Unshackle (Deliver 7)

“I’m losing myself,” he whispered.

I killed an innocent girl.

Tomas leaned in while keeping his golden eyes laser-focused on the woman’s back.

She couldn’t hear them, not over the water spraying from multiple faucets.

“You’re still you.” Tomas gripped the tie at Luke’s throat, loosening and removing it.

“I feel numb. Cold. Really fucking cold.”

“It’s temporary. Embrace it for just a little longer.” With steady hands, Tomas unbuttoned Luke’s collar and spoke in his ear. “I know it doesn’t feel right, but you’re doing a good thing. Focus on the big picture, the end goal, and remember, I’m here. If you fall too deep, I’ll pull you back.”

Too late.

Luke shrugged out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, his movements wooden.

Tomas placed a supportive hand on his neck and gave him a look that had been forged in trauma, friendship, and solidarity.

“You’re John Smith. A slave buyer.” Tomas shored up his grip, squeezing painfully. “Act like it.”

“Done.” He knocked the hand away and shed the remains of Luke Sanch.

Then he turned toward his newly acquired slave.CHAPTER 8Her lower half was naked, but she hadn’t consciously registered that detail until his eyes latched onto her in the mirror. Green eyes, glowing like toxic fire as they licked across her battered body.

With her back to him, she didn’t need to turn around. The full-length mirror near the door hung at a convenient angle, giving her a direct view of him with his bodyguard. And what a strange bromance they shared.

First off, why were they both so damn good-looking? That wasn’t normal. Not in this cesspool of pervy sadists. In the years she’d been imprisoned here, she’d never seen an attractive guest.

It was surface-level bullshit anyway. Every man here was hideous at his core.

But what struck her was the way these two interacted. A moment ago, the golden-eyed bodyguard seemed to console his boss, whispering sternly while helping him undress.

The boss—a sickeningly gorgeous redhead who called himself John—certainly didn’t look like he needed comfort. Especially not now as he swung his searing gaze around the damage splotching her skin.

God, she hurt. Her head pounded, and her face felt like an overinflated basketball. Her mouth and cheeks throbbed, so hard and swollen she couldn’t even scowl. Or cry.

The pain in her ribs indicated more bruising. Last year, they’d cracked during a fight and hadn’t felt the same since. Then there were the degrading welts on her ass, which burned each time she shifted. He’d enjoyed that particular torment. No noticeable bulge in his pants, but his eyes had dilated the moment he’d hit her.

He didn’t take those eyes off her now as he prowled closer, all hard angles and long, muscled legs, eating up the distance. He hadn’t known she’d been watching him with his employee and didn’t look happy about it. Whatever. It didn’t change her outcome.

She knew why she was here and what he expected from her. If she fled, he would punish another girl. Even if she could physically run to the outside perimeter, Marco’s men would capture her, drag her back to the basement, and torture another captive.

Like today.

That poor, innocent girl. Viciously butchered and killed. Because of her.

Every time she closed her eyes, she relived that horror. She still couldn’t believe John had the balls to end the girl’s life. Despite what he’d said, he hadn’t done it out of cruel annoyance. Marco might’ve bought the act, but the conflict in John’s eyes hadn’t lied. He’d hated doing it and suffered for it.

Circling her chair, he stopped before her and laid his gaze boldly on hers. He didn’t move, didn’t blink, as if caught in a trance. Or maybe she was the one entranced. His stare wasn’t a stare. It was a labyrinth. All high walls, dark corners, and confusing dead ends.

No way out.

She spent a week in the maze of his eyes. At least, that was how long it felt before he released her and shifted his attention to her lap.

He lingered on the shallow gashes, the dirt caking her knees and feet, and the patch of trim black hair between her legs. Despite the conversation in the elevator, he wouldn’t find a drop of come on her body.

Marco and Omar usually fucked her after a fight. But tonight, they’d punished her in the worst way possible.

Her chest squeezed, and a thousand needles stabbed the backs of her eyes. She would mourn the nameless girl who’d bled for her. But not now, not here. She couldn’t let the sorrow cripple her.

Anger was her only friend. “What are you looking at?”

“A repulsive mess. Grubby fingernails, filthy clothes, a fucked-up face…” His American accent penetrated her senses, cold and ravaging. He shut off the water. “I can’t decide if you’re hiding anything pretty beneath the bruises or something even more abhorrent.”

She flinched and pulled in a slow breath to conceal it. They were just words. Harmless cruelty. She’d endured much, much worse.