Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96167 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 481(@200wpm)___ 385(@250wpm)___ 321(@300wpm)
If she fucked, it was in secret and beyond the reach of his cameras.
She sat up and looked at the cabin. “Before I go…” She climbed to her feet, her voice quiet, serious. “I told you what I was afraid of, but you didn’t tell me. What haunts you?”
“You.” He gripped the back of his neck, eyes fastened on the screen. “Your fear of us. When are you going to step inside and show it your teeth?”
“Will I need a flashlight? Or a gun?”
“Neither.” He sharpened his tone. “Tell me when.”
“Someday, maybe.”
“Not good enough.” He drummed his fingers on the console.
“Someday, later.”
“No—”
She ended the call.
Fuck.
Someday was the right answer. She just didn’t know how soon. Everything was finally falling into place, giving him the opening he’d waited years for.
He wouldn’t be leaving Austin without her.
CAMILA SLIPPED INTO THE cabin and kicked off her flip-flops. What the fuck was that?
Her hands shook, her skin fevered, and a deep ache pulsed between her thighs. Not just because she wanted him. Because she’d heard the desire thick in his breath.
As she headed toward the kitchen, muffled voices drifted from the direction of the garage. Christ, she needed to pull herself together before she went in there.
Curling her fingers into her palms didn’t stop the trembling. Damn Matias Guerra to hell! Was it not enough that he’d abandoned her and taken her heart with him? Evidently, the prick wasn’t finished tormenting her.
She could’ve handled the questions he used to throw at her, had been prepared to redirect and volley them back. But his are you afraid tactic? It was dirty and below the belt.
Only he knew how to dig through her tough exterior, grab hold of her fears, and force her to examine them. She shouldn’t have called him back, but like a scab itching to be picked, her obsession with the past overruled her need to heal.
His gravelly timbre had rolled time in reverse, his words transporting her to the safety of the citrus grove. It was as if she’d been talking to him, the boy who showed her how to make a slingshot fork from an orange tree, how to swallow while kissing to avoid unwanted saliva, how to do so many unforgettable things, like fall in love, the conchudo!
She paused in the kitchen, brushed the dust off her jeans, and attempted to straighten out her thoughts. Eighteen-year-old Matias never kept secrets from her. But the man he’d become was a mysterious, unreachable black hole.
Maybe she was just as closed off as he was, but he at least knew what she was involved in. Since the day she’d escaped, she’d told him she was killing slave buyers while he told her absolutely nothing.
Was he still involved with the armed thugs who’d taken him away twelve years ago? Or had he moved on to something worse? Something so awful he wouldn’t, couldn’t, share anything personal with her?
“Why didn’t you come back for me?” she whispered, gripping the edge of the counter.
Why did his secrecy feel like a betrayal? Like he’d chosen his sacred thug life over her?
If he loved her, he would’ve returned for her, taken her with him, and prevented everything that followed. The attic, the bone-deep bruises, the chains of isolation, and the darkness that still pervaded her thoughts, following her everywhere. No, not following. Smothering.
That was the rub, wasn’t it? She’d trusted him to protect her, to always be there, and he’d deserted her, left her to her fate.
She massaged her temples. Why was she wallowing in this quagmire of imaginary angst? It felt a whole lot like self-pity, a bullshit mentality she refused to subscribe to. She’d never been a victim, didn’t need protection or rescuing, and sure as hell didn’t need a dick to get herself off.
What she needed was a mind-numbing drink.
A quick sweep through Van’s cabinets uncovered an impressive collection of tequila. Praise Jesus. Popping off the cap, she drank straight from the bottle. Ah, God, it was the good stuff. Smooth and crisp, the agave slid down her throat like peppery, sweet water.
A few sips turned into a few more. She drank until her tongue tingled and her nerves dulled. She drank until the front door opened.
It snicked shut, and footsteps echoed through the cabin. Tate emerged around the corner, eyed the bottle, and winged up an eyebrow.
“Trouble in Crazy Town?” He nodded at the garage door, where the murmur of their former captors filtered through.
“Nope.” She capped the bottle and put it away.
“Your phone call?” His forearms flexed at his sides. “The body—”
“Will be taken care of.” She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Or maybe she bounced.
The alcohol buzzed through her veins at a nice, even keel. Not enough to make her stupid, but it was doing its job. Tate’s judgmental scowl had zero effect on her giveafuckometer.