Disclaim (Deliver 3)

As she glared at him, her seductive eyes seemed to fight an internal war, demanding answers while begging him to tell her this was all a big misunderstanding.

He wouldn’t tell her shit. Showing her over the coming months, one agonizing day at a time, was the only way they would come out of this whole and together.

What was taking the guys so long? Matias glanced through the windshield and spotted a rangy silhouette crawling under the turboprop. Must’ve been Chispa, their explosives guy. If there was a bomb on-board, he’d find it.

Camila slammed her head forward and bit his shoulder through the shirt.

He jerked her back by the hair, holding her face inches away as he scowled. Jesus, fuck, he wanted to rip into her.

She jutted out her chin, holding his gaze with a voracious amount of attitude while whispering under her breath, “Who do you work for?”

Right about now, she was probably more concerned about what the other men knew about her and her dangerous ruse. There was so much she didn’t understand about her situation, and she wasn’t ready to learn the depths of his role in it. Keeping her in the dark was the only way this would work.

And the things he would do to her in the dark… He imagined trussing her up on a suspension beam, burying his teeth in her perfect rack, and pounding his cock into the clench of her sinful body. Dios mío, she had a knockout figure, with curves to hold on to and toned strength to withstand his cruelest, most sinister appetites.

He ached to unleash the violence inside him, to spread her open and let her feel what the last twelve years had done to him.

Instead, he pinned her hands behind her back and crashed his mouth against hers.

She held her breath, lips pinched, but he pried them apart with his tongue and buried it in the wet heat of her mouth.

Growling against her lips, he thrilled in her struggle, in the way she sank into the kiss while twisting her arms to get away. She could fight her desire, but she couldn’t disclaim their unbreakable bond, one that had taken root so long ago in the haven of their citrus grove.

A moan vibrated in her throat as she stretched her mouth and drew his lip between hers, sucking and licking, gnashing and biting.

Electricity surged through his groin and tightened his balls as he devoured the furious lashes of her tongue. She tasted like home, warm and sugary, nourishing and his.

The soft familiarity of her lips fueled his arousal while the rigid resistance in her body heated his muscles with aggression. Fucking hell, he got off on her torment, on the stiffness of her spine and the frantic rise and fall of her tits. It only made the slide of her hungry lips taste sweeter, more rewarding.

He ruthlessly ate at her mouth, and she gave it right back, her tongue seeking and whipping with all the mistrust, anger, and years lost between them. Her frenzied inhales quickened his own, their breaths crashing together as her fingernails scratched at his hands.

It had been twelve years since he kissed a woman, and she’d been only a girl then with gangly limbs and tiny breasts. Kissing her now blew away the memories. There was no more shyness, no restraint or inexperience…

Resentment barbed inside him, puncturing holes in his unraveling control. How many men had she kissed? Sucked? Fucked? His vision blurred in smears of red. He needed vindication and intended to take it from her pleading screams, from the give of her body beneath his thrusts. Pain and pleasure. Twisted justice.

Not yet.

He tore his mouth away and shoved her off his lap, gasping with the fury of his breaths.

Her gaze flew to the window. Confirming no one was watching? She looked back at him, lips swollen and eyes smoldering. “Fuck you.”

“Careful, Camila. You don’t—”

She launched at him, teeth bared and fists swinging.

He subdued her easily, wrapping her shackled arm around her torso with her back pressed against his chest.

“Let me go, you fucking traitor.”

He covered her mouth with his palm, fingers gripping her jaw shut, as he angled her face toward the window. “You promised Nico you’d be a good girl.”

She froze, attention glued to the back of Nico’s shirt, and choked an indiscernible sound against his fingers.

He released her mouth.

“Jefe is…Nico…” Her free hand touched the glass, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Nico Restrepo? As in capo of the Restrepo cartel?”

Of course, she knew the name, but not because her parents had been Colombian. Anyone who watched the news knew about the ongoing conflict between the notorious kingpin and law enforcement officials in the U.S. and Colombia.

What she didn’t know was that the Restrepo cartel had played an instrumental part in her captivity eleven years ago. He needed to guard that secret until she was mentally and emotionally prepared to hear why he was still embedded in the crime family that had banished her to chains.

“Oh my God.” She dropped her head in her hand, her expression veiled by the tangled mess of her black hair. “This isn’t just some local slave ring.”

Not even close. She was headed bowels-deep into Colombia’s most powerful criminal organization.

“You work for the fucking Restrepos?” She twisted on his lap and searched his eyes. “All this time?”

He flattened his lips into a line, knowing she couldn’t handle the truth.

“What’s your position exactly? VP of Shipping and Receiving?” She jerked on the handcuff. “Director of Human Slavery?”

Her jaw set in the defiant way that had always made him hard. He dug his fingers into her skin and tried to ignore the roll of her hips over his agonizing erection.

“Oh, right.” She tipped her chin up, wearing a corrosive smile. “Even now, those questions are off limits. But you knew I’d be here? You planned this?”

He rapped on the window, anxious to get her across the border and show her what he thought of her questions. He hadn’t expected her to confess the reason she was here, but whatever scheming she was still doing in that gorgeous head of hers was pointless. Her fate was sealed.

Nico broke away from his conversation with the pilot, and she instantly hunched her shoulders forward, head down, quivering like the mousy little girl she wasn’t. Nico opened Matias’ door, concealed by his ski mask and casual clothing, all safety precautions to protect his identity—not from Camila, but from anyone who might’ve been watching.

“Listo?” Matias tightened his grip on her stiffening body.

“Ready for what?” Her voice cracked.

“Something came up.” Nico glanced over his shoulder at the plane and returned to Matias. “W

e’re modifying the route.”

Wasn’t uncommon. Transfers and layovers changed with the intel. Sudden DEA activity, rival gangs mobilizing, anything could’ve compromised their scheduled stopover.

“Chispa’s done with his sweep.” Nico stepped back. “She’s next.”

Matias didn’t give her time to fight, hauling her out of the SUV and tossing her over his shoulder. She felt willowy in his arms, but not delicate, not like the tiny girl he used to hoist one-handed into orange trees.

Stifling the twinge of remembrance, he crossed the field, lifted her into the eight-seat Cessna’s rear door, and set her on her feet. Inside, he pushed her head down, both of them ducking as he guided her past three rows of chairs and shoved her into the front seat.

She didn’t glance at the stripped-down interior, the exposed cockpit, or the absence of anything that could be used as a weapon. Her glare was all for him.

“Where are we going?” She tucked her shackled arm against her waist. “This hunk of metal won’t make it to Colombia.”

No, but their connecting flight would.

Removing a key from his pocket, he knelt before her and trapped her shins with his thighs. Then he unlatched the cuff from his wrist and locked her to the chair’s frame.

The tread of soft shoes sounded on the stairs behind him, followed by the scratch of a familiar voice. “Dejamos en cinco minutos.”

Turning, Matias met the cloudy eyes of their most trusted doctor, Picar. The old man’s hunched spine and stocky frame allowed him to pass through the cabin without too much bending. But his decrepit appearance was deceiving. Picar earned his name by the way he wielded a scalpel. Chop.

Matias shifted out of the way as Picar slipped by and settled into the seat across the aisle from Camila. A black bag sat on his lap, his gnarled hands rooting through it.

“Whose shirt is this?” Matias gripped the neckline hanging off her shoulder, gathering the foul-smelling material in his fist. “If you give me a name, I won’t torture him before I kill him.”

She averted her eyes to the window.

Van Quiso and Tate Vades were around the same size, but he bet it belonged to Tate. He didn’t put it past that bastard to send her off bathed in his own stink.