Page 58 of Hostile King

He needs my protection when he’s defenseless.

“Tell me where the fuck I’m driving too, kid.” Shane’s Irish lilt tugs at my fear.

“Just get us as far away from here as possible and onto the highway.”

When he slams his foot on the gas, the truck reverses at warp speed. My body jerks and swings before my ass bangs into the metal interior. I can’t see anything other than a stream of bright light from the front, cutting the shadow shrouding Tomás majestic body.

Once we’re hurtling forward, my brain slips into gear. It’s like old times in the hidden oasis medical facility where I enjoyed being the surgeon's apprentice. Only this time, I actually care if the criminal I’m trying to fix doesn’t wake up. The comparison winds me with a punch to the gut.

I get to work ripping open his shirt and locating the bullet entrance on the right side below his ribcage. Sliding my hand under him I check if it went right through. It did. Thank goodness the ounce of lead isn’t inside him doing more damage than necessary.

I pad out the exit wound on the underside, press my knee over the leaking hole and bare down to seal it with my weight. I’d thought of using the belt to cinch his abdomen except he needs drastic measures if we’re going to be traveling any distance.

“We’re on the move.” Shane barks into his mobile phone. “He’s bleeding out, big time.” He goes silent for a beat. “The chopper didn’t land on time, Dré. Look…it’s too late now, we’re in a decommissioned postal truck heading away from the city. He needs a hospital. We’ll quadruple security and make sure his room is cordoned off until he’s ready to fly to Colombia.”

Only that’s the last thing we should do. It’s not safe for us in Mexico, never mind in a public building where people come and go at every hour of the day. Despite that, surgeons could be easily paid off and nurses bribed.

My fingers brush over the scar on my lip as I debate the risk I’m about to take. There’s only one feasible thing to do. I search the inside pockets of his expensive suit jacket, the rich silky lining haunting my senses with his cologne. When I find his phone, the locked screen comes to life and illuminates the dim light.

I hover it over his face for facial recognition and swallow a gulp when I see his background image—a photograph of me, freckle faced, pool drenched lengths stuck to my cheeks and an expression of faraway thought.

Out of curiosity, I tap on the photo album app and scroll through the photos.

Me sleeping in his bed.

Me getting into his Audi thinking I could escape him.

Me at the edge of his infinity pool at the compound before he made me lap up tequila from his dick.

Me in Mag Mell.

I’m the sole content of his library.

My heart hammers wildly, the density of the phone seemingly non-existent as my hormones go haywire. What man captures so many pictures of a woman he’s fucking, right from the very start?

I stare at the fiery eyes of myself, eyes that sparkle with life and adventure, and finally figure it all out. These men are terrifying killers when it comes to their enemies. They are living, breathing, catastrophic nightmares. But they aren’t my nightmares.

I punch in the digits I was forced to memorize long ago and press the phone to my ear while my bloodied hand shakes.

“It’s Carina. I’m in Mexico. I need your help.”

17

CARINA

“Are you hurt?”

“No.” My voice cracks at the sound of his deep-rooted worry. This isn’t what I wanted—involving my brother in Colombian cartel business. To save the man who captured me. “He is. The guy I’ve been spending time with. He was shot. We can’t go to the hospital, because it’s too dangerous. We’re on the run, Sal.”

“Hey…kid…who the hell are you talking to?” Shane glares at me over his shoulder and then cuts his stormy gaze back to the highway.

Our gazes catch briefly in the rearview mirror. “It’s okay, Shane. I’ll explain later. I promise. Just keep driving.”

“Carina?” My brother’s patience frays. “What the hell is happening? Who are you with? Who the fuck is the guy you’ve been spending time with, Cari?” Sal’s sharp tone reaches my ear with a rebellious shiver. “Is he a pathetic cartel minion? Some small-time narco who promised you the world? What’s his name?”

“Tomás…Souza.”

The line goes deathly quiet.

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