Take (Deliver 5)

Strange as it was, she seemed to be constantly aware of him, too, in the warning tingle across her skin, the rash of heat in her cheeks, and the hum of energy in her chest.

Outside his inner circle, however, no one was privy to the constant storm between them. No one knew she was the object of his dirtiest, darkest, most intimate desires, that she wore his scarred artwork, that she slept in his bed, or that he would kill anyone who tried to take her from him.

Her role at his compound was simply to look the part of Lucia’s replacement.

When he’d strapped an unloaded gun on her hip before they left, his expression had been strained so tightly with worry it bordered on anger.

He couldn’t stomach the thought of leaving her in the penthouse, where he couldn’t watch her. At the same time, it terrified him to take her into this world. He told her none of this, but words weren’t necessary. She read it in the intensity of his eyes and felt it vibrating from his anxious posture.

Maybe his protectiveness was a symptom of obsession. Or maybe it came from a place of twisted love.

He’d said the words. Three words no man had ever given her. But she couldn’t let his declaration sink its poisonous hooks into her psyche.

As long as he was her captor, love didn’t have a damn thing to do with it.

But as she followed him through the dark halls of his lair, she soared on wings of gratefulness. After being locked up for months, she was finally out, even if it meant wearing an unloaded gun and pretending to be one of his guards.

None of his men questioned her presence. In fact, they couldn’t seem to take their eyes off Tiago.

It had been three months since he’d shown his face here. Three months since they’d seen their leader alive and breathing, and he was really something to behold.

The dark stubble on his jaw accentuated his masculine bone structure as he spoke to them in Spanish, the soft J’s and double R’s rolling off his tongue with seductive authority.

Inky black hair raked back from his strong brow in tousled, spiky rebellion. Deliberately rebellious, as if every strand had been commanded into perfect disorder. She felt a disturbing urge to tangle her fingers in all that sexiness.

She’d recently trimmed the sides of his head, making the scars stand out in stark relief. They added a dangerous edge to his appearance, as if he needed more of that with his black jeans, leather jacket, and shit-kickers.

Strength and power radiated from him, and it wasn’t just for show. He’d returned to full health, exercised daily, and stood before his adherents with all the potency of a confident, merciless crime lord.

And so he was back to work. For the next week, he spent every waking moment at the compound, catching up with his men. She remained at his side from the second they left the penthouse to the moment they returned, sitting through business meetings held in languages she didn’t understand.

The night Tate walked out of the shack, Arturo returned to Caracas and resumed his position as her constant shadow. Between him, Tiago, and the hundreds of guards in his regime, escape was impossible.

By the second week, the bustle of Tiago’s return had calmed down. He found some time to give her a quiet tour of the old hotel floors, including the basement cells, where he’d held Tate and Van and countless other victims.

As his monotone voice recounted the things he’d done over the years, his expression lacked smugness and aggression. She hunted for hints of regret in his eyes, hoping to glimpse something human during his narration, but he remained guarded and closed-off.

Until he took her to the room where he used to sleep.

“This is it.” He shut the door behind her, leaving Arturo in the hall.

She paced through the sparse space, marking the empty safe, the bare mattress, and the wooden chair at the center.

“It’s almost an exact replica of your room in the desert.” She paused beside the dumbbell on the scarred floor, and her stomach caved in. “Except this.”

He leaned his back against the door and tilted his chin down, wearing a pensive, darker-than-usual expression. “She should’ve hit me one more time and made it count.”

“What?” Her head kicked back. “Why would you say that?”

“You think I deserve to be alive?” His jaw flexed, and his eyes lifted, glowering from beneath thick lashes. “Look around. This room sums up the last twelve years of my life.”

She scanned the impenetrable lock on the door, the empty bed, the scarred surfaces, the suffocating darkness, utter vacancy, and isolation.

Maybe the space defined his experiences, but it didn’t personify the man.

He’d committed unforgivable crimes. Heartless acts. But over the past few months, she’d come to realize Tiago Badell was in full possession of both a conscience and a heart.