Disclaim (Deliver 3)

His apathy was frightening, and he exuded it as if deliberately playing it to his advantage. Even now, his arms hung limply at his sides, his posture relaxed behind the wrought iron table, almost bored, as his gaze wandered away.

“She likes the grove.” Matias stepped around her and pulled out an empty chair, gesturing for her to sit.

She loved the grove. Loved it so much, in fact, she didn’t want Nico anywhere near it.

Sitting as directed, she entertained a silly thought about plucking one of the ripe fruits and traipsing the endless maze of paths through the trees. It was how she’d spent her childhood, letting the twisty arms of the branches guide her, never without a juicy snack in her hand.

“I should hope so, ese.” Nico focused on an errant crease in his black suit pants, smoothing it with a thumb. “You spent an embarrassing amount of time and money growing shit that can’t be injected, smoked, snorted, or smuggled.”

“That sounds dangerously close to complaining.” Matias lowered into the chair beside her, putting her between him and Nico. Folding his hands on the table, he leaned in, eyes on Nico. “You done?”

“I haven’t decided.” Nico shrugged.

Both men grinned, sharing a cryptic moment of silence. As their smiles faded, they continued to stare at one another. Communicating? Whatever it was hinted at a strange kind of simultaneous trust between them. Their postures remained at ease, their eyes bright. Until Nico shifted to her.

“So you wanted to meet with me to discuss the cartel’s affairs?” His tone dripped with censure, expression hardening in a blink, erasing all traces of humanity.

Just like that, he looked every bit the kingpin. Her insides churned.

He didn’t belong here in this magical place, where the trees fluttered with vitality, trilling with birds, and saturating the air with the quiet, aphrodisiac sweetness of orange blossoms. Matias had created a miniature version of her beloved sanctuary, knitting her memories into the soil and coaxing them to life. The resurrected ambiance filled her with a sense of innocence, an unexpected warmth of heart that made her want to turn to him with openness and affection.

And hope.

He could tell her a million times he wanted her, needed her, that her disappearance had gutted him, whatever. It was just words. But this…this nostalgic place was infinitely more moving. It was a proclamation that couldn’t be cheated or faked.

The maturity of the trees alone proved that a decade had been dedicated to growing it, to nurturing something much too wistful for a cartel compound. Sure, he hired out the labor, but his touch was in the tiniest details, such as the planting patterns, the types of fruiting trees, the yellow twine her papá had used to support the saplings, and the unusual way the secondary limbs were pruned—exactly how Venomous Lemonous had taught them.

No one else could’ve replicated her memories with such painstaking and sentimental precision. She knew without a doubt Matias had been here since the plants germinated and participated in every step of their life cycle.

Because he’d missed her.

It left her feeling groundless, dizzy, and utterly seduced by the idea of him and her, by the beauty and promise it bestowed. She could envision living here, being whatever Matias willed her to be, if it meant spending time in this place, recreating stolen moments with him, and cultivating dreams.

Because she’d missed him, too. So fucking much it made her chest hurt.

Maybe that was why he’d chosen this location for the meeting. To bewitch her so thoroughly she’d forget the reason she was here.

Tightening her muscles, she angled her body to face Nico and gave him strong eye contact.

“You might see me as just a slave, but I’m not controlled by fear.” She crossed her legs at the knees, the position pulling the jeans tight across her ass as she rested her hands on the table. “I’ve killed people, and I’m intimately familiar with human trafficking.” She paused. “Can I call you Nico?”

“Please do.” His eyes flickered, and it might’ve been curiosity.

“I’m not an accountant, Nico, but I find it hard to believe the slave trade yields as much profit as, say, your drug smuggling ventures. First off, the slaves I’ve seen on the property are my age. Some are even older. I doubt any of them are virgins.”

He exchanged a look with Matias, and she would’ve given anything to know what was going on beneath their blank expressions.

“Not that I’m suggesting you capture young girls.” Her foot twitched restlessly. She stilled it. “I’m just questioning why you capture and sell people at all.”

“Tell us your theories,” Matias said. Elbow on the table, he rested his jaw on loosely curled fingers, the liquid gold of his eyes sharp around the edges.

Twisting her thoughts to that of a criminal, she voiced a cut and dry hypothesis about how they sought to gain market share and remain competitive against rival gangs and drug lords. She talked out of her ass while trying to keep her opinions on a cohesive level, brainstorming ideas they could relate to, and maintaining an eager, unbiased tone, like she was a fucking marketing consultant for the cartel.

It was ludicrous, listening to herself suggest how they could broaden their drugs and weapons smuggling to other countries, like Australia. But in her desperate mind, smuggling those things were a lesser evil than selling innocent lives.

Neither of them interrupted her long-winded pitch. Matias nodded at some of her points and lifted his eyebrows at others. She avoided those hazel eyes, though, as well as the symmetrical beauty of his flawless face. She tried not to glance at him at all for fear he’d derail her, command her with a look, and make her want things that didn’t belong in this conversation.

Focusing on Nico wasn’t any easier. He was dangerously handsome, or at least, he would’ve been if he didn’t look so scowly and disinterested all the time. Didn’t matter where he was or what he was doing, he gave the impression that he wanted to be somewhere else, like he was too goddamn important for the world around him.

Other than the night Van delivered her to them, Nico always wore a suit. The crisp black fabrics and collared shirts that opened at the neck projected an urbane, cultured persona that was only mildly intimidating if taken at face value. It was what he hid beneath the casual arrogance that had her carefully choosing her words.

Was she talking to a psychopath? An empty soul? A man who didn’t rationalize his own behavior? If he was a man at all, then somewhere in there was a heart.

Steeling her backbone, she changed gears without segue and launched into her experience as Van’s captive.

“He locked me in a coffin-like box for the first twenty-four hours, wearing only rope around my hands and feet and a ring g

ag in my mouth.”

Her cheeks twinged in memory at the godawful stretching, and sweat beaded between her breasts. With a waver in her voice, she told them how Van fucked that ring gag over and over in the days that followed, how he beat her, spit on her, and stripped her of every ounce of hope and courage, all while refusing to speak to her beyond the bark of his commands. Kneel, open, suck, cry…

“I was there a week before Liv stepped in.” Camila folded her trembling hands on her lap. “She introduced herself as a deliverer and said I was to be trained as a slave and sold as a piece of property.”

She rushed on, giving voice to the worst of her time there. The whips, the rules, the stifling loneliness, each harrowing memory blooming heat behind her eyelids. “You can’t comprehend the depths of human depravity until you experience it on your knees, in the dark, your body broken and throbbing, your mind pulling away in an attempt to protect, to endure. But no matter where your thoughts go, there is nothing or no one to cling to. It makes you question the very reason for life, like what the fuck are we even doing here and why are we the cruelest to our own kind?”

Matias stood, fingers sliding into his pockets, and stepped out of the gazebo. He strode away with a wide gait and strong posture—shoulders back and chest out, but she hadn’t missed the stark pain in his eyes.

Her pulse quickened. She’d already given him the full unpolished recitation of her year with Van and Liv, hoping to soften his insistence for slavery. Maybe she was finally getting through to him.

Except he wasn’t the one she needed to convince.

Nico stroked a finger over the shadowed edge of his thin beard as he watched Matias walk the path to the far side of the grove, fringed by rows of lemon trees.

Matias sat on a stone bench out of hearing range, elbows braced on knees and profile angled so that he could still see her.

For the span of several heartbeats, Nico didn’t move or speak, his vacant eyes on Matias as if gazing down a long dark road. Then he blinked, straightened in the chair, and turned his attention to her.

“You know what I see when I look at you?” His tongue slid over straight white teeth. “With your tight body and your anti-slavery campaign? I see a hardcore submissive in deep denial. A well-trained cliché, trying to top from the bottom, all the while telling yourself you want no part of it. Stubbornness and fear have driven you to fight against your nature, but you’re only one hard, violent fuck away from surrender. Am I right, Camila Dias?”