Take (Deliver 5)

Dressed in the jeans she’d ransacked, he prowled toward her, holding a bundle of rope. His hair was dry. Not a drop of moisture on his shirtless chest. Yet the sound of water still ran through the pipes.

The fake shower, the discarded jeans… It had been a test. One she failed.

“I’m sorry.” She whirled to face him and inched back. “I was scared and—”

The cold, sharp edge of steel caught her beneath the chin, driving her head upward. With a gasp, she dropped the keyring, grabbed Arturo’s arm, and teetered back against his chest.

“If you speak or move a muscle without permission, Arturo will slice you open from ear to ear.” Tiago tossed the rope at her feet. “Drop your arms.”

Tears burned the backs of her eyes and scorched down her throat as she obeyed.

He gripped the front of her shirt with both hands, ripped it down the front, off her shoulders, and flung it aside. When his fingers bumped her bare chest, she bit down on her lip and tasted blood.

She trembled to scream, beg, bargain, to do anything to remove that heartless, frightening look on his face. But it was too late for that. She’d fucked up and wrecked their imaginary peacetime.

Crouching before her, he removed his belongings from her pockets. Then he yanked down her jeans and panties, stripping the last of the clothing from her body.

A feverish chill swept through her, simmering into convulsions that wobbled her knees and dotted her vision.

He didn’t grope her or stare at her nudity, didn’t so much as look at her.

“Take her downstairs.” He picked up the rope and tossed it to Arturo. “Tie her to the table.”Four limbs tied to four table legs, Kate lay face up and stretched open, her nude body arranged like an X-shaped centerpiece for the sick and depraved. She shook so viciously the table rattled beneath her. Because she knew what was coming.

He lets his guards rape his prisoners.

He likes to watch.

When Arturo had dragged her into the kitchen, Boones took one look at her and disappeared into the bedroom down the hall. Tiago hadn’t come downstairs yet, but there were two others in the kitchen, staring, anticipating.

Iliana perched on the chair to her right with a hand gently massaging Kate’s wrist near the rope. If the touch meant to calm her, it was a wasted effort.

Sitting at her left, Arturo braced his elbows on the table and held the tip of his knife against her neck. Dishes cluttered the tabletop around her, emitting aromas of fried meats and stomach-turning spices. She was going to throw up.

Her mouth flooded with saliva, and she swallowed, battling the fear that attacked her so cruelly. She hadn’t spoken, hadn’t moved without permission, acknowledging the verity of Tiago’s threat in the blade at her throat.

Arturo and Iliana didn’t speak, either. The entire room held its breath, waiting for el jefe.

Too soon, the tread of boots sounded on the stairs, triggering a fresh surge of shivering panic. He strolled into the kitchen, showered, and decked out in black dress pants and a white collared shirt, unbuttoned at the throat.

Trenches rutted his wet black hair from his fingers pushing through it, his jaw cleanly shaved and hard as stone.

Approaching the table, he paused at her feet. A short conversation with Arturo followed in Spanish. Then he looked down and helped himself to an eyeful of her spread thighs and everything intimate and vulnerable in between.

Liquid fire filled her eyes, blurring her vision and spilling from the corners. She glued her gaze to the ceiling, pinned her lips together, and bit back the sounds of her grief.

Since the night she’d been taken from the diner, she knew it would come to this. The past forty-six days had only dragged it out, delayed the inevitable. Crying about it wouldn’t change a damn thing.

That was exactly why she’d jumped on the opportunity to steal his weapon and escape. She wouldn’t regret the boldness of her actions. She only wished she could dredge up some of that bravery now and face her punishment.

The soles of his boots scraped the stone flooring as he stepped closer and leaned in. Bent over her, he braced his hands on either side of her hips. The heat of his gaze ghosted across her pebbled flesh, his presence a smothering, inescapable force.

Now would’ve been the time to beg, but a mere swallow jogged her throat against Arturo’s blade. Her heart thundered, every thrashing beat a plea to survive.

She didn’t want to look into the eyes of the crime boss, but she needed to know. If there was any trace of the man who counted eyelashes and snuggled during naps, maybe she could connect with him, make him remember she was a person.

With agonizing effort, she inched her gaze to the buttons on his shirt, up to the bronzed skin of his throat, and higher to his sculpted lips, straight nose, and the coldest, darkest eyes she’d ever seen.