Unshackle (Deliver 7)

“I look forward to it.” He grabbed the key and squatted before the seething girl.

Woman.

Hard to be sure with her face banged up, but her eyes confessed her maturity. Mid-twenties? Possibly older. Jaded beyond her years.

She hadn’t stopped kicking and bucking in the shackles, her anger so intense it foamed from her mouth. He couldn’t fault her for the tantrum, but all that straining couldn’t be good for a concussion.

Marco left without another word. Luke waited for the heavy thud of footsteps to fade in the distance. Then he addressed the woman now in his charge.

“You can fight me.” He caught her swollen jaw in his hand and squeezed, making her eyes burn hotter. “Kick and scream and wear yourself out. It only makes me harder. Hungrier. But if you cause serious harm to my bodyguard or me, or if you run and make us chase you, I will find another girl and hurt her worse than this one.” He tilted his head at the dangling corpse. “I’ll make her beg for death, and there will be no mercy next time. No escape from the agony. And you’ll watch every second of it, knowing you caused it. Nod your head if you understand.”

Her eyes flashed, but her head didn’t move.

The point was to scare her with threats instead of his fists. She didn’t know he would never follow through. Only it wasn’t working. He didn’t detect a trace of fear in the air.

Maybe she didn’t speak English?

No, there was too much comprehension in her expression. Too much stubbornness. She understood him perfectly.

He yanked her up by her long black hair, hauling her body against his, and grazed his teeth across her swollen cheek, the corner of her mouth, and bit her ear. “Nod your goddamn head.”

Her lashes fluttered against his face, and her breath came in rapid gusts. Then she nodded.

He unlocked her restraints.

When she didn’t move to stand, he scooped her up and cradled her to his chest. She weighed nothing but felt as strong as hell. Compact muscle. Sturdy bones. It would require a lot of effort to really hurt her.

He hoped he was right about that, for both their sakes.

“Should I bring the shackles?” Tomas asked.

“No.” His threat would suffice.

As he carried her out, the pull to look back at the dead girl slowed his steps. He wanted nothing more than to bow his head and give her a moment of respect. He needed to tell her he would never forget.

He’d stolen her life, and he didn’t even know her name.

How would he ever redeem himself? Ever forgive himself for what he’d done? Or what he was about to do?

Pushing forward, he felt like he was wading through ice, every step a perilous obstacle, every breath a frigid stab in his chest.

Vera waited at the exit, holding the door open to the final tunnel. Marco had already left.

“I want a medical kit.” He strode past her, tightening his grip on the injured woman. “Ice packs. Food. High-calorie, nutritional food. And a bottle of your best whiskey.”

“Tequila.” The fighter buried her nails into his nape, deliberately breaking skin.

“And tequila.” His lips quirked. “Make sure it’s in my room within the hour.”

“I’m surprised.” Vera hurried after him, eyes on her phone, presumably passing along his demands. “There are sixteen untouched girls back there, and you choose a whore who can’t even walk. She’s been thoroughly used up by all four of my brothers. This very moment, their come is leaking down her legs.”

His jaw hardened, and he almost lost his footing. But the rage inside him didn’t compare to that of the woman in his arms. She exploded in a fit of slashing claws, reaching toward Vera’s face while shouting in Spanish.

He wrangled her back, using more strength than he wanted to restrain her against his chest. Then he threw a withering glare at Vera.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” She swiped her key card and opened the elevator. “Marco and Omar tag teamed her after the fight.”

Raped.

If he’d acted sooner and followed Omar down here, he could’ve prevented that.

“Why do you care?” He stepped onto the lift with Tomas at his heels.

“I just think… You can do better.”

“Better, as in… You? Have you reconsidered my offer?”

Her gaze slid to the woman in his arms, and a malevolent drum of energy electrocuted the space between them. A hatred so rancid and sticky it raised the hairs on his arms.

“The two of you have a story.” He looked from one to the other, back and forth, before pausing on the woman he held. “How long have you been here?”

“Too long,” they snarled in chorus.

“Are you related?”

“God, no.” Vera laughed.

Similar brown eyes, black hair, and tawny skin. Both had Mexican accents, like many of the girls here. But their likeness ended there. Where Vera held herself with sophistication and reserve, the fighter was feral and impulsive. Vera had grown up in a loving home, until her mother died of heart disease.