Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Outside, the wind picked up, and with it came the first plops of rain. It would be dark soon, and she’d be forced to endure another night without answers.
She stepped away from the window and shouted, “Tiago—”
The door creaked open, shooing away the shadows in the corridor.
Footsteps sounded. The clink of dishes. Then the elderly man emerged, balancing empty plates as he closed the door behind him.
“Why won’t he come out?” She rushed forward and jerked when the rope caught. “I just want to talk.”
He ambled past her, keeping to the farthest wall, beyond the perimeter of her tether.
Vertical scars marred his face, two old cuts on each cheek, perfectly aligned, almost decorative. It was as if he’d them put them there intentionally.
With a blank expression and eyes fixed on the door to the stairs, he moved in that direction, giving her no acknowledgment, not a twitch, like she wasn’t even there.
“Just tell me what he wants.” Blood pounded in her skull.
He reached the exit and uttered a foreign word. A command not intended for her.
Locks clanked on the other side. The door opened, and a scruffy-bearded guard stepped to the side.
Instead of leaving, the old man turned, lifted his wrinkled face, and rested glassy eyes on her.
“Please.” She pulled on the rope. “Untie me. Just let me go.”
For the first time since she arrived, he opened his mouth and addressed her in a heavily accented voice. “He’s ready to see you.”
No shit?
Oh, shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
Her body went taut against an ice-cold shiver, and the hairs on her nape stood on end.
Don’t freak out. Don’t fucking lose it.
Sweeping her gaze to the dark corridor, she drew in a slow breath.
This was what she wanted. A conversation with the dickhead in charge. Answers. Reassurances. Negotiations.
But none of that was a guarantee. After watching those videos with Tate, she had only one certainty to go on.
Tiago Badell tortured his prisoners.
A tremor unfurled inside her, crashing its way along her arms and legs.
How badly would he hurt her? How long would it last? Hours? Days? Would he let her live? Would she want to?
The elderly man mumbled something that sounded like Spanish, prompting the guard to step into the room. The massive man strode toward her, removed a pocket knife, and before she could blink, he sliced through the rope between her wrists and the ceiling.
Her arms dropped, and the sudden freedom made her gasp.
As the guard returned to the stairwell, she tensed at the opportunity to attack him from behind. Should she do it? Could she overpower him and get away?
He was twice her size, armed with a knife, and her wrists were still tied together. The old man hovered in the doorway, physically frail, but those cloudy eyes watched her with unsettling strength, as if reading her thoughts.
The odds stacked against her, but whatever happened, she wouldn’t go down without a fight.
On the heels of that thought, she flung herself toward the guard, her bound arms raised to loop around the guard’s neck.
He turned before she made contact, his hand already flying. Meaty knuckles met her jaw and sent her head whirling sideways.
She staggered, momentarily stunned by the jolt of pain. After a soundless choke, she recovered, found her bearings, but not quickly enough.
The door shut with a resounding click.
“Fuck.” She raced toward it and yanked on the handle.
Locked.
“Fuck you!” she screamed. Then groaned. Not helpful, Kate.
That left the other door.
She trembled to summon movement in her legs, her ears pricked for footsteps in the corridor.
He’s ready to see you.
Thunder boomed. Rain pelted the window, and her heart drummed an unruly dirge in her ears.
Apparently, Tiago was too high and mighty to come to her. Whatever. She would go to him, because her curiosity demanded it. But she refused to trudge in there with shaking limbs and hunched shoulders. If he was anything like Van Quiso, her fear would give him a hard-on.
A shudder rippled through her, and she snapped her spine straight.
The only power she possessed here was that over her own emotions. She allowed Van to use her terror to control her and wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Rolling back her shoulders, she stood taller, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply.
She survived Van’s cruelty. The experience didn’t break her. It made her sharper, tougher, and really goddamn angry.
Fuck Van for molesting her, beating her until she bled, and ordering her to suck his dick day in and day out. And fuck Tiago Badell for ripping away her freedom, shoving her into isolation for a month, and summoning her like an object.
Rage scorched through her veins and spurred her into motion.
Her bare feet slapped across the gritty stone floor, her body clad in one of the sleeveless, unfitted rags they provided. The thin gray linen covered her from chest to knees, but if she stood in the right light, the fabric would be transparent.