Take Page 7

  “Yes, unless you know another way to cut hair.” He unzipped the black pouch full of barber accessories.

  She stepped forward, eyes zeroing in on the shearing tools. When she reached his chair, her fingers floated over a pair of sharp blades, lifting them.

  “Use this on the sides.” He removed the cordless clippers and set it on the table beside her.

  She edged closer, but not close enough. He gripped her waist and tugged, wordlessly ordering her to stand in the V of his spread knees.

  Her rigid, narrow-shouldered body felt surprisingly curvy beneath his hands. He pulled her another step into his space, and the tantalizing scent of her skin met his nose.

  Goddamn, she smelled fantastic. His position in the chair put his face inches from her chest, and at this proximity, the white linen dress was see-through. If she knew he was ogling the supple rings of pink around her nipples, she would be mortified.

  She had a modest way of holding herself, as if unaware of her beauty and the power it held over the opposite sex. Her innocence only made him harder.

  As she lifted her hands near his head, the round shape of her tits filled his view, drying his mouth. A glance lower revealed the apex of her thighs and the shadowed patch of hair there. No panties. Fucking torture.

  The dress fell to mid-thigh, and her bare cunt was right there for the taking. The idea locked things up inside him and scrambled his brain.

  He jerked his attention back to her face. Her gaze narrowed on his hair, calm and astute. Her fingers flexed around the scissors, her hands hovering out to the sides.

  “Do you know what you’re doing?” he asked.

  “Sometimes, I shave my asshole. This isn’t any different.”

  Arturo choked on a laugh and coughed into his fist.

  The mention of her asshole painted a glorious picture in Tiago’s mind—her body spread out before him, her little pucker taking his cock, clenching and dripping with his come.

  She called to his testosterone, summoning the most primal part of him to mount, fuck, bite, cut, carve, and make her bleed.

  He bit down on a groan, his skin hot and itchy. Christ, he was starting to sweat and needed to get a handle on this. On her.

  Reaching up, he yanked down the top of her strapless dress and held the fabric tight around her waist.

  “What are you doing?” She shrieked and flailed her arms.

  He caught the hand that held the scissors, plucking them from her fingers.

  “Stop!” She flattened her palms over her exposed chest and twisted, trying to escape his grip on her clothes. “Let go.”

  He wrangled her arms down and restrained them behind her, holding her wrists in one fist. All that soft, feminine flesh was so damn tempting. He wanted to sink his teeth into her heaving tits, mark her, claim her. But that wasn’t how he did things.

  Maybe he’d allow himself to touch her, but if anyone fucked her, it would be his guards.

  “Do you think she’s pretty?” he asked Arturo.

  “Very much, Jefe.”

  She shook her head rapidly, her breaths coming hard and fast, bouncing her gorgeous rack.

  He traced the scissors across the slope of one breast, taunting her as he asked his guard, “Do you want to fuck her?”

  “More than anything.” Arturo stood straighter, interest smoldering in his eyes.

  “No, please. Don’t do this.” She fought harder in his hold.

  He yanked her against him and pressed the closed blades of the scissors against her pussy, with only the thin layer of linen between her delicate skin and the steel edge.

  “If you cut me, draw blood, or disobey me in any way, Arturo will fuck your ass.” He adjusted his grip, angling the sharp tip against her tight, little opening. “When he’s finished, I’ll yank out that tampon and fuck your cunt with the scissors.”

  Oh God, oh fuck, oh fuck.

  Kate’s breath escaped in a shuddering wave, and her heart banged painfully in her chest. Tiago’s ruthless grip on her wrists made her bones ache, but it was the scissors he held against her vulnerable flesh that had her shaking to the point of nausea.

  “I won’t disobey you. I swear. I’ll do whatever you say.” She lifted on tiptoes, unable to escape the bite of steel between her legs. “Please. You’re scaring me.”

  “Good.” He set the scissors on the table, released her hands, and combed his fingers through his hair. “Even up the sides and trim the top.”

  Black spots blotched her vision, and she swayed on wobbly legs. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she fought the compulsion to cover her exposed breasts.

  The malicious glint in his eyes promised every horror he’d mentioned if she dared to hide her body.

  She’d spent weeks in Van’s attic, crawling naked on the floor in front of Van, Liv, and Josh. It’d been four years since then, since anyone had seen her nude, but she hadn’t forgotten how to cope with the humiliation.

  Lowering her arms, she focused on facts rather than feelings. She wouldn’t die from embarrassment. Tiago pulled down her top to degrade her, but it wouldn’t kill her.

  She needed to be more resilient and think twice before striking back. For every awful setback and torment he put her through, she would just have to stand stronger, aim higher, and remain true to who she was and what she believed in. He could cut her open and mangle her body, but he could never destroy her.

  Slowly, her breathing returned to normal, and the tremors faded from her limbs. When her heart settled into a calmer rhythm, she picked up the scissors.

  The first brush of her hand through his hair made her sick. She didn’t want to touch him, didn’t want to give him a damn thing, especially not a haircut with her tits hanging out.

  But she powered through it, ran numb fingers through the thick, inky strands, and started clipping.

  Growing up in poverty with three older brothers, she used to cut their hair all the time. Basic styles. Practical. Nothing sophisticated or attractive, like what a man with Tiago’s wealth and power would expect.

  He dressed like a billionaire playboy in his crisp collared shirt, open at the neck, and dark fitted slacks. The cuffs of his sleeves buttoned neatly around strong wrists, his long fingers resting on his thighs.

  He didn’t have a bulky build, not compared to Arturo or Van Quiso, but he was solid and tall. She had to stretch to see the crown of his head, even in his seated position.

  As she carefully measured and snipped each section of hair, he didn’t leer at her bare chest or grab her ass. He was too controlled for that, too debonair and confident.

  But put a weapon in his hand and all bets were off.

  The more hair clippings that fell to his shoulders, the more she feared him. If he hated the style, he would kill her. If she accidentally nicked him or bumped his injuries, he would kill her. If she took too long and overextended his patience, he would kill her.

  She was a human being with an expiration date, just like everyone else. But her expiration jumped closer with every movement she made. By the time she finished trimming the top of his head, her nerves were frayed and brittle.

  His hair spiked in tousled, voluminous layers, each shiny black strand perfectly cut and finger-raked. She still needed to clean up the sides, but damn, it looked professional. The shorter, textured style made the angles of his shadowed jaw seem squarer, his eyes deeper and darker.

  Those eyes beckoned like mysterious doors. As she gravitated toward them, they dipped, focusing on her mouth with too much attention.

  She looked away and set down the scissors. “What happens if you don’t like it?”

  “It’s just hair.” His fingers captured her nipple in an agonizing vise, wrenching her gaze back to his. “If it looks like shit, shave it all off.”

  She pretended to ignore the stinging burn he’d inflicted on her breast and considered his words.

  He wouldn’t kill her over a haircut? That was a relief, if he was telling the truth.

  Last n
ight, he said he wasn’t interested in fucking her. But his fingers told a different story as they meandered along the material gathered around her waist. His other hand joined in, and he inched the top of the dress lower, lower, baring her abdomen and the tips of her hipbones.

  She held her breath as he lightly placed a palm over the reddish area on her stomach where he’d kicked her. His gaze lifted, narrowing on hers as he pressed his fingers against the soreness.

  Her breath rushed out, but she didn’t whimper or show signs of distress. Maybe he wouldn’t rape her, but that didn’t make it easier to share the same air as him.

  He was an aficionado of pain, and she was here to absorb the hurt, to wear the bruises of his art, until she escaped or died.

  The thought was crippling.

  She grabbed the cordless clippers and threw herself into completing the task. He sat quietly as she trimmed, shaped, and scattered tiny hairs to the floor. To avoid grazing his wounds, she had to lean in, which felt like she was putting her face next to the jaws of a lion.

  He even smelled intimidating. With her nose so close to his neck, she detected notes of cypress, vetiver, and leather, all bound up in the heady scent of an alpha male.

  She stepped back, unable to endure another whiff of Tiago-infused air. But there was no escaping his presence. He was everywhere, all around her, overwhelming and watchful. Always watching with those dark, dangerous eyes.

  “I’m finished.” She glanced around for a mirror, her throat tight. “Do you want to see it?”

  With a grunt, he skimmed a palm over his scalp.

  “Feels fine.” He stood and unbuttoned his shirt as he addressed Arturo. “If she goes outside, keep her within eyeshot of the house. I’ll be in the backroom.”

  She’d overheard Arturo mention something about weights. What were the chances she could slip in there while Tiago worked out, steal a dumbbell, and finish the job Lucia had started?

  He loosened the cuffs of his sleeves and stripped the shirt. The tank top underneath followed, revealing a heart-stopping landscape of muscle and scars.

  The welted designs on his forearms stretched around his biceps and faded at his shoulders. His slacks hung low on narrow hips, his torso a scar-free, concrete wall of virility.

  This man had spent the past month in bed? Impossible. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on his body. No flab or loose skin. Nothing that resembled weakness or poor health. The last thing he needed was a damn work out.

  God help her, she was in trouble.

  When she’d stormed into his room last night, she’d been blinded by rage, empowered by the possibility that he was old and out of shape, and floating on the hope that her friends would come. She had none of that now.

  Her future rested on the whims of a criminal. A crafty, cold-hearted, beautifully-sculpted criminal, who would end her life without a second thought.

  His gaze grabbed hers as he shook out his shirt, draped it over the chair back, and lowered his hands to his belt.

  She gave him an incredulous look. If he needed to remove his pants to lift weights, why couldn’t he wait until he was in the backroom?

  Watching her unnervingly, he slipped the strap from the buckle and emptied his pockets. Keyring, phone, wallet—everything went on the table. Then he toed off his boots and lowered the zipper of his fly.

  She didn’t want to do this with him. She didn’t want him to remove his pants while gazing into her eyes. It felt personal. Intimate. She couldn’t breathe.

  But looking away would be a sign of submission. Van had taught her that.

  So she held fast to that eye contact. She stared as he slowly closed the distance between them. She stared until he ducked his head and dragged his nose across her cheek, her jaw, her mouth, smelling her.

  She pinned her lips together and remained motionless as he lifted the top of her dress and straightened it into place.

  Once her chest was covered, he stepped back and dropped his pants. An arrogant smirk kicked up the corner of his mouth.

  She winged up a brow, refusing to glance down or give him a dramatic reaction.

  His smirk transformed, curving into a handsome, breathtaking grin. It softened his eyes and altered the very air around him, making him unrecognizable. One smile, and he could be mistaken as human. A hot-as-fuck human with the capacity to shift and melt things inside her.

  Holy bejeezus. When he wasn’t scaring the piss out of her, he was sucking her in with his glowing charisma.

  Lucifer had charisma. It was easy to be both repulsed by evil and drawn to its power. She would do well to remember that.

  He tossed his pants on the chair beside the shirt and glanced at Arturo. “Inform Boones that my clothes are covered in hair.”

  “Si, Jefe.”

  She waited for him to give her a parting command or threat, but he didn’t. He turned away without acknowledging her and strode down the hall, taking every molecule of energy with him.

  His command, his influence, his damn magnetism—it created an intoxicating aura around him, freezing her in place as he ambled toward the backroom.

  She couldn’t look away if she tried. Couldn’t stop her gaze from following the ridges of his chiseled back to his trim waist and the fit of the tight briefs across his flexing ass. An unwanted fever heated her skin, and frantic little flutters erupted in her belly.

  Why was she checking him out? He was deplorable, mean as hell, and mentally unstable. Pure poison beneath that superficial beauty.

  He turned the corner and glanced back, his gaze spearing hers.

  Letting her head tip to the side, she plastered on a stoic expression. He already inspired fear in her, and he knew it. She wouldn’t give him the impression he was enticing, too.

  When he slipped into the backroom and out of view, she glanced around for something she could swipe without Arturo noticing. The scissors on the table? The bread knife near the stove? The keys on Tiago’s keyring? His locked phone?

  Arturo didn’t take his eyes off her as she strolled through the kitchen. She loitered for a few moments, waiting for a distraction, but that only prompted him to shift closer and watch harder.

  Giving up on that, she padded through the front room and spied a sleeping woman on one of the mattresses. The sight of the feminine form gave her a sense of comfort. Not that she could trust anyone working for Tiago, but if she had any chance of making a friend here, maybe that woman was an option.

  At the front door, Arturo breezed past and led her onto a concrete porch. The shade from the overhang offered little relief from the dry heat.

  She stepped off the stoop and lifted her face to the cloudless, sun-bleached sky. Without shoes, the rocky ground burned the soles of her feet, but she didn’t care. It’d been a month since she felt direct sunlight on her skin.

  There were no sounds, no traffic, no roaring of ocean waves, no signs of civilization in any direction. Unmarked nothingness embraced her with empty arms.

  She paced a circuit around the house, examining the barred windows and probing for weak exit points. If she decided to run, the front door would be the only way out. Not that she would make it two feet with the silent, intimidating barricade hovering at her elbow.

  Arturo’s presence made her skin crawl, especially after hearing him admit he wanted to fuck her more than anything.

  A shudder gripped her as she returned to the porch and sat on the steps.

  “Are we in Venezuela?” She squinted at him.

  He leaned against the awning support and said nothing. At six-foot-and-too-many-inches tall, his thirties-something gladiator build backed up the combative vibes that emanated from him.

  “How long have you worked for Tiago?” she asked.

  No response.

  “I’m not comfortable with what you said about me inside.” She rubbed her neck. “Please, tell me you weren’t serious.”

  He grunted a huff, and his pockmarked cheeks bounced with sick amusement.

  “So it’s true.�
�� Her face turned to ice, despite the suffocating heat. “He lets his guards rape his prisoners.”

  “He likes to watch.”

  Kate’s stomach plunged to her feet.

  Tiago liked to watch his men rape women. Of course, he did. He was a criminally insane psychopath.

  And she’d been sleeping next to his room for the past month.

  Her heart sprinted as she honed in on the car parked thirty feet away. What were the odds she could outrun Arturo, hop into the front seat, and find a key in the ignition?

  Not a chance in hell.

  She slumped. “Where did Boones go?”

  One of the cars was missing, and she hadn’t seen the doctor since breakfast.

  Arturo stared at the hazy horizon, as if she weren’t speaking.

  “What animal best represents your personality?” she asked, trying to startle a reaction from him.

  His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t glance at her.

  “I’m thinking a bear.” She tapped her chin. “But could you survive in the wilderness?” She sighed at his muteness. “A teddy bear, then.”

  A raping, murderous, gangster teddy bear.

  He crossed a booted ankle over the other and rested his fingertips in the front pockets of his baggy jeans.

  “What do your clothes say about you?” She pursed her lips, frustrated by his refusal to talk. “Say something. I dare you. No, really. I totally dare you to utter one word.”

  He was a statue. A voiceless, expressionless sentinel.

  Over the next two hours, she continued to toss out questions, hoping he would bite. She wanted him to slip up and tell her something useful. But the comment about Tiago watching his guards rape prisoners was the only information she managed to coax from him.

  The sun beat down on the cracked earth, brutally hot and smothering. Nevertheless, she remained on the shaded porch, preferring the limited freedom of outside to the stale confinement of the stone walls indoors.

  Eventually, Boones returned.

  As he parked the sedan and climbed out, Arturo straightened, assuming a more attentive stance. She didn’t know how many weapons the massive man concealed beneath his clothes, but she wouldn’t try to steal car keys from Boones and risk a bullet from Arturo.