on him and left him to become coyote shit.

On that cheerful note, he slumped back on the cot and closed his eyes, shivering against the chills and withdrawals. His sandpaper tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He swore he felt his ribs against his spine. And fuck, he needed to pee.

The next person who came into this room, he’d kill. Not that it would get him anywhere. Even without a weapon, he’d already offed a handful of them—until they’d started shackling his hands, bashing his kneecaps, and swinging fists at his jaw. They’d slowed him down, sure.

But unless he was dead, they couldn’t stop him.