14. fourteen

"Fifteen more minutes. It's still fucking early as hell," I mutter to myself as I sip my cup of coffee. "I'll give her fifteen more minutes."

It's barely after sunrise, and if I'd heard a sound from her last night, I probably wouldn't be thinking about having my mattress saturated with her blood as she bled out during the night.

No screams.

No whimpers.

Not a fucking peep.

For a change, her silence is what kept me up all night.

The soft pad of delicate feet walking across the hardwood floor draws my attention. I look up and find Lucia walking toward me. Her fingers are wrapped tight around the handle of the large chef's knife, and it lightly swings along her side with every step.

Reaching the table where I sit, she deftly swings her hand into the air and drives the point of the blade into the pine table. The force rattles my cup, causing my coffee to splash over the rim and pool into the divot holding the knife upright before me.

"All of them." She lets out a deep, heavy breath. "I want every last one of them to pay for what they did to me. I want them to suffer in ways that are so horrific they're indescribable."

She stands over me with her eyes locked on mine waiting for an answer. For the first time since I found her, her brown eyes are no longer dark. Instead, there is a spark—no, a fucking fire—burning within those beautiful, caramel-brown orbs. "Can you do that for me?"

Life.

A burning fucking desire to live.

And it's fucking alluring as hell.

"I've already secured my spot in hell, little lamb. There are no sins I wouldn't commit for you." I swallow hard, surprised by the confession that just passed over my lips, before promptly correcting myself, "To get you the justice that you deserve."

"Thank you," she softly whispers before abruptly leaning forward and pressing her lips to my temple. Leaving a quick kiss, she pulls back equally as fast with her fingers pressed firmly to her lips. Her cheeks flush, and her voice wavers as she says, "I'm so sorry. I don't why I did that."

She turns her back to me, and she heads into the kitchen. I'm unable to stop the corner of my mouth from ticking up at the mere thought of her appreciative kiss.

And her pouty soft lips on my skin.

Fuck, Raf.

Not her.

She's too broken for what you'd demand from her.

"So, when do we start?" she asks, her back still turned to me as she pours herself a cup of coffee.

"We?" I question, before pausing to take a sip of my coffee. "Do you seriously think that you are in any sort of condition to go toe-to-toe with a man twice your size? Or that you wouldn't totally fucking panic the minute of them put their hands on you?"

She stares back at me, her raging fire slowly dissipating because she knows that I am right.

"You couldn't even fucking stab me when I was helping you shove a knife into me." I shake my head at her.

"You can teach me." Her voice is soft, and her words are hesitant. "I know what you are. What you've done. The atrocities that you're capable of."

My eyes roam over her suspiciously. My work for the cartel is completely in the dark. No spotlight. No media. I'm fucking invisible. There are only two types of people who know who I am.

Those I kill for.

…and those I kill.

I shove my chair from the table with so much force that the table pushes toward Lucia as I stand. Her eyes are wide, and I violently stalk toward her. They only grow bigger as I wrap my large hand around her long, slender neck.

Her pulse races beneath my fingertips—my cock all but twitching in the rhythm—as I shove her back against the cabinets behind her. My grip holds her attention, but I squeeze a little harder to ensure I keep it, as I box her in and loom over her.

"No one knows who the fuck I am," I snarl, and drops of my spittle splatter over her face, "Who the fuck are you?"

Her lips part, and she tries to speak, but my tight grip silences any words she tries to push over her lips.

"Tell me your fucking name!"