Take (Deliver 5)

How had Lucia survived eleven years in his ranks? She worked for him, but no one understood why. There were so many pieces Tate hadn’t puzzled out. So many unanswered questions. Hell, he’d traveled to Venezuela uncertain if Lucia would welcome him or shoot him on the spot.

“I don’t know her.” She held Tiago’s intimidating gaze. “I assume you provoked her? The fact that she succeeded in injuring you means you didn’t see it coming.”

He nodded, eyes narrowing, losing focus. “She was a special circumstance. As fierce as they come. She survived in my outfit longer than any of the men, and that kind of resilience was rare. It made her useful. Worth having around.”

Every past tense word struck her like shrapnel, shredding her hope that Lucia was still alive. “How did she catch you off guard?”

“I never trusted her, but we had an agreement.” He absently stroked the medical tape on his temple. “I allowed her to live, as long as she followed my rules.”

Bashing his head would’ve been the opposite of following his rules.

“Where is she?” She struggled beneath him, attempting to unbalance his straddled position. “What did you do to her?”

“I let her go.”

“You…” Wait. What? “You said someone took her from you.”

“That’s not what I said.” He scowled hatefully. “Pay attention, Kate.”

“You’re speaking in riddles.” Her arms pulled at the shoulders, and her hips twinged beneath his weight, compelling her to twist about, seeking distance. “Please, get off me. You’re fucking heavy.”

He pondered her request for a moment before adjusting his legs and lifting some of that bulk off her lower body.

She released a slow breath, contemplating his cryptic words. “You said someone took something from you.”

“Yes. I never had her loyalty, but I possessed something more effective. Her fear.” He tipped his head, his gaze invasive. “You, of all people, understand how every aspect of a person’s life can be controlled through terror.”

No use denying it. Four years ago, her crippling fear gave Van Quiso power over her entire being. Lucia must’ve experienced the same with Tiago. Until she attacked him.

“Someone took her fear from you,” she said.

“That’s right.” He flashed an unnerving grin and traced a finger along the gauze near his eye. “I haven’t seen her handiwork. Boones says it’s healing, but he won’t remove the bandages.”

“Boones?” She shook her head. No one entered this room, except… “The elderly cook?”

“He’s a doctor. A damn good one, despite his motherly approach to my care.” He fingered the medical tape, picked at the corner. “Fuck it.”

He gripped the edge of the bandage and ripped it off. She winced as he forcefully tore at the pieces, pulling out strips of hair in the process without a twitch of pain on his face.

“Be honest.” He gave her his profile and smoothed a hand along a jagged, puffy laceration. “How bad is it?”

She stopped breathing as her gaze locked on the damage.

Jesus. Lucia hadn’t just hit him with a dumbbell. Somehow, she’d managed to hit him twice.

The first gash sat so close to his eye it was a wonder he survived the blow. The orbital bones around his eye socket should’ve shattered under the impact. Maybe they did. A yellowish hue discolored his cheekbone where bruises must’ve lingered for weeks.

The second wound carved a huge crescent-shaped groove along the side of his skull. This one appeared deeper and would’ve required more stitches, the skin around it still raw and scabbed over, taking longer to heal.

That side of his head was shaved to the peak above his temple where hair tended to retreat. But there was no threat of a receding hairline. Thick black strands fell over the non-injured side in finger-raked textures, accentuating his rugged features and whiskered jawline.

He was in desperate need of a haircut, one that evened out the sides. The messy-all-over, renegade style no longer worked for him, because hair would never grow in over the deep gouges that ran diagonally from his temple to the back of his head.

Together, the marks would leave a permanent map of scars the length of her hand and almost as wide. A hit like that was meant to be fatal. No doubt he sustained multiple skull fractures.

Too bad it didn’t mash his brain to pulp.

She returned her gaze to his and found him watching her, waiting for an answer.

How bad is it?

It didn’t diminish his disgusting masculine beauty. If anything, the scars made him even more arresting. But she didn’t give a fuck what he looked like. She wanted him to suffer.

“I can’t really see from this angle.” She bent her neck and squinted. “Can you lean in a little closer?”

As he shifted, she reared her head back and slammed it forward. Aiming for his wounds, she hoped to reopen them with the ram of her skull.

In a blur, he dodged left, fisted the hair at the back of her head, and ruthlessly yanked her flat against the mattress.