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)
“Did something happen?” Dread curled in her gut, aggravating the nausea.
“There’s a spy in my neighborhood.” Tiago set his utensils down, casually dabbed his mouth with a napkin, and imprisoned her gaze. “Do you know anything about that?”
“No.”
It took every ounce of discipline she could muster to moderate her expression. Meanwhile, her heart clambered the rungs of her ribs and pounded a terrified howl in her throat.
Did he capture Tate? Was he holding him in the basement chamber to await an unspeakable night of torture?
Saliva rushed over her tongue, bringing with it the urgent need to throw up. Her sickness, nerves, fear—all of it rose up and contorted her face.
But Tiago didn’t notice, his attention locked on the man striding into the room.
Armando, her fellow torturer, paused beside Tiago’s chair and said in Spanish, “We have him.”
Her stomach bottomed out, and her blood turned to ice.
No, please, God. This can’t be happening.
The guns holstered in her waistband grew hot and heavy, begging her to reach for them. But a guard stood at her back, and two more bracketed the door.
“Muy bien.” Tiago stood and offered her his hand. “Shall we?”
Terror held her frozen in the chair. She could fight, but they were physically stronger. She had weapons, but they had more. If she died in this room, Tate would die, too.
He’s dead no matter what.
She needed to get the fuck out of there and alert Van. He could contact that Cole Hartman guy and… She didn’t know, but it was the only option she had, and Tiago was waiting.
She made her legs work, putting her weight on the heels as she hoisted herself from the chair. Her knees locked, and she took a wobbly step.
“Tiago… I think I’m…” Dizziness swept her into a spinning fog.
She clutched the table, careening sideways and catching herself before she hit the floor.
Fucking hell, she was going downhill quick. Her abdomen spasmed and clenched, and her head pounded. Her throat was so tight she couldn’t swallow. It felt like her insides were being wrung out and tied up. Everything hurt.
Tiago stared at her from a foot away, his bored expression growing blurrier with each heavy blink of her eyes.
Fuck him. I can do this.
Resisting the urge to puke, she pushed through the pain, straightened to her full height, and stepped toward him.
Only her legs didn’t move. She couldn’t feel them. Couldn’t feel her hands or her heartbeat. She swayed in the whirling room, battling to stay upright, and willing her body to cooperate.
Don’t give up on me. Please, not now. I can’t—
The floor fell out beneath her, and she plummeted into the black void of nothingness.
CHAPTER 19
Lucia woke to the sound of bloodcurdling screams. The strident howling echoed at a distance, but she knew it was coming from only feet away. Garbled and frothing with spit, it sounded like a dying animal. But as her senses focused and disorientation burned away, she realized it was a man in unfathomable pain.
Tate.
Fury snarled though her veins, surging her upright. The sudden motion knocked her off-balance, and she teetered, falling with the hard smack of her cheek against the concrete floor.
Pain burst behind her eyes. Overhead lights burned into her skull, and the scuff of rubber soles sounded near her head. She recognized the floor, the unforgiving glare of the fluorescents, and the reek of death that lived in the walls.
She couldn’t let the basement chamber claim its next victim.
Must get up. Protect him. Save him.
Rolling to her back, she immediately noticed her guns were missing. She tried to move her legs and couldn’t. Tried to focus her eyes and couldn’t. Tried to sit up and only made it to her elbows. The room was empty before her. All the activity was at her back—the guttural screams, the scrapes of multiple shoes, and the rattle of chains.
Swimming in a thick soup of lethargy, vertigo, and nausea, she mentally prepared herself. Given the rawness in his voice and the scent of blood and urine, the torture had been going on for a while.
“Welcome back.” Tiago stood behind her, bending over her head so he could smile at her upside down. “Still can’t move your legs?”
She couldn’t fucking feel her legs, and she was two seconds from retching all over his shoes.
He prowled into her line of sight, his shirt smeared with crimson stains and his index finger tipped with a razored claw.
The claw he used to carve pictures into flesh and muscle.
She despised him with such deep, searing, vile hatred it vibrated her bones and popped blood vessels behind her eyes.
“What have you done?” She choked on the bile rising in her throat, blinking back tears as she fumbled to shift her useless body toward the scene behind her.
Blood. It was everywhere, dripping from deep cuts in the hanging slab of breathing meat. The dissection was gruesome, and though she’d seen his macabre handiwork before, she still went into shock. Her nervous system shut down. Her lungs froze up, and her mind struggled to process the rivers of red and the stench of carnage.