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)
But for now, she had him, his arms around her, his hand stroking her hair, and his unspoken intent to take care of her.
Tears leaked from her eyes and dripped into the cuts on her lips. It was neither sadness nor contentment, but rather the overwhelming weight of the past eleven years finally catching up with her.
He kissed her cheeks, nuzzling her skin. Then he shifted and cupped her head in his hands to position her on her back. The movement triggered an explosion of agony so sharp she thought she might puke.
“Fuck.” He bent over her, caressing her hair, and glanced over his shoulder. “Van.”
Footsteps approached, and the mattress dipped on her other side beneath Van’s weight.
“Where does it hurt?” Van slung a backpack off his shoulder and removed a huge zippered pouch with a medical logo on it.
“Everywhere. I think…” The constant pain trembled her voice, and she swallowed. “A shower would be nice if I had help.”
He glanced at Tate, and something passed between them.
“We don’t have time.” Tate feathered his fingertips across her stomach and paused on the hem of her shirt. “We’re leaving. But first, Van’s going to examine you and make you as comfortable as possible to travel.” He lifted her shirt, inching it toward her head without moving his eyes from hers. “I called Matias.”
“What?” Her lungs slammed together. “Camila knows? She knows I’m alive?”
“I just called him, but yeah, I’m sure she knows now.”
Anger shuddered through her. Not because Matias would take her away from her medicine. Her death was inconsequential. But she didn’t want Camila to experience it. Again.
The thought jabbed into her wounds and tore them open. “You shouldn’t have done that. Camila can’t—”
“Camila isn’t a fucking factor in this.” The harshness in his tone contradicted the delicate way he inched her shirt up and off.
“That’s bullshit.” Her frail voice failed to express her distress. “You’re here for her.”
“Not anymore.” The loaded press of his gaze sent her heart into a tailspin.
With a coughing smirk, Van left the bed and turned the water on at the sink.
“What does that mean?” she asked, aching to hear Tate say it, to taste the hope.
“I’m here for you and you alone.”
Just like that, her wish for death was laid waste in the promise that hovered between them. Maybe she could find a cure. Maybe she could see Camila again, and her sister wouldn’t have to mourn her death a second time.
Maybe Tate would love her the way he loved Camila.
She dreamed of a life where she could explore possibilities with him, where she could nurture their connection, grow it, and pour the entirety of her being into it. To do any of that, she needed to live.
He kissed the corner of her mouth, the injury on her cheek, and the trickle of tears spilling from her eyes. “The quickest Matias can get here is eight hours by helicopter. But he can’t get into the neighborhood. We have to go to him.”
Eight hours and she would be rid of this place.
Eight hours and I’ll be dead.
“I have time for one more injection if—”
“No. You’re not going near the compound.” He focused on her jeans, releasing the fly and gingerly sliding them off. “Are you still not able to feel your legs?”
“No, I can’t…” She searched his eyes, confused. “How did you know about that?”
Van returned with a wadded wet shirt and bottled water and removed two pills from the medical bag.
“For the pain.” He helped her swallow the medication while exchanging a silent look with Tate.
What were they not telling her?
She stared into Tate’s bloodshot eyes, wincing at the cut swelling his eyelid. “Why were you fighting?”
“I know what happened to you tonight. I was listening.” He worked his jaw, his expression pained. “You’ve been wearing a bug.”
He told her about the listening devices, how he planted them, how they worked, and why he hid them from her. His hands flexed as he detailed what he’d heard tonight and the fist fight that followed with Van.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am for failing to protect you.” His voice broke beneath a tide of torment.
Desolation flooded his expression, and it hurt her to see it. She let her eyes drift shut and tried to process everything he’d said.
She didn’t feel anger or resentment about being spied on. She felt…relieved. Safeguarded. Maybe even cherished. He didn’t have to watch over her like that, but he did. Because he was here for her.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He gave her hip a gentle squeeze and ghosted his fingers along the edge of her panties. “I need to remove these.”
She kept her eyes closed, knowing there was dried blood and come between her legs. Since he’d heard her struggle and ultimate defeat in the basement, he wouldn’t be surprised at what he found.