Page 78 of Winters Heat

“You whore!” He slapped her face.

Stars exploded. Her vision went white, then black. Her head bobbed, searching for equilibrium. Then she found it. “Screw you.”

“With pleasure.” He rubbed his hands together and leered at her. “So you do have fight.”

“Untie my hands, and I’ll show you.” She jutted her chin toward him, itching to stay away from him but knowing there wasn’t another option.

A wicked smile curled his lips. “Let the fun begin, whore.”

He pulled the knife from its holster, tossing it from one hand to the next, dancing it between his fingers. As if he couldn’t contain his excitement, Alejandro flashed behind her, cutting the blade into the bindings. The ties fell to the dirt floor, and her tense arms dangled numb and asleep. Completely useless.

“You promised a fight. Do you want to run?” He laughed.

The cold metal blade pressed against the back of her neck, its tip scratching her skin. She was sick of men with knives on her neck. Sick of the memories. The Colonel. The Cartel leader. And now this fiend. Sick of it all.

“You’re in charge now? You are El Jefe?” she asked.

“You try to distract me? To patronize me?”

“No.” She was trying to buy time.

“Liar. You spit in my face. Promise a delightful fight. And now talk business. Run. Try me.”

Fist wrapping into her hair, he yanked her head back, then stepped in front of her. Mia drew her knee into his crotch.Finally.Caught off guard, he hunched over, covering himself with his hands. This was her moment to run.

Her feet pounded the dirt before her mind realized she was pushing through the underbrush. Leaves were so thick, she ran blind. Branches hit her face, stinging her skin. The air smelled fragrant and felt thick as she sucked it in. Clueless as to where to go, and how to get there, she pushed through aching muscles and scattering thoughts.

Far too close to hope for survival, Alejandro’s angry voice bled through the vegetation, intermixing with the birds and insects, threatening and promising her worst nightmares.

Everywhere, each direction, brilliant green branches and bright flowers. New shadows from the barely setting sun cast purple hues. Her breaths and gasps burned. The sundress clung to her, sweat-soaked. Thinking her lungs couldn’t manage one more wheeze, Mia pressed up against a thick tree and slumped to bended knees, damp hair hanging around her.

Her heart pounded loud enough that she wouldn't have been surprised if Alejandro pinpointed her exact location. Sweat dripped into her eyes and slipped into her mouth. She ignored its salty taste. An inner strength bubbled strong. She would do whatever it took to stay alive long enough to watch Colby slice his throat.

Nature surrounded her, deafening her. Cacaw. Cacaw. A loud bird screeched overhead. Prickled awareness hit, and her scream fought to escape, but a hand slapped her face.

No.

Another hard hand clamped her shoulder. Fear erupted inside her. She lashed out, clawing, biting, and kicking. She bucked, and she prayed.

No.

She wouldn’t go down this way. Not after everything she’d survived. But she hit the ground anyway. Hard, face first, with inflexible hands holding her down, perhaps in her own grave.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The Rover slid to a stop in front of the shack. All the men fell out, except Winters. He stretched one leg, then the next. Raw agony weighed heavy on every level. Mental. Physical. Emotional.

Brock turned around. “You need a hand?”

“Nah. Just give me a second.”

Luck had kept him alive to this point. Hopefully, penicillin would do the rest and keep his busted ass free of nasty infection. But his molasses-like moves had everything to do with his wounded heart and not his GSW hatchet job.

Mia was feet away. The only thing he wanted to do was gather her tight in his arms and kiss every gorgeous inch of her body, starting with her beautiful face. He wanted to worship her brilliance and strength. He wanted to thank her, relish her, and care for her.

But no matter what he wanted, he knew better. She was an innocent. A perfect woman meant to make anormalman happy. A man who came home every day for dinner, who pushed paper and typed on a computer, nine-to-five. Someone whose most dangerous decision would revolve around day-old tuna salad at the corner deli. Normal, everyday problems.

His problems weren’t in the same hemisphere as normal. His daughter sprang from a sex trafficking ring. The woman he was boots over ball caps for, he’d met because he’d kidnapped her. He tangled with professional assassins and warlords on the regular. A habitual dinnertime just didn’t exist in his world. What woman would even want him?

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