Disclaim (Deliver 3)

He had a myriad of bombs to drop on her, and each detonation needed to be thought out and timed perfectly. Like the one he was about to deliver.

As she piled her plate with arepas and dug in, she was probably mentally walking through a plan that relied on one key component if she failed. And she would fail.

Dipping into his pocket, he pulled out a tiny silver box and set it beside her plate.

She froze mid-chew and stared up at him, eyes hard and suspicious.

“Open it.” He sat in the chair across from her, elbow on the table, chin on his fist. “Go ahead.”

Swallowing a mouthful of ham and cheese, she lifted the lid and choked. “You fucking bastard.”

Her hand shook, and the box tumbled from her fingers, spilling the smashed GPS chip and pieces of her filling on the table.

“THIS IS…” FUCK, FUCK, FUCK. Camila pressed her tongue against the filling in her tooth, struggling to speak amid the turbulence whipping inside her. “Why?”

“You know why.” Matias leaned across the small table, hands folded on the white linen and eyes twinkling with smug victory.

Her lungs constricted, making it a bitch to breathe. She was so damn angry she didn’t even know what she was asking him.

The doctor on the plane… What was his name? Picar. Was he a dentist? Or had someone else drilled into her teeth while she’d been unconscious all night?

“I’m not asking why you removed it.” She mirrored his leaning position, bringing her face within a fist’s swing of his. “Why did you fix it?” Her tongue swiped over the molar as she glared at the broken microchip beside her plate. “Why fill the tooth and let me think you hadn’t found the chip?”

“There were exposed nerves that needed to be sealed before you woke.” He shrugged. “I didn’t want you to suffer.”

Is he serious right now?

He smiled, flashing those deep dimples, and it was like staring at a terrible distortion of a precious memory. “The dentist was a trusted associate, exceptional at his trade, and was generous enough to meet us at our layover.”

“Where was that?”

“The chip was disabled before you left the States.”

Of course. Tate was probably losing his shit over the dead signal. He would track her last known position—likely some shady airport near the border—and assume the worst.

She blew out a breath. The GPS chip had been a safeguard, simply a backup plan if she didn’t succeed.

But she could die here. In the cartel’s citadel. Tate would never find her, would never stop the depraved transactions that happened within these walls.

She was on her own. A one-woman army against a powerful crime syndicate. And it all hinged on the man sitting across from her.

Matias knew she’d preemptively planted herself here, so there was no point in pretending. Since he hadn’t asked her why she did it, he either knew that, too, or he didn’t care. How much should she reveal? Maybe she should just lay it all out there and demand he put an end to the slave trading.

Right. When she’d woken in the living room, he was all This is business and Go human slavery! Had he been putting on a show for his boss, or had twelve years of crime well and truly carved out his heart? She needed to find out what his agenda was, where his loyalties lay, and how easily he could be turned.

“If I hadn’t been there last night, would you have come?” She poured another glass of water and drank half of it. “Or would you have bought the girl who was supposed to be there?”

“I knew you’d be there.”

“How?”

“I know everything.” He grinned.

She seethed. “Does Nico know about our history?”

“I keep nothing from him.” He watched her steadily from across the table.

He could be lying.

But why would he?

“What about the others?” She set the glass aside. “Do you share your personal life with Frizz, Picar, and whoever else lives here?”

“Some of them, yes. Others haven’t earned my confidence.” His fingers laced together, thumbs brushing lazily one over the other.

Faded ink sleeved both forearms, and at first glance, the matching designs appeared to be stars scattered among leaves. She lingered over the art, her gaze tracing the shaded lines of… Not stars. They were five-pointed blossoms on the branches of fruiting lemon trees. The same delicate blossoms he used to pick for her and put in her hair.

Memories uncoiled, tugging at emotions she’d tried so hard to keep contained. Her stomach hardened as beloved images blotted her vision. She’d spent her entire childhood with him, elbows-deep in lemon trees. His arms had once bore the scratches of mischief and labor. Now, they were permanently branded with those treasured moments, their moments, to remind her of everything she’d lost.

“Remember Venomous Lemonous?” His gaze lowered, resting on his tattoos.

“Si.” She’d hated the old, cantankerous lemon farmer.

She couldn’t remember his real name, but he’d worked in the grove most of her life. She and Matias used to sneak under his lemon trees to have…outercourse. Hands down each other’s pants, bodies grinding, breaths heaving, tongues entangled. Just when they’d reach the heat of the moment, old Venomous Lemonous would slither out of the foliage, hollering and swinging his damn stick.

“He used to tell me”—Matias deepened his voice and scrunched up his face—“keep your root in your pants, boy, or it will do to her what spring does with the lemon trees.”

The memory echoed hollowly in her chest. If Matias had knocked her up, would he have come back for her? Would Van have captured her? Would she be here now, grieving her past?

“Venomous Lemonous must’ve put the fear of God in you.” She released a heavy sigh. “Since you did…you know, keep it in your pants.”

Figuratively speaking. He’d never fucked her, but she’d been intimately familiar with every hard inch of him.

“I’m not that boy anymore.” He slid his tongue across his bottom lip.

“And not just because you don’t keep it in your pants.” Roiling heat simmered in her belly.

Hell knew how many women he’d been with, consensual or otherwise. This was the guy that, less than an hour ago, made her choose which girl he would sell into slavery. Who stood by while a woman was burned, stitched in the eyelid, and hauled away. He was felonious, toxic, heartless.

But there was something else about him, something both troubling and captivating.

He reclined in the chair, legs spread wide and hands dangling loosely on the armrests. Dust covered his fatigues, ridges of muscle strained his t-shirt, and what looked like dried blood flecked the skin on his thick neck. No, that wasn’t what was unsettling her.

Was it his expression? The way he regarded her, all moody and contemplative? Maybe it was the darkness that shadowed his face. The jet black hair that was clipped close on the sides and choppy on top, the stubble on his jaw and throat, the fringe of thick, smudgy lashes, and the heavy ridge of eyebrows that made his golden eyes glow with an intensity she felt beneath her rib cage. God, how he stared at her…

That was it.

Liv had told her once that a legitimate Master could command a woman using the power of his eyes.

What Camila saw in his gridlocked glare was an indisputable leader. A dominant male. When he fought, he won. When he wanted something, he took it. And right now, he wanted her attention, her nearness, her obedience.

Something inside her clicked into place, her entire body vibrating with the pull of an unbreakable string that drew her to him. She couldn’t look away, couldn’t breathe or speak.

She rose from the chair and closed the distance, her insides thrashing.

Wrought iron screeched against tile as he scooted back and tapped his inner thigh. A single tap and she was there, standing in the V of his legs, waiting for his next command with equal amounts of wonder and trepidation. What’s happening to me?

“Remove the shirt.”

Ahhh, that voice. He’d always known how to sweeten it to coax her and how to sharpen it in challenge. In three words, he achieved both.