Disclaim (Deliver 3)

Fuck.

Someday was the right answer. She just didn’t know how soon. Everything was finally falling into place, giving him the opening he’d waited years for.

He wouldn’t be leaving Austin without her.

CAMILA SLIPPED INTO THE cabin and kicked off her flip-flops. What the fuck was that?

Her hands shook, her skin fevered, and a deep ache pulsed between her thighs. Not just because she wanted him. Because she’d heard the desire thick in his breath.

As she headed toward the kitchen, muffled voices drifted from the direction of the garage. Christ, she needed to pull herself together before she went in there.

Curling her fingers into her palms didn’t stop the trembling. Damn Matias Guerra to hell! Was it not enough that he’d abandoned her and taken her heart with him? Evidently, the prick wasn’t finished tormenting her.

She could’ve handled the questions he used to throw at her, had been prepared to redirect and volley them back. But his are you afraid tactic? It was dirty and below the belt.

Only he knew how to dig through her tough exterior, grab hold of her fears, and force her to examine them. She shouldn’t have called him back, but like a scab itching to be picked, her obsession with the past overruled her need to heal.

His gravelly timbre had rolled time in reverse, his words transporting her to the safety of the citrus grove. It was as if she’d been talking to him, the boy who showed her how to make a slingshot fork from an orange tree, how to swallow while kissing to avoid unwanted saliva, how to do so many unforgettable things, like fall in love, the conchudo!

She paused in the kitchen, brushed the dust off her jeans, and attempted to straighten out her thoughts. Eighteen-year-old Matias never kept secrets from her. But the man he’d become was a mysterious, unreachable black hole.

Maybe she was just as closed off as he was, but he at least knew what she was involved in. Since the day she’d escaped, she’d told him she was killing slave buyers while he told her absolutely nothing.

Was he still involved with the armed thugs who’d taken him away twelve years ago? Or had he moved on to something worse? Something so awful he wouldn’t, couldn’t, share anything personal with her?

“Why didn’t you come back for me?” she whispered, gripping the edge of the counter.

Why did his secrecy feel like a betrayal? Like he’d chosen his sacred thug life over her?

If he loved her, he would’ve returned for her, taken her with him, and prevented everything that followed. The attic, the bone-deep bruises, the chains of isolation, and the darkness that still pervaded her thoughts, following her everywhere. No, not following. Smothering.

That was the rub, wasn’t it? She’d trusted him to protect her, to always be there, and he’d deserted her, left her to her fate.

She massaged her temples. Why was she wallowing in this quagmire of imaginary angst? It felt a whole lot like self-pity, a bullshit mentality she refused to subscribe to. She’d never been a victim, didn’t need protection or rescuing, and sure as hell didn’t need a dick to get herself off.

What she needed was a mind-numbing drink.

A quick sweep through Van’s cabinets uncovered an impressive collection of tequila. Praise Jesus. Popping off the cap, she drank straight from the bottle. Ah, God, it was the good stuff. Smooth and crisp, the agave slid down her throat like peppery, sweet water.

A few sips turned into a few more. She drank until her tongue tingled and her nerves dulled. She drank until the front door opened.

It snicked shut, and footsteps echoed through the cabin. Tate emerged around the corner, eyed the bottle, and winged up an eyebrow.

“Trouble in Crazy Town?” He nodded at the garage door, where the murmur of their former captors filtered through.

“Nope.” She capped the bottle and put it away.

“Your phone call?” His forearms flexed at his sides. “The body—”

“Will be taken care of.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Or maybe she bounced.

The alcohol buzzed through her veins at a nice, even keel. Not enough to make her stupid, but it was doing its job. Tate’s judgmental scowl had zero effect on her giveafuckometer.

The front door opened again, and a moment later, familiar green eyes came into view. Black hair outlined a golden complexion, boyishly handsome features, and straight white teeth. No one smiled quite like Slave Number Nine.

“Hey, you.” Joshua Carter didn’t waste time closing the distance and wrapping her in a hug.

“Hey.” She laughed, arms clinging to the packed muscles beneath his Baylor University t-shirt.

The warmth in her cheeks wasn’t from the booze. There was something about Josh, a rare kind of inner light that enabled him to focus on the good in every person and situation. Hell, he’d married Liv—after the woman had kidnapped him, beat him, and pegged him with a strap-on. Underneath his rock-hard, linebacker physique was an endearingly squishy and very forgiving soul.

Or perhaps he was just as fucked up as the rest of them.

He released her and scanned the cabin’s open layout, his face growing taut. “Where’s Liv?”

Camila tried not to let his preoccupation with his wife affect her, but there it was, pinching her chest. She didn’t want Josh, but she envied what he had—someone to look for and be concerned about. Someone to love.

Maybe she’d misjudged her tequila intake. It had turned her into a sensitive little girl.

“Liv’s in the garage.” She stepped out of his way. “Thanks for driving Tate back.”

As a high school football coach, Josh had a legit career to protect. But he’d offered to meet at the drop location so that Larry’s car and the incriminating DNA inside it could be disposed with the body.

He and Liv were the only ones in their little circle of freedom fighters who weren’t considered missing or dead. They had a relationship with his parents and Liv’s daughter. A family to spend holidays with. In that regard, they had more to lose than the rest of the group.

“Wish I could help more.” With a pat on her head, he disappeared into the garage.

Tate crossed the kitchen and leaned into her space, his arm braced on the wall behind her.

Her eyes fluttered closed as the scent of his skin permeated the inches between them. His masculine proximity charged her nerve endings and heated her blood. He smelled balmy like a summer afternoon in the grove. Like a breeze ripened with the aroma of lemons and loam. Like the Texan sunshine when it emblazoned his hazel eyes—

She looked up, her gaze colliding with Tate’s icy blue glare.

“What’s going on with you?” He bent his knees, putting them nose to nose.

A dull throb swelled between her legs, engaging her inner muscles. “I need to get laid.”

She needed so much more than the fleeting relief of an orgasm, but she’d settle for a kiss from a man who cared enough to give her one.

His gaze fell, heavy with regret. He didn’t have to read her mind to know what she really wanted. Hands bound, ass spanked, hard, brutal fucking—they’d discussed her desires in detail until it’d become a laughable tirade. But that only made the stricken look on his face harder to stomach. He knew how goddamn lonely and hungry she was, and still, he rejected her.

She knew he had hang-ups with sex, but he shut down whenever she approached the subject. Maybe her tastes were too dark for him, too much like wh

at he’d endured. Or maybe they weren’t dark enough.

“We only have two days.” She ducked around him and headed toward the garage. “We need to talk about what happens next.” A plan that was guaranteed to receive a concerted fuck no from him and the others.

After gathering everyone in the living room, she explained how she intended to use Larry McGregor’s information to infiltrate the human trafficking network in Austin.

Anticipating the most resistance from Tate, she paced the edge of the room, eyes trained on his bowed head as she outlined the initial steps. He didn’t move from the chair by the windows, his gaze glued to the floor.

Van didn’t show the same restraint.

“You’ve lost your fucking mind.” His entire body bunched and flexed as he balled his hands into fists. He probably would’ve leapt from the couch if Amber wasn’t sitting on his lap. “You want me to sell you? As a slave?”

Liv and Josh sat side by side on the love seat. Their rigid postures, narrowed eyes, deeply furrowed brows—they looked like Bonnie and Clyde’s disapproving cousins.

Camila pursed her lips. They didn’t have to like it. They didn’t even need to be here.

“We don’t know who these people are.” Van dragged a hand across the scar on his cheek, his tone harsh. “And you want me to just show up and hand you over? First off, they’re expecting Larry McGregor.”

“They’re expecting a girl, tied-up and blindfolded.” Camila lifted her chin, even as her insides rioted at the idea. “Larry could’ve sent anyone to deliver her.”

“Okay, fine, but you’re like…what?” Van sneered. “Thirty-years old? One look at you, and they’ll laugh their fucking asses off. Right before they cut out your throat.”

“Despégala pues!” Her face caught fire. “I’m twenty-eight, dickhead.”

“He doesn’t mean it,” Tate said softly. He didn’t raise his head, but his eyes drifted upward and locked on Van. “She could pass as eighteen, and you know it. Look at her. They’d pay double the asking price to get their hands on her.”

A heavy feeling sank in her stomach. She wasn’t surprised Tate defended her, but she’d expected a godawful fight from him. No way was he okay with her plan.