Devastate (Deliver 4)

A glance over his shoulder confirmed she was bent at the sink with her back to him. He removed the bugs, pulled a fully charged one from his pocket, and adhered it to the arched underside of her heeled shoe.

The location was less noticeable, and since the audio quality was so good, he could adjust the receiver to tune out the tread of her footfalls.

If he told her about the listening devices, it would add another burden on her shoulders. He didn’t want her walking into Badell’s domain every day worrying about being wired. He also didn’t want her filtering her conversations.

With the new bug on the sole of her shoe, he moved the mattress to butt up against the front door, checked the lock, and set his gun and knife beside the bed where he would sleep.

“The guards never come inside,” she said from the sink. “They don’t even stand near the door.”

After watching the alley from his apartment window, he knew the guards usually hung out down the street. But he wasn’t taking chances. If someone tried to push their way in, the door would bump the mattress and wake him. He would also make sure they kept their voices at a whisper.

Moving to the shower, he turned it on and adjusted the water temperature.

There was no curtain, no privacy whatsoever, but did she need that with him? She’d had her mouth on his cock, his cock in her pussy, his hands and lips all over her body.

“Has the nausea passed?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I’ll help you with the shower.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

Dignity. Despite her frailness, she glowed with it.

“I’m not leaving.” He stared into her honey-brown eyes.

“I know.” She stared right back.

Gripping the hem of her shirt, she pulled it over her head. The bra and jeans went next. Then she hooked her thumbs under the elastic of her black panties, slid them off, and carried them under the spray of the shower.

He meant to turn away and give her space, but he couldn’t unglue his shoes from the floor, couldn’t avert his greedy gaze from her body.

Bones protruded along her ribs and hips, but toned layers of muscles flexed in her arms, abs, and legs as she washed her panties.

She’s washing her underwear in the shower?

“Is that the only pair you own?” He glanced at her skimpy stack of clothes and didn’t see undergarments.

“The other pair ripped, so…” She stared at the worn scrap of satin and shrugged. “This is it.”

“Give them to me.”

When she handed them over, he scrubbed them in the sink, taking care with the delicate, thinning fabric. Then he hung them on the doorknob to dry. “Anything else need washing?”

“Not tonight.” She lathered bubbles through her hair and over her fragile curves, spreading the small dollop of soap impossibly far.

The impoverished way she lived seemed so disturbingly normal to her, but she hadn’t been raised this way. Her parents had been successful citrus farmers and had given her a comfortable upbringing. Until they sold her into slavery.

It infuriated him to think that over the past eleven years, she’d adapted to hardship to the point that it didn’t even faze her.

As she continued her shower, watching him watch her, a fog of complicated questions hung between them. Questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

Did he want to get to know her romantically?

Could he be with her without thinking about her sister?

Would she resent his feelings for Camila?

Was it wrong to want her on such a carnal, animalistic level?

He couldn’t stop thinking about fucking her again. Her gorgeous tits looked so damn appetizing. Round and firm with stiff pink nipples, they were perfect for biting and pinching and bruising.

His mouth watered, and blood surged to his cock, swelling his length at a painful angle behind the zipper.

“You’re staring,” she said.

He snapped his gaze to hers and glared unapologetically.

“What are you thinking about?” She ran her hands through her hair, rinsing the soap.

“You don’t want to know.”

“I can guess.” She gave his erection a pointed look. “Tell me.”

A conversation about her and him and Camila was a minefield he didn’t want to tread, but sex was different. Lust was simple and clear-cut.

He clasped his hands behind him and gave her an honest answer. “You have great tits.”

She glanced down and made a face. “I imagine they’re a lot smaller than Camila’s.”

Well, that fucking backfired.

“They fill my hands,” he said. “What more do I need?”

“Camila’s?”

He pulled in a long breath. She wasn’t going to let this go. If it made her happy, she could ask her questions, and he’d answer them. But first, he wanted her comfortable and fed.

“Time’s up.” He shut off the water and searched the room for a towel. “What do you dry off with?”

“Air dry.” She squeezed out her hair and swiped the water off her arms.

Swallowing a string of explicits, he yanked off his shirt and used it to dry her shivering body. “You can’t live like this.”

“I get by.”

With his hands grazing across her soft skin and her pussy inches from his face, he would’ve been wildly turned on under other circumstances. And he was. But his mind was stuck in a whirlwind.

She had a partial roll of toilet paper, toothpaste, soap, and a razor for shaving. She needed shampoo, underwear, basic pain medication, a fucking towel, and… What about feminine products?

“Where are your tampons? Pads?” he asked.

Her hand flew to his, where he wiped the wadded shirt across her stomach.

“I don’t…” She made a sound in her throat and stepped out of his reach. “I don’t need that.”

A fist of dread clamped his insides. “Why not?”

“I haven’t had a period since the accident.” She grabbed a t-shirt from the pile of clothes and pulled it on.

No period in eleven years? Were her female organs damaged? Removed? Or was it stress? Malnutrition? An IUD? Having been raised in a brothel, he had an in-depth knowledge of monthly cycles, hormones…all the female stuff. If she couldn’t conceive, the destruction would reach far beyond a physical injury.

Everything inside him thrashed to demand answers, but he remained silent, motionless. It was one of those instincts he depended on, and it was telling him not to push her on this.

She seemed to have shut down, moving robotically through the apartment, straightening and organizing with no purpose. Pausing at the sink, she ran hot water until steam floated into her face. Her hand trembled as she reached for a paper cup and tried to unwrap a pouch of tea.

He went to her, taking over the task. The water wasn’t hot enough to steep the leaves, but it was the only option. Once the tea was prepared, he lifted her onto the counter, set the cup in her hand, and molded her fingers around it. Then he fixed her something to eat.

Her silence pressed against him, but at least she was drinking. Dehydration was one thing he could control in this fucked-up situation.

There were no plates, so he arranged the sandwich and strawberries on the counter beside her. Then he crowded into her space, pushing against her knees until she spread them.

Wedged between her legs, he lightly stroked her damp hair and waited.

She drank half of the tea before she set it aside and closed her eyes. “I remember the crash in Peru. The falling sensation as we rolled. The bodies slamming against me. Bones being crushed. The sharp scent of blood.” Her fingers skated over her midsection, shaking as she traced the scar. “And the pain…”

He felt it, the terrible hurt in her voice, as if he were living in the memory with her. It hit him right in the chest, and he clenched his jaw until his molars protested.

“I blacked out before I saw what impaled me.” Her tone flattened, becoming deta

ched. “I don’t remember much of the next year with all the surgeries and sleep-inducing drugs. After that, Tiago kept me locked in a room. A suite in the old hotel. He didn’t let me out for eight years.”

“He what?” Fury hit him like a thunderbolt, ringing his ears and scattering his breaths.

“I was a prisoner.” She lifted a shoulder. “He could’ve killed me. God knows why he didn’t.”

The impulse to hit something simmered beneath his skin. The next best thing would’ve been a cigarette, but he couldn’t smoke here and risk the smell alerting the guards.

He pulled away from her and paced.

“He visited me every day,” she said. “Always ate with me. Dinner was our thing. Still is. It’s like he doesn’t have anyone to talk to, no one he trusts anyway, and I was a safe ear since I was locked in a room with no contact with the outside world.”

“When did you get sick?”

“During my isolation in that room. After the accident, the abdominal pain never went away. Then it spread, and new symptoms emerged. The headaches, nausea, muscle paralysis… It started happening about once a month. Increased to once a week. Then daily. Some days were better than others. It took his doctors months to diagnose me and develop a treatment. When Tiago eventually freed me from that room, I was sick every day and… Well, I was never free. Not with the guards.” She gestured at the door. “I’ve made several attempts to escape, only to get hauled back and deprived of medicine until the only thing that could save me was a ventilator.”

His nostrils widened with the force of his seething breaths. “Lucia…”

“I made contact with a doctor once, someone who didn’t have his hands in Tiago’s pockets. I met him at his house outside of the neighborhood. A gentle, kind man—he was willing to help me for free. But we didn’t get past the medical questions before Tiago’s men showed up and…” She clutched the hem of her shirt and stretched it to her knees, covering her thighs. “They cut off his arms and made me watch as he bled to death.”