Take (Deliver 5)

“The size of my hand.” He splayed his fingers over her thigh, magnifying her shivering. “It’ll wrap all the way around your leg.”

This twenty-two-year-old, petite wisp of a woman, whose hair tangled wildly around her bare chest and bound arms, didn’t flinch.

Life hadn’t been kind to her. She was abandoned by her parents, betrayed by her brothers, tortured by Van Quiso, and now this. Life should’ve broken her, but instead of shattering, she became her own hero. She didn’t even realize she’d saved herself. And in doing so, she saved him.

He cleaned the blade with Boones’ antiseptic and rubbed the homemade compound into the skin on her thigh, something he never bothered to do with anyone, including himself.

And because he couldn’t control the impulse, he leaned down and kissed her pussy, dragging his tongue through her velvety flesh and taking generous sips of her intoxicating essence.

Her hands fisted around the rope, her eyes never leaving his as he worshiped her body.

He needed her in ways he didn’t understand. She satisfied every sexual craving, but this wasn’t just lust. He needed her strength, her defiance, every nuance of her ferocious spirit.

If there was ever a woman mighty enough to break her restraints and stand as his equal, she was it.

She was the one.

With the preparations finished, he fitted the sharp blade onto his finger. The custom-made scalpel extended like a claw, enabling him to cut detailed swirls and precise lines.

Kneeling in the spread of her legs, he lowered the blade to her thigh.

His nerves fired and exploded with excitement. He wanted this too deeply, too vehemently. He could see the finished image in his mind, imagined her wearing his scars for the rest of her life. He was overcome.

“It’s beautiful.” Her shaky voice drew his gaze to hers.

“I haven’t started yet.”

“Doesn’t matter. I have a choice. I can spend the rest of my life loathing the scars every time I remove my clothes. Or I can decide right now they’re as beautiful as the ones that cover you and Boones.” Her eyes flashed. “I already made up my mind about it. Every time I look at the scars, I’ll remember that a crime lord gave up kidnapping in exchange for art.”

Fuck him, she was remarkable. Rare. Perfect.

Mine.

“Hold still.” He steadied his hand and spread her skin taut beneath the scalpel. Then he drew the first cut on her upper thigh.

Her bleak blue gaze creased with pain, but she didn’t look away. Didn’t twitch or scream. She watched him with the eyes of a tortured goddess. Proud. Fierce. Distressed, but not defeated.

Gathering the gauze he’d set aside, he went to work, focused on the design, and dabbed at the trickles of blood.

He dragged the blade the way a tattoo artist dragged a needle—hunched over, breaths calm, eyes glued to the art, every mark deliberate and meticulous.

Cutting Kate was different than cutting anyone before her. He felt the vibrations of her labored breaths, the wetness of her silent tears, the very fluid of her life slicking over his hands.

Time became irrelevant. Seconds leaked into hours. He was lost in it. Lost in the passion of creating, the release, the bleeding.

The bleeding.

The bleeding.

It was flowing too fast. He held the gauze to the deepest slash, but no matter how much pressure he applied, blood gushed between his fingers, pooling under his hand, drenching his arm, the bright ruby rivers quickly darkening, tangling, growing thicker.

Organs spilled. Ropes of viscera. Heavy, wet things. The pungent scent of bowels. And blood. God, the blood oozed from everywhere and nowhere, staining everything it touched.

How did he get here? Did he kill someone?

Silence crashed in, thumping hollowly in his ears as he watched Semira die again and again, the pity in her eyes vivid and alive, making him pay.

His pulse went berserk, the agony hitting in waves and turning the blood to acid. All he could do was rock in place, the occasional whimper ricocheting off the walls.

“Tiago!” A faraway voice pleaded with him. “Look at me!”

Everything sharpened, narrowed to a pinpoint of purpose.

Kill.

A flash of glinting steel.

Destroy.

Deadly shades of red.

Slaughter.

“Tiago, dammit! Stay with me!” That voice again. That heavenly voice.

He jerked his head up and looked into the eye of his storm. She stared back, gaze glowing, expression soft, his perfect calm and clarity.

“What happened?” She tilted her head.

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing. You look like you’re seconds from blowing a gasket, and I don’t want to be under that blade when it happens.”

He glanced down at his hand, at the razor on his finger. Blood didn’t flow. Organs didn’t tumble.

What he saw was her pale, toned leg across his lap, her skin etched with the birth of a painting, a carved outline, and the budding blooms of something beautiful.

The sight of his design heated his soul to burning.

“Untie me.” She kicked him in the hip with her free leg, her voice gentle. “Let me touch you. The contact might help.”