Devastate (Deliver 4)

He glanced at Tate, and something passed between them.

“We don’t have time.” Tate feathered his fingertips across her stomach and paused on the hem of her shirt. “We’re leaving. But first, Van’s going to examine you and make you as comfortable as possible to travel.” He lifted her shirt, inching it toward her head without moving his eyes from hers. “I called Matias.”

“What?” Her lungs slammed together. “Camila knows? She knows I’m alive?”

“I just called him, but yeah, I’m sure she knows now.”

Anger shuddered through her. Not because Matias would take her away from her medicine. Her death was inconsequential. But she didn’t want Camila to experience it. Again.

The thought jabbed into her wounds and tore them open. “You shouldn’t have done that. Camila can’t—”

“Camila isn’t a fucking factor in this.” The harshness in his tone contradicted the delicate way he inched her shirt up and off.

“That’s bullshit.” Her frail voice failed to express her distress. “You’re here for her.”

“Not anymore.” The loaded press of his gaze sent her heart into a tailspin.

With a coughing smirk, Van left the bed and turned the water on at the sink.

“What does that mean?” she asked, aching to hear Tate say it, to taste the hope.

“I’m here for you and you alone.”

Just like that, her wish for death was laid waste in the promise that hovered between them. Maybe she could find a cure. Maybe she could see Camila again, and her sister wouldn’t have to mourn her death a second time.

Maybe Tate would love her the way he loved Camila.

She dreamed of a life where she could explore possibilities with him, where she could nurture their connection, grow it, and pour the entirety of her being into it. To do any of that, she needed to live.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, the injury on her cheek, and the trickle of tears spilling from her eyes. “The quickest Matias can get here is eight hours by helicopter. But he can’t get into the neighborhood. We have to go to him.”

Eight hours and she would be rid of this place.

Eight hours and I’ll be dead.

“I have time for one more injection if—”

“No. You’re not going near the compound.” He focused on her jeans, releasing the fly and gingerly sliding them off. “Are you still not able to feel your legs?”

“No, I can’t…” She searched his eyes, confused. “How did you know about that?”

Van returned with a wadded wet shirt and bottled water and removed two pills from the medical bag.

“For the pain.” He helped her swallow the medication while exchanging a silent look with Tate.

What were they not telling her?

She stared into Tate’s bloodshot eyes, wincing at the cut swelling his eyelid. “Why were you fighting?”

“I know what happened to you tonight. I was listening.” He worked his jaw, his expression pained. “You’ve been wearing a bug.”

He told her about the listening devices, how he planted them, how they worked, and why he hid them from her. His hands flexed as he detailed what he’d heard tonight and the fist fight that followed with Van.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am for failing to protect you.” His voice broke beneath a tide of torment.

Desolation flooded his expression, and it hurt her to see it. She let her eyes drift shut and tried to process everything he’d said.

She didn’t feel anger or resentment about being spied on. She felt…relieved. Safeguarded. Maybe even cherished. He didn’t have to watch over her like that, but he did. Because he was here for her.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He gave her hip a gentle squeeze and ghosted his fingers along the edge of her panties. “I need to remove these.”

She kept her eyes closed, knowing there was dried blood and come between her legs. Since he’d heard her struggle and ultimate defeat in the basement, he wouldn’t be surprised at what he found.

Once she was bare, he didn’t make a sound as he used the warm wet shirt to clean her. Then he and Van worked together, washing and nursing the worst of her injuries. The gash on her cheek needed stitches, as well as two across her ribs. Brutal knuckles, the concrete floor, the steel toe of a boot… She didn’t know which cruelty caused which wounds, but Van sewed them up. Considering he used to torture people for a living, she supposed he was an expert at tending injuries inflicted by a sadist.

As Van stitched, Tate wove his fingers through hers and kissed her hand. “Your paralysis is concerning, Lucia.”

She cracked open an eye. “What time is it?”

“Just after midnight. If you usually get your medicine at dawn, we have enough time to go to the nearest hospital and—”

“All three hospitals in Caracas are infiltrated with Tiago’s people. The doctors won’t treat me. He would kill them if they did.”

His eyes flashed dangerously. “Then we’ll find a hospital outside of the city.”

“Waste of time.”

“Dammit, Lucia. I’m not giving up.”

“This isn’t about giving up. The country is in a major health crisis. The shortage of medical supplies and hospital beds is so awful women are giving birth in the waiting rooms. Patients are dying on the bloodstained floors of hospital hallways after waiting days to see a doctor. I’ve seen the newspaper headlines. They have three percent of the supplies they need to treat people. Three percent, Tate.”

“Because of the limitations the President put on importations?” Van clipped the final stitch and packed up the medical bag.

“I think so,” she said. “As a result, the hospitals have nothing. I’ll be dead and cold long before I even get into an exam room.”

The simple act of talking had stressed her body. Parts deep inside her stabbed and burned, but she didn’t know what was damaged or how irreparable the damage was. The burning sensation in her gut spread outward, blanketing her skin in violent, sweaty chills. Her breathing labored, and her pulse weakened, as if her organs were shutting down. Soon, they would be of no use to her.

“I’m dying.”

“Not if I have something to say about it.” Tate released her hand, and his large frame retreated in the blotches of her vision.

As unconsciousness tried to claim her, his voice thrummed at the edges. He was on the phone, making angry demands and pacing through the room.

She floated in and out of awareness, shifting restlessly on the mattress in an attempt to escape the persistent pain. Tate’s voice continued in the background as Van dressed her. She welcomed the warmth of clothes, until she became too hot, too clammy. She was burning up.

Then Tate’s hands were there, smoothing back her hair and easing a cool damp cloth around her face.

“I just talked to Cole Hartman.” He touched a kiss to her lips. “He’s going to find a doctor outside of the city. Someone we can trust.”

Her chest lifted, filling with lofty wishes and greedy reveries. She wanted to scream her excitement and hug him until they both grunted with laughter, but the most she could offer was, “’kay. Thank you.”

“He’ll call back and let us know where to go. But we need to move. Get out of this neighborhood. Are you ready?”

“Can’t walk.” Her words sounded garbled and slurred.

“Shh. I have you.” He pulled a gun from the front of his jeans and twisted toward Van. “I’ll follow you out.”

Van stepped toward the passageway in the closet with a gun in his hand and a huge pack on his back.

Tate bent to lift her and stopped. “Did you hear that?”

The silence that followed strangled like a chokehold. Then Van said, “No—”

A deafening bang rattled the front door, and it blew open in an eruption of splintered wood.

Her heart stopped, and guns fired. A man screamed. More men swarmed in. Assault rifles and handguns and street clothes. Tiago’s

guards.

Tate stood over her, shooting, dodging, ducking, and shouting something at Van. Boots scuffed near the door. Bullets pelleted the wall. Then glass popped, and the lights went out.

Her vision fuzzed in the darkness, her brain sluggish, her entire body convulsing with panic and helplessness. She couldn’t stand, couldn’t defend him, and fear ate away her alertness.

She blindly stretched an arm across the mattress, seeking her Berettas as the gunfire began to slow.

“Van!” Tate lurched off the bed and slammed into something just as a shot rang out from the doorway.

Then silence.

Icy, dead, ominous silence.

She broke out in a cold sweat, trembling in her effort to stay conscious. “Tate?”

The rustle of clothes, tread of boots, beam of a flashlight—there were people in the room. Was Van among them?

“Tate?” She blinked, but her eyes wouldn’t work right. “Answer me.”

Where was he? What happened?