Devastate (Deliver 4)

Tate must’ve told Matias about her illness, but that would’ve been a week ago.

“I’m doing okay now.” She rested a hand over her stomach. “I don’t know why, but I haven’t felt any of the symptoms.”

Camila and Matias turned toward Cole Hartman, who leaned against the wall on the far side of the room. He straightened, shoved a hand through his hair, and approached.

“I intercepted the blood results Tate was waiting on,” he said. “I had them reviewed by a doctor I trust.”

She stopped breathing, and everything inside her went still. “What is it?”

Camila clutched her hand and squeezed. Clearly, everyone knew but her.

“There were traces of something like hemlock in your system.” He held a fist against his brow, as if trying to think. “I don’t have the report in front of me, but it was a poison that behaved like hemlock, derived from a plant the doctor couldn’t identify. He found compounds or alkaloids or whatever that causes ascending muscular paralysis. I guess it starts at the legs and works its way to the respiratory muscles. Did you experience that?”

“Yes. Exactly that.” A sudden coldness hit her core. “What are you saying?”

“Tiago Badell was poisoning you with an unknown venomous plant. You had dinner with him every night, so I assume he put it in your food. Every morning, he injected you with an antivenom.”

She swayed as the past few years came crashing down upon her. The mandatory dinners, the nighttime cramps and nausea, the instant relief after the medicine—it all fit. And she hadn’t been sick since the last time she ate at his table.

“I don’t have a terminal disease.” She clutched her throat as she tried to absorb the impact. “I’m not going to die.”

“Not today.” Cole smiled. “As far as the doctor can tell, repeat exposure to the poison didn’t cause lasting damage. Your overall blood work is healthy. But you need to have tests ran, a full examination. Not to mention your injury in Peru…”

His voice faded beneath the heavy thud of her heart. Tiago poisoned her. For years. That sick, disgusting, depraved son of a bitch. How could he do that? And now…

“He has Tate.” Her pulse raced, and pain stabbed through her chest as she turned to Camila. “I need a loan. I’m sorry to ask this, but I just need some money for…” Lodging, transportation, food, clothes, weapons—the list is endless. “I have to find him, and I promise to pay you back.”

“Lucia, calm down.” Matias slid into her line of sight. “Cole will find him. He knows what he’s doing and—”

“What would you do?” She moved around Matias and confronted her sister. “If Matias was taken by a man like Tiago, what would you do?”

“I’d put everything I had and everything I was into finding him.” Camila’s eyes dampened, and her voice broke. “I’ll give you whatever you need.”

“Stop.” Cole pinched the bridge of his nose and cursed under his breath. “Here’s the deal. I’m not babysitting you, and I’m not fucking kidnapping anyone.”

“Okay.” Lucia held her breath.

“Say your goodbyes.” He rubbed the back of his neck and lowered his hand. “We leave in ten minutes.”

CHAPTER 31

Standing on sturdy legs, Tate lifted a soaked sponge over his head and squeezed. Cool water sluiced down his nude body. It was neither refreshing nor painful. It was just…water. He plunged the sponge into the bucket and repeated the task with robotic movements.

Lift. Squeeze. Plunge. And don’t forget to scrub beneath the ankle cuff.

They’d taken his clothes away when the doctor had stopped bathing him. It must’ve been weeks ago.

Was it weeks? Or months?

Time didn’t exist within these walls. It didn’t speed up or slow down. It didn’t move at all. Because it was dead.

Sometimes his mind weakened, and he thought about the lost weeks. He could track them if he wanted to. He only needed to take inventory of his injuries. The stitches in his arm had been removed, and his hand had some mobility. His back didn’t feel as tight when he paced the dirt floor, dragging the heavy chain behind him. Pain still lingered in his ribs, but it was muted. Dull.

Dull like the water trickling over his skin as he bathed.

Dull like the stew and porridge they brought every day.

Dull like the beat of his heart when he forced himself to face the truth.

She’s dead.

He hurled the sponge into the water, snatched the bucket from the ground, and shoved it toward the guard waiting at the door.

It was always the same two silent scowling men. They were about as happy to be here as he was.

The guard reached for the bucket, and Tate yanked it back.

“Where’s Lucia?” he demanded.

Always the same question. Always the same non-response.

When the man pinned his lips, Tate threw the bucket at his feet, splashing the man’s trousers with water.

“Where is she?” he bellowed.

The guard’s face turned red-hot. A beating would follow. A fist in the face. A boot in the ribs. Didn’t matter if he taunted them or not. They seemed to get off on boxing a shackled man who was too weak to defend himself.

But Tate always fought back, and he was growing stronger. He fought until blood leaked into his eyes and clouded his vision. Until his lungs wheezed, and his ribs screamed in protest. Until the bastards knocked him out.

He fought because it made him feel alive.

Today would be no different.

The second guard entered the shack and cracked his knuckles. They never brought weapons in. Nothing Tate could use against them. If he managed to kill them bare handed, what would he do? His fucking ankle was chained to a fucking pike buried a mile into the fucking dirt floor. The damn thing wasn’t budging. He’d

bloodied his hands trying to dig it out.

He stepped to the center of the shack, as far as the chain would allow, and squared his shoulders.

But the guards didn’t attack.

“Where’s Lucia?” He gnashed his teeth.

When they didn’t respond, he spat at their feet. “Fuck off then.”

They didn’t fuck off. Why were they just standing there?

A moment later, an electronic buzzing sound broke the silence.

Buzzing.

Like a phone.

One of the guards reached into his pocket and removed exactly that.

He hadn’t seen a phone since the night he…

He tried not to think about that night.

His attention locked onto the phone as the guard connected the call on speaker and held it out of his reach.

“Hello, Tate.” The deep voice sliced across his skin like the edge of a blade.

Tiago Badell.

He tried to step closer to the guard, but the chain jerked his leg back. “Where’s—?”

“If you ask about her,” Badell said, “the call ends and you’ll never hear from me again. You’ll spend the rest of your lonely existence locked away in that shack, wondering why I called and what I was going to say.”

His molars clamped together so hard he felt the pain ripple through his skull. “I’m listening.”

“I would be there in person, but I haven’t been feeling well. I’m sure you know why.”

Lucia thought she’d killed him. She must’ve injured him, and Tate hoped the bastard’s dick had been removed during the attempt on his life.

“I wanted to offer you something,” Badell said. “Let’s call it a last request. Anything you want. This doesn’t include information, and it must fit inside the shack.”

What the fuck? “What is this? Like a last-meal request? Am I on death row?”

“I’m offering more than a meal, Tate. You can choose anything—a bed to sleep on, a girl to fuck, a drug to numb your mind. I’m sure you can come up with something creative.”

“Why?” He paced the dirt floor, and the chain slithered after him. “What do you want?”

“I’ve already taken my payment. Consider this a thank you.”

He slammed to a stop, and the pound of his heartbeat thrashed in his ears. “What did you take?”