Chapter 14

14

Bea

B ea paced her room in a panic. Her room. When they’d arrived at the hacienda , her uncle had dragged her upstairs and locked her in without a single word. Bea tried to recall the look on his face just before he’d slammed the door. He’d looked angry, disappointed … but also scared.

It was just for an instant, but Bea knew a lot about fear. She’d spent the last few years of her life in a state of fear herself, so she was skilled at detecting it in others. Her uncle was scared. Scared of her, or for her. Scared of something.

She stopped in front of the heavy wooden door and yanked on the handle. Nothing happened, of course, just as it hadn’t the last twenty times she’d tried before. But she couldn’t stop herself from trying, as if it would suddenly, magically open up for her, and wasn’t able to stop the stabbing disappointment when it didn’t.

She forced herself to move away from the door, pulling in a deep, slow breath. It could have been worse. He could have given me away to Aguilar.

That’s certainly what Aguilar had wanted as he watched her being dragged away, a stern, cruel expression in his beady eyes. She shuddered just thinking about it.

She looked around at all her things. Her drawing books, her pencils, her small stash of make-up—things that had once meant something to her, and that now simply reminded her that she was a prisoner.

You’ve always been a prisoner. He just never locked the door before. A small, keening sound escaped her. A part of her wanted to beat her hands against the door until something splintered—the door, her hands, it almost didn’t matter. Hurting yourself won’t help Rogue.

She didn’t know all the secrets of the hacienda , but she’d snooped around enough in the past, and she knew her uncle well enough by now, to know Rogue wasn’t resting in a plush bedroom, as she was. So where is he? Think, Beatriz. Think.

She thought of the buildings at the back of the hacienda that she’d never been allowed to go to. Storage spaces, her uncle had said when she’d asked what was back there, but there’d been a twinkle in his eye as he said so. She nodded to herself. That’s where they’ve taken Rogue. That’s where you have to go. But she was locked in.

Then she thought of the conversation she’d overheard, back in the jungle. Rogue’s friends were planning something. Something to do with her uncle. And she wasn’t sure she could trust them. She might be exchanging one prison for another. No. Rogue wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t hurt her. He was helping her. He was going to get her out. But you don’t know his friends. She sighed. It didn’t matter. Whoever they were, they sounded like they cared about Rogue. They wouldn’t leave him here if they knew he was in trouble.

She had a good memory. She remembered the number Rogue had shared with her. So that wasn’t an excuse. If she could get to a phone, she could get in touch with Rogue’s friends.

Bea paced the room, but this time her pacing had a new purpose. She had an objective. She just had to find a way to make it happen.

Her uncle had never trusted her enough to let her have a phone. There was a phone downstairs in his office, but it required a code to operate it. A code she didn’t have. Then she remembered her father’s phone. Her uncle kept her father’s phone in a drawer in his bedroom. She’d always wondered why he kept it—wondered what it was about the phone that her uncle couldn’t bear to part with. But now, this was something she could use to her advantage. That was, if she could get there. She was still locked in, and if she waited for someone to let her out, it would be too late.

Rogue wouldn’t let that stop him. He would pick the lock. A small sob escaped her. She didn’t know the first thing about picking locks. In the books she’d read as a child, in the convent’s school library, characters usually picked up a hairpin or other sharp object and fiddled with the lock, before the door magically opened a couple of sentences later. Right. Because that’s really going to happen. She sighed. What else are you going to do?

The thought of what he might be going through, at this very minute, gave her the strength to get up and go to the bathroom. She had hairpins, she had time, and she had very little to lose. And she owed Rogue. No. This wasn’t about what she owed him. This was about not wanting to live in a world where she was responsible for his death.

A breath caught in her throat. She thought of his protective nature, of those luminous, gray eyes that looked at her in ways nobody had ever looked at her before. He might have made all the wrong choices, but then, so had she. And, dammit, she wanted more time to get to know him better. She didn’t want to imagine a world without him in it. She stood in front of the door, battling her fear, convincing herself this was the right thing to do.

Rogue needs this.

Rogue

Rogue opened his good eye to see soft light filtering through the high window. It was day again, and he was alone. You survived the night. That was more than he could have hoped for.

His body felt like it’d been hit by a semi. He felt pain in places he’d never realized could hurt. He pulled on his wrists, which were still chained overhead. Damn, that hurts. Thin rivulets of dried blood caked his wrists and arms. Infection could become a problem, if he stayed alive long enough. And he would stay alive.

Steps sounded outside his door. That was sooner than he’d expected. Rogue’s heart rate sped up and his breath seized in his chest.

No. That’s what they want. They want your fear.

As the key scraped in the lock, Rogue forced out a series of steady, even breaths. Instants later, Emiliano Cruz walked in alone.

“Ah, you’re awake. Good.” Cruz pulled a rickety stool from the corner and brought it closer.

Rogue’s heartbeat sped up. A tendril of hope unfurled inside his chest, but Cruz wasn’t that stupid. He set the stool down far from Rogue’s reach.

“Let me go, Emiliano. Please,” Rogue croaked. This time, it wasn’t hard to make his voice sound desperate.

“You’ll be happy to know the shipments your program was tracking made it to their final destination. No losses, nothing unexpected…”

“I told you, Emiliano. I wouldn’t steal?—”

Cruz slapped him, hard enough to turn Rogue’s head around. He barely felt it.

“…which means I still don’t know why you’re here. Oscar is disappointed. He was sure the picana would make you talk.”

Rogue didn’t bother replying. It didn’t seem like Cruz wanted an answer.

“Me, on the other hand, I had a feeling brute force wouldn’t work.” Moving fast for such a big man, Cruz pushed himself to his feet and pulled on Rogue’s ponytail, forcing his head back painfully. “But it’s alright. Last night my brother came to me in a dream. He reminded me there are other ways to get you to talk.”

Cruz released Rogue and took a step back. Making sure Rogue was looking, he pulled a small baggie out of his pocket. There was a slim syringe inside, filled with a caramel-colored liquid.

At the sight of the syringe, Rogue felt the first inklings of panic. His breaths grew shorter, more labored. He’d been clean for years now, but he had no difficulty remembering the rush, the sense of relaxed euphoria that used to fill him every time he shot up. He also remembered how that innocent-looking liquid had destroyed his life, eventually making him wish for death.

“Once I inject you with this, you will do anything to get the next hit. That includes telling me everything I want to know.”

Rogue didn’t know if that was true, if just one time would be enough to get him to relapse, to forget everything that had happened, the long, fucking uphill road to recovery the last two years. But he remembered, he remembered everything. The cravings. The fear. The knowledge that this drug would kill him. No. I can’t go through that again.

As fear darkened his vision, he focused his thoughts on his team. Dark, Ash, Griffin, Slate. Fuck, even Thorne. In the months they’d been working together, they’d become as close as family. No matter what, he wouldn’t let them down, and he wouldn’t put them in danger.

Rogue kicked out, but Cruz side-stepped his kick easily and trapped Rogue’s head. Instants later, Rogue felt the prick of the needle against his neck.

Unlike in his memories, there was nothing warm or gradual about the way the drug set in. This was pure, liquid heat, bursting through his bloodstream with all the delicacy of a freight train.

Rogue couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. His body faded away. Pain faded away, until there was only the drug coursing through his veins. And a part of him prayed for it to hurt. Because pain he could work with. What he could not cope with was the idea that he might start to enjoy it soon.

The heat grew more intense. He wanted to cry out. The faces of his teammates disappeared, replaced by Bea’s face, looking at him. And she was trying to tell him something, that there was something important, something to hold on for.

She’s not here. She’s not really here. But Slate will come. Slate will help her.

“Who the fuck is Slate?” Cruz yelled. Spit from his mouth landed on Rogue’s face. Rogue clamped his lips together, realizing he’d spoken his friend’s name out loud.

The heat grew, his world blurred, but still there was no pleasure. And Bea’s face didn’t leave him. Her image stood there, as if looking over him—protecting him from the drug. Rogue felt a moment of elation—he could withstand any amount of pain, any amount of heat, as long as she stayed there with him.