“Tate’s not in there for himself.” Van rolled the toothpick to the corner of his mouth. “He’s in there for his girl. He needs to flex his strength, make some threats, and prove to Tiago he’s willing to do anything to protect her.”
“Men,” Lucia mumbled.
Kate shifted back to the door, aching to be on the other side. “Is there a first-aid kit around here?”
“I think so. Hang on.” Lucia strode down the hall and returned a few minutes later with a bag of supplies, water bottles, and clean towels.
“Thank you.” Kate gathered it in her arms and waited.
Another five minutes passed before the door swung open.
Tate stepped out, and his bloodshot eyes darted to Lucia. As Kate tried to squeeze past him, he caught her around the waist and enveloped her in a hug.
“Get him out of here before I start hating him again.” He kissed the top of her head and let her go.
That sounded promising. Kind of.
Matias exited next, his expression brooding as he pressed a keyring into her hand. “He doesn’t leave this cell.”
Her heart burst into a gallop, and she darted into the room, swallowing down a month’s worth of stress and tears.
Don’t cry. Don’t fall apart.
Matias closed the door behind her and sounded the dead bolt.
Her attention turned to Tiago, and her entire world filled with his harsh, imposing presence.
“Kate.”
That deep, rich, dark timbre resonated in her soul. She felt his voice, really felt it, and in that moment, she experienced the truest form of freedom.
She had choices, endless choices and paths, and she picked him, willingly, freely.
Sitting on the floor with his hands shackled between his back and the wall, he watched her with an intensity that sucked the air from the room. The weight of his abrasive gaze ground against her, rubbing and heating her everywhere, his silence thick and penetrating, sinking inside her and pulling her toward him.
“What if I told you I tried to let you go?” He licked his lips. “Would you believe me?”
She shook her head, more in confusion than in answer. “Did you try to let me go?”
“Fuck no.” He laughed, a cruel, humorless sound. “Never, Kate. Not even in death.”
The tears she tried to keep in check rose, blurring her vision as she lowered to her knees beside him.
“I have so many questions. Things to tell you.” She dumped the supplies on the floor and fumbled with the key. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Start with getting me out of these fucking restraints.” He shifted, giving her access to his arms. “I need you. Christ, I just need to feel you.”
She twisted the key into the metal cuffs, and the instant they fell off, he dragged her onto his lap and captured her mouth with his.
The contact burned flames of hunger and energy around them, powering through her in billows of panting breaths.
Their tongues swept together, connecting, releasing, and chasing in frenzied lashes. Hands sailed everywhere, exploring and reacquainting with every muscle, scar, and curve of bone.
How strange and wonderful to feel his beard scratching her face. To feel his hands on her body. To taste his dark, minty essence on her tongue.
He was actually here.
Alive.
Growling.
Biting.
Mine.
When they came up for air, their gazes clung, neither of them blinking or speaking. There was so much to say, but she wanted to bask in the moment, let it settle through her, and commit every glorious detail to memory.
She sketched a thumb along the puckered, lifted scars that curved from his eye to the side of his skull. Her touch lowered to his beard, scraping through the thick, wiry black hairs.
Questions bubbled up, spooling and unraveling in her throat, but what came out first were the most important words she’d ever spoken.
“I love you.”
“What?” He stopped breathing, his expression stark and unbelieving.
“I love you.”
His eyes closed, and his head tipped back, as if the impact of her confession was too much.
“I love you, Tiago Badell.”
He pulled in a broken breath. Relief melted across his face, and his shoulders and back lost strength and tension.
No lover had ever given him those words. It was perhaps the one thing he’d always wanted and never thought he could have.
When his eyes found hers again, he opened his demanding mouth, but no sound came out. It seemed she’d stolen his voice.
Straddling his lap, she gathered the water, towels, and antiseptic. Then she cleaned his wounds, starting with the cuts on his face.
She glided the towel across his wide shoulders, down the lines of his strong neck, and around the deep cut of muscles that sculpted his chest.
His weight loss was most evident in the flat terrain of his abdomen. Fewer ridges lined his lower stomach, and his hipbones protruded from his narrow waist, sharper than normal beneath the waistband of his briefs.
But the strength of him wasn’t defined by bone and muscle. His power circulated behind his eyes and charged through his voice. She’d never come in contact with a more overbearing, viciously beautiful man.