Tate crossed the kitchen and leaned into her space, his arm braced on the wall behind her.
Her eyes fluttered closed as the scent of his skin permeated the inches between them. His masculine proximity charged her nerve endings and heated her blood. He smelled balmy like a summer afternoon in the grove. Like a breeze ripened with the aroma of lemons and loam. Like the Texan sunshine when it emblazoned his hazel eyes—
She looked up, her gaze colliding with Tate’s icy blue glare.
“What’s going on with you?” He bent his knees, putting them nose to nose.
A dull throb swelled between her legs, engaging her inner muscles. “I need to get laid.”
She needed so much more than the fleeting relief of an orgasm, but she’d settle for a kiss from a man who cared enough to give her one.
His gaze fell, heavy with regret. He didn’t have to read her mind to know what she really wanted. Hands bound, ass spanked, hard, brutal fucking—they’d discussed her desires in detail until it’d become a laughable tirade. But that only made the stricken look on his face harder to stomach. He knew how goddamn lonely and hungry she was, and still, he rejected her.
She knew he was attracted to her, but he shut down whenever she approached the subject. Maybe her tastes were too dark for him, too much like what he’d endured. Or maybe they weren’t dark enough.
“We only have two days.” She ducked around him and headed toward the garage. “We need to talk about what happens next.” A plan that was guaranteed to receive a concerted fuck no from him and the others.
After gathering everyone in the living room, she explained how she intended to use Larry McGregor’s information to infiltrate the human trafficking network in Austin.
Anticipating the most resistance from Tate, she paced the edge of the room, eyes trained on his bowed head as she outlined the initial steps. He didn’t move from the chair by the windows, his gaze glued to the floor.
Van didn’t show the same restraint.
“You’ve lost your fucking mind.” His entire body bunched and flexed as he balled his hands into fists. He probably would’ve leapt from the couch if Amber wasn’t sitting on his lap. “You want me to sell you? As a slave?”
Liv and Josh sat side by side on the love seat. Their rigid postures, narrowed eyes, deeply furrowed brows—they looked like Bonnie and Clyde’s disapproving cousins.
Camila pursed her lips. They didn’t have to like it. They didn’t even need to be here.
“We don’t know who these people are.” Van dragged a hand across the scar on his cheek, his tone harsh. “And you want me to just show up and hand you over? First off, they’re expecting Larry McGregor.”
“They’re expecting a girl, tied-up and blindfolded.” Camila lifted her chin, even as her insides rioted at the idea. “Larry could’ve sent anyone to deliver her.”
“Okay, fine, but you’re like…what?” Van sneered. “Thirty-years old? One look at you, and they’ll laugh their fucking asses off. Right before they cut out your throat.”
“Despégala pues!” Her face caught fire. “I’m twenty-eight, dickhead.”
“He doesn’t mean it,” Tate said softly. He didn’t raise his head, but his eyes drifted upward and locked on Van. “She could pass as eighteen, and you know it. Look at her. They’d pay double the asking price to get their hands on her.”
A heavy feeling sank in her stomach. She wasn’t surprised Tate defended her, but she’d expected a godawful fight from him. No way was he okay with her plan.
“They trade in untouched, underage pussy.” Van folded his arms around Amber, taking her with him as he leaned forward, his glower carved from stone. “Have you forgotten how I know that, Tate?”
“Not one person in this room has forgotten who you are, Van.” Tate bolted from the chair and faced the wall of windows.
Arms across his chest, spine stiff, Tate stared out into the darkness. Or maybe he was glaring at his reflection. She knew he hated the way he looked, but he hated Van more for capturing him because he was attractive.
Van closed his eyes, his expression unreadable. Amber curled tighter against his chest and whispered in his ear. Across the room, Josh reached for Liv’s hand and pulled it into his lap.
They had all been Van’s slaves once. And there were more at home—Ricky, Tomas, Luke, Martin, and Kate—all nursing their own invisible wounds under Camila’s roof. She didn’t spend as much time with Van as she did with the others, but the dynamic between him and his former captives was improving, slowly adapting into something a little less hostile.
Van had been the one to initiate a truce. The money Mr. E had collected—the payments from buyers who didn’t live long enough to indulge in their purchases—totaled in the millions. Van could’ve hoarded that money after Liv killed Mr. E, and maybe he did keep some of it. But he’d given an ungodly amount to the nine people he’d abducted and tortured.
Camila’s share funded her vigilantism. Did that mean she owed him her forgiveness? She wasn’t sure she’d ever reach that level of acceptance, and she wasn’t the only one.
Every person in the room fought inner battles, their fears birthed in the same attic, their perspectives cut by the same whip. Tragedy had shackled them together, but when the locks fell away, they remained unified in their soul-deep appreciation for freedom. They understood one another in a way no one outside their group could.
That intimate camaraderie was palpable now in the stillness that enveloped them. The silence didn’t isolate her. It connected her to them, her fellow survivors, her fighters, her closest friends.
“Camila wasn’t underage,” Tate said, glancing over his shoulder at Van. “She was seventeen when you took her. When you chose her.”
Not helping. Camila pinched the bridge of her nose. “Tate—”
“I didn’t choose her.” Van addressed Tate, but his eyes drilled into hers.
“What do you mean?” A chill hit her core.
“I was given your identity,
