Unshackle (Deliver 7)

She couldn’t feel her injury. Or her legs. He was the cure for pain, pushing it into extinction and replacing it with sublime, soul-deep joy.

She let her head roll toward him and waited for his gaze. “I love you.”

He didn’t smile. Didn’t repeat the words back. But it was all in his eyes. The coming together. The collision of souls. The brilliant shine.

The impact.

The force was so great she felt it everywhere.

“Eyes on the road.” Her lips quirked.

Sprawled in a seat that seemed to be made for him, he shifted through gears with the confidence and fearlessness of a race car driver. He was in his element, driving too fast and taking too many risks. The car suited the man. Sexy as all hell.

“Is this Marco’s sports car?”

He made a choking sound. “It’s a hyper…car. A Koenigsegg Agera. Fastest car in existence.”

As if to prove that, he opened the gas and tore down the road at dizzying speeds.

There was no one in front of them, but the side mirror revealed a long trail of hypercars behind him, glimmering in every color. She recognized them from Marco’s collection.

“Where’s Romero?” she asked.

“In the Lambo.” He flicked a finger at the rearview mirror. “Those are my guys. I doubt they’ll keep up, but they know where we’re going.”

“Where are we going?”

“Home. Colombia. To see your sister.” He gripped her hand. “We made it, Vera. Just hang on a little longer.”

She wove her fingers around his and squeezed.

For him, she would hang on forever.CHAPTER 28Vera lay on her back on a plush sofa in Matias Restrepo’s personal jet. With her head propped on Luke’s lap and a heady flow of pain killers circulating through her system, she floated on a cloud.

This is what freedom feels like.

Voices whispered through the cabin. Jet engines hummed, and Luke’s warm hand kept a constant, hypnotic rhythm along her arm, lulling her deeper into tranquility.

This is what love feels like.

He spoke quietly with two lethally handsome men who sat across from him. They’d introduced themselves as Tate Vades and Cole Hartman.

Lucia Dias, sister-in-law to the Restrepo capo, reclined beside Tate with a leg hooked over his knee. The beautiful Latina worked silently on her laptop as Tate absently stroked her inner thigh.

More vigilantes filled the seats in the front of the plane. Others had stayed behind to sell Marco’s cars, relocate the girls, and clean up loose ends. They were also looking for Tomas. He hadn’t contacted anyone since last night.

Picar, the cartel’s doctor, hunched over Vera’s exposed thigh, putting his final touches on the wound. She’d already received a blood transfusion and IV fluids. It was no surprise that the aircraft was equipped with the personnel and supplies to treat injuries. Cartel business was bloody.

At first, she didn’t think the old doctor’s cloudy eyes could see past his own nose. But he’d had no trouble locating and treating all her spider bites, removing the bullet, and stitching her up with tiny thread.

Speaking of stitches, the man who accompanied Picar wore a smile that had been sewed shut with heavy black thread. Add in his frizzy fluff of black hair, stark white complexion, and dark smudges around his eyes, and the man looked downright ghastly.

Luke had referred to him as Frizz and assured her that he deliberately sewed his own mouth closed.

She tried not to stare.

“All done. You need rest,” Picar said in Spanish, straightened—as much as he could with his crooked spine—and waddled toward the front of the cabin.

She wished her sister was here. But since La Rocha had been looking for Tula, she’d been forced to stay in Colombia.

Romero seemed to relax now that he was on the plane and away from La Rocha. He sat on the other side of Luke, talking through the events leading up to the interrogation room.

“If you had access to all the cameras,” Luke asked, “how did you not see her enter your room?”

“I was asleep.”

“And I only had to dodge two cameras between the pond and his quarters.” Vera shifted on the couch, seeking a more comfortable position with a better view of Romero, Luke, and his friends. “I know the location of every camera and their blind spots. It took me a long time to skirt around them undetected. But once I reached Romero’s door, I knew I wouldn’t have to deal with the cameras again.”

“I woke with this woman straddling my hips.” Grimacing, Romero scrubbed a hand over his black short-cropped hair. “She jabbed the barrel of a gun under my chin, with her eyes all feral, clothes and hair soaking wet, and—”

“It was an empty beer bottle, not a gun,” she said.

“I didn’t know that at the time.” Romero dropped his hand. “She started making demands and screaming in my face. I knew immediately she was the girl who won all those fights. I thought for sure she was going to kill me.”