Disclaim (Deliver 3)

“If things were different, if I was different, I would’ve put you in the shower and never let you leave.”

Warmth spread through her limbs. “You sure you’re not gay?”

“Yeah.” He laughed. “I’m sure.” He cupped her face, his nostrils flaring with a deep breath. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

She imagined the moral corruption she would find—men who perceived women as nothing more than livestock to sell, fuck, and piss on—and the hairs on her neck lifted.

Tate pulled away and shot a longing look at the doorway.

“I’m not very good with goodbyes.” He scratched his neck, avoiding her gaze. “So…”

“Go on.” She shoved his shoulder, blinking through the achy burn in her eyes. “Get out of here.”

He didn’t look back as he escaped. The sound of his footfalls quickened down the hall and faded in the distance. When the front door slammed, the bang ricocheted through her chest, releasing a stream of silent tears.

She let them fall, promising herself they’d be her last until she saw him again. Then she dried her face and changed into his pungent black shirt.

For the next three hours, she made her farewell rounds through the sprawling, ranch-style Austin house. She shared a bedroom with Kate—one of the last slaves under Van’s reign—while the five guys took over the other four rooms. The attic was finished, but no one would sleep there.

They were millionaires, thanks to Van. They could buy seven estates, retire in luxury, and live anywhere. But they clung together in a modest suburban neighborhood not far from Liv and Josh, in a house they’d made their home.

Heaviness pressed against her breastbone as she recapped the plan with her roommates. No one cried. No one tried to talk her out of it. Their need for retribution darkened their eyes and strengthened her backbone.

When Van arrived, she followed him to his car, leaving her friends standing bravely stoic on the front porch.

Barefoot, wearing only a mid-thigh shirt and panties, and accompanied by Van’s menacing silhouette, she looked like a woman begging for someone to call the cops. Thank God, the street was empty and shrouded in darkness, but the evening heat weighed heavy, making the atmosphere feel stagnant and dead.

A hint of smoke tinged the air. She glanced around, tracking the scent until she spotted the red flare of a cigarette bobbing in an alcove beside the garage. Tate only smoked when he was irate, but she knew it was him, a brooding sentinel in the cover of night, always watching.

She gave him a chin lift, the motion jerking with the anxious rhythm of her heart.

Van stopped beside his ‘65 Mustang GT and opened the trunk. The hood of his sleeveless sweatshirt cast his face in shadows as he removed a coil of rope and a black scarf.

When he turned toward her, the moonlight caught the opening of his hoodie, revealing an expression cut straight from her nightmares. His eyes, like steel blades, flayed her skin in an icy chill and bled her pores with sweat.

“Are you numb with terror yet?” He cocked his head.

“Getting there.” She tightened her muscles, fighting against the violent tremors gripping her body.

“Good.” He grabbed her hair with unnecessary force and shoved her toward the shallow, coffin-like interior of the trunk. “You should be petrified.”

CAMILA WASN’T CLAUSTROPHOBIC, but after a forty-five-minute ride in the trunk of Van’s Mustang, the tiny space had morphed into a malignant presence. It pressed in from every direction, growing heavier, tighter, restricting her movements. No room. Too cramped. Can’t breathe. She needed air. She needed out!

But I put myself here. Inhale. I’m in control. Exhale.

Except she wasn’t. Blindfolded and pinned on her side, she’d already given up her freedom. And this was the easy part. If she couldn’t endure a trunk, she wouldn’t survive the rest.

I’m a slave again. She focused on breathing—in, out, repeat, repeat, repeat—while centering her mind on submitting and surviving.

Her eyelashes dragged against the scarf, and her wrists burned in the scratchy bindings at her back. Van had tied the rope so tight it cut off blood flow, turning her hands into unfeeling stumps.

But it was necessary. As necessary as the melodramatic show she would put on for her captors. She needed to appear crippled with fright, her mind so horribly wounded they would only see a quivering, harmless girl. They would carry their traumatized little Trojan Horse past their security, and there, ensconced in the heart of the operation, she would strike.

The tires spun off the pavement and continued on bumpy ground, spitting gravel against the chassis. Larry McGregor’s GPS coordinates put the rendezvous at the edge of a cotton field. This must’ve been it, the final stretch of the drive. Her lungs seized with renewed panic.

Too soon, the car slowed, stopped, and the engine shut off. The sudden silence mired into her bones, shoving her deep into buried memories of the night she met Van. His hand over her mouth, the stabbing pain through her head, the blackout, the wooden box…

The trunk creaked open, and a blast of arid air filled her lungs, bringing with it a resinous perfume. A hint of camphor. The approach of cotton harvest.

She licked parched lips, tasting the dusty drought of summer as she eased up on an elbow, hands numb and restrained behind her. The blindfold stole her vision, and given the hour of night, there would be no light seeping in. But amid the chirrup of nocturnal creatures, she heard him, his rustling movements closing in. She braced for a ruthless hand to yank her out.

“If you get yourself killed,” Van whispered, shockingly close, his breath at her ear, “I’m going to hunt you in hell and blister your fucking ass. Hear me?”

“Noted.” She swallowed.

He pulled her from the trunk by her leg. Her back banged against the bumper, her hands and eyes useless as she tumbled downward and crashed against the solid dirt.

Pain jolted through her thighs, and pebbles dug into her knees. She dropped to her hip, but his hand caught her under the arm, wrenching her up and dragging her backward.

She stumbled, pivoting in an attempt to blindly walk forward. Without slowing his gait, he swung her around and shoved her in the right direction. Then his fingers found her arm again, jerking her against his side.

“They’re watching.” He kept his voice so low it was barely audible beneath his breath. “Two Range Rovers. Fifty paces ahead. They’re exiting now.”

The slam of a car door sounded in the distance, followed by several more in rapid succession. Footsteps approached. Many. But how many?

Her chest heaved. She tripped over a rut in the dirt, and her bare feet scraped against sharp rocks. She let out a whimper for effect, but also because she wanted to scream at him to take her back. She couldn’t do this.

Blood roared in her head, her breath catching, stacking, choking, her mind spinning. I can do this. I can do this.

Van didn’t let up, playing the part with his bruising grip and ground-covering strides. This was why she’d asked him. Tate would’ve carted her out of there at the first sign of her distress.

She staggered alongside him, dragging her feet and stopping, only to get hitched forward again. She wheezed and mewled in pathetic intermittent noises. She couldn’t have faked a full-body tremble, but it was there, attacking her with a force that chattered her teeth.

Oh God, what if she couldn’t do this? Why the fuck did she put herself here?

His thumb dug into her bicep. Then it tapped one, two…five times.

Five men.

Why so many? Mr. E’s operation ran for years with only two captors. Her blood pressure skyrocketed.

She wasn’t counting the steps, but it felt like a lot less than fifty when Van suddenly halted. He didn’t give her time to slow, using her momentum to thrust her to her knees.

Free from his grip, she lurched sideways, scooting awkwardly without her hands in a pretense to escape.

Van caught her neck with h

is sneaker and slammed her face against the brittle soil, holding her cheek to the earth with the weight of his foot.

“Whoa. Lower the guns,” he said, and the press of his shoe vanished. “Don’t worry about her face. It isn’t her best feature.”

Fucking cocksucker.

She shrank into a fetal position, cowering in the curl of her shoulders, and feigned a series of breathy sobs. What she really wanted to do was tug down the blindfold and take inventory of the men and their weapons.

“Which one of you Zorros is in charge?” Van asked.

Zorros. He was telling her they wore masks. Clever. She might see their faces eventually, but Van would walk away without their identities.

It’ll be okay. I have the GPS chip.

“Call me Jefe,” a man said from twenty-some-feet away, his voice soft and raspy. “She’s a virgin?”

He carried an accent, a tincture of south of the border, where Jefe meant Boss. But there were a lot of Hispanics in Texas. He could’ve been her neighbor, her gynecologist, or the guy who bagged her groceries.

“She says she’s a virgin, but I didn’t check.” Van’s sneakers scuffed in place. “I didn’t want to go prodding around and break something.”

Vile amusement slithered through his voice, but no one laughed.

Dumbasses. A girl could be a virgin without an intact hymen. Lots of things could stretch or tear it. Horseback riding, water skiing, doing the splits, vibrators…

“Where’s the money, Jefe?” Van asked, all humor gone.