Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88918 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 296(@300wpm)
Tate blanked his expression. He didn’t know this man, didn’t trust the purpose of this visit.
“You have feelings for her. This, I know.” Matias hardened his clean-shaved jaw, his accent thickening. “Have you fucked her?”
Tate had been on his way to do just that. Of all the nights for his relationship with Camila to be questioned, why tonight? Why now? He narrowed his eyes into slits of suspicion.
“Answer me,” Matias said, his voice as black as his scowl.
“I fuck a lot of women.”
A lie. Tate hadn’t had sex since…
His nude body in shackles.
Van’s grunts. Musky sweat. Dry thrusts.
Stretching, ripping, violating his dark opening.
Blinding pain.
Shame. A lifetime of maddening shame.
“That’s a no then.” Matias visibly relaxed, briefly closing his eyes before whispering, “We both know that if you were fucking Camila Dias, there would be no other lovers.”
A protective jolt of anger spiked through Tate’s veins. “How do you know her?”
“We grew up together.”
“That’s funny.” Tate balled his hands on his lap. “She’s never mentioned you.”
“I don’t suppose she would.” Regret clouded Matias’ eyes. “I’m the one she calls to deal with the bodies.”
Stunned by his candor, Tate flicked his attention around the quiet bar. It was late, nearing closing time, and most of the patrons had shuffled home. The small table of women remained, their glasses empty and eyes still drifting in his direction. They were out of hearing range.
Near the exit, two men occupied a booth, sipping… Water? Vodka? He hadn’t noticed them before.
Black hair, dark complexions, and powerful physiques, they looked like they could be related to Matias. The way they subtly watched every movement in the bar left zero doubt they came here with him. Armed guards, most likely. Camila’s cartel connections.
Tate removed the phone from his pocket. He didn’t want to alarm her or involve her in whatever this was, but he needed confirmation—
“Set the phone on the table.” Matias flashed his teeth, his grin devoid of amusement.
It wasn’t the words that lowered Tate’s gaze. It was the long blade of a knife pressing against his inner thigh, sharp enough to slash denim, skin, and muscle, with the pointy end a hairbreadth from his balls.
His pulse hammered. Would the bastard neuter him? Right here in the bar? The glint in those cold eyes said, Yes.
The server approached, dropping off the beer and vodka, oblivious to the tension coiling beneath the table. “Can I get you anything else?”
“We good?” Matias arched an inky brow at Tate.
“We’re good.” Tate placed the phone on the table.
When the server left, the knife retreated.
“Hear me out,” Matias said, “and I won’t kill you.”
“Comforting.”
“Two months ago, she called me to collect a body.”
Van Quiso’s body. Tate gritted his teeth through a torrent of conflicting emotions. Van was a sadist, a rapist, the very monster that inhabited Lucifer himself. But something had changed in him around the time he was shot and left to die. He’d withdrawn from sex trafficking, avenged the wrongdoings against his first slave, Liv Reed, and left her the money he’d earned through his vile operation.
Six million to be exact, which she split between Van’s nine slaves. Tate received $666,666. A fitting number from the devil incarnate.
“As you know,” Matias said, flaring his nostrils, “Van Quiso didn’t die from that gunshot wound. I arrived to find him driving away from the house where he imprisoned and tortured my girl.”
My girl. Tate’s stomach hardened, every muscle in his body coiling with denial.
“She’s mine, Tate.” Matias flexed his hand on the table. “I know he enslaved you in that house, as well. By my count, nine captives total over the past six years.”
“And each of those captives had buyers,” Tate said. “All of which are dead and the bodies never to be found, thanks to you.” That was as much gratitude as he was willing to give the man.
“Van Quiso should be among them. I wanted to gut the sick fuck when I saw him drive away.” Matias sipped from his glass. “But he was my only lead to discovering Camila’s whereabouts. She trusts me to dispose of the dead, but she doesn’t trust me with her location. So I followed Van. He led me to Liv Reed, who unwittingly took me right to Camila.”
Camila doesn’t know she’s been found. She’d been so careful about remaining hidden, evading the law and keeping her cartel connections at a distance.
“I’ve been watching her for a couple of months. Learning her habits, where she goes, what she does, who her closest friends are.” Matias met his eyes.
If that were true, he would know how committed Camila was in her pursuit to abolish human sex trafficking. She was so passionate about it she didn’t consider the danger she put herself in. But Tate did. Constantly. He adored her tenacity, marveled at her fearlessness, but keeping her alive and out of prison was an endless worry.