The first thing she saw was red hair. He stepped into the breezeway, and her heart shattered upon the floor.
Head down, tie loose around his neck, the collar crooked and unbuttoned, he tucked in his shirttails and closed the door behind him.
Paralyzed, she couldn’t move. No matter how badly her legs burned to run, no matter how hot the pain stabbed behind her eyes, she ached to see the look on his face.
He sensed her instantly, his head snapping up and gaze glowing, stark and bright. “Gina.”
“That’s not my name.” She directed her focus at the door behind him, refusing to cry. “Did you get what you came for?”
His jaw set, and his presence grew dark. Menacing. “Go to my room. I’ll be there in a moment.”
He might as well have hit her, in her stomach, her chest, her face.
“Sure, John.” She curled her lips into the shape of a smile and hoped he couldn’t see them quivering. “Whatever you say.”
His eyes turned to hard slits. Yeah, he hadn’t missed the livid sarcasm staining her voice.
The next thing he said was lost beneath the hollow drum in her head as she pivoted and strode away. The moment she turned the corner, she flew. As fast as her legs could pump, she sprinted away, away, away.
Then she heard him. The fall of his footsteps, racing, chasing, gaining speed.
She ran harder.
Bitter tears stuck in her throat like sand, and the dirt path blurred beneath the speed of her feet. Given John’s longer strides, he would catch her quickly. She needed to reach the grove before that happened.
Because she was unraveling. Splintering apart by the second. She’d reached her breaking point and needed to be out of camera range when she self-destructed.
This was why she never subscribed to hope. There was always disappointment, and this time, it hurt beyond reason, crippling her with every punishing step.
When she’d learned of Miguel’s betrayal three years ago, it had crushed her. But that despair wasn’t in the same realm as what she felt now. As she sprinted harder, faster, she tried to process and compartmentalize her thoughts.
Her brain, however, wasn’t working right. Grief watered down reasoning. Panic drowned out logic. She swam in anguish, unable to surface for air.
If only John would suffer the same betrayal. Heartbreak. Loss of love and faith. He deserved nothing more than to spend the rest of his days alone, miserable, and forgotten.
When she reached the field, she sensed him slowing behind her. He knew where she was going, their confrontation inevitable. She girded herself for it.
In the grove, safe from the cameras and shaded by the canopy of trees, she skidded to a stop and spun to face him.
“What happened to your face?” He stalked toward her, eyes blazing with temper. “Who the fuck hit you?”
“Doesn’t matter.” She blinked back tears. “No one can hurt me as deeply as you have.”
“I want a name!” he roared so viciously it rattled her nerves. “Answer me!”
Her mouth opened, vocal cords and tongue working and failing to produce discernible sound. When she found her voice at last, it broke with a sob. “Miguel is back.”
“He’s a dead man.” He charged closer.
She stumbled away, enlarging the space between them. “How could you fuck her?”
“I didn’t.” He pounced.
She dodged. “Liar! I saw you!”
Back and forth, they went. Lunging and darting, they circled each other through trees. He chased, and she evaded, nimble and furious. Then he caught her. Tangling her up in his muscled arms, he pinned her against the trunk of a large oak.
She grasped at breath and engaged her entire body in a frantic burst to break loose. Squirming and writhing and thrashing about, she snarled her wrath and spat noises of defiance.
“Shh.” He remained calm, pressing a forearm against her throat, his strong, agile physique coiling about her like a kingsnake constricting a wriggling mouse. “It’s all right.”
“No! It’s not all right! It’s not fine!” Tears fell too hot and fast to stifle, further enraging her. “Nothing in my life is all right!”
She escaped from his hold only to be snatched again by a hand as unbending as stone. He hauled her back so forcibly her trapped limb felt as if it pulled from the socket.
Gathering her wrists, he held her against his chest, his mouth a severe slash. “My name is Luke Sanch.”
“I don’t give a fuck! It’s too late.” She bucked, her vision smearing with tears. “Let me go!”
“You will hear this.” He shook her until her head tipped back and her watery gaze snapped to his. “I lived on the streets in Texas until I was nineteen. Until I was abducted, snatched off the park bench where I slept, by a small-town sex trafficker.” He lowered his face to hers. “He raped me in his attic for eight weeks. Whipped me every day until I learned how to enjoy giving head and getting fucked in the ass. Then he sold me to a monster for six figures.”
Good God. Her heart surged and spilled over in waves of denial. “You’re lying.”
“His name is Van Quiso. I was his fourth captive. Tomas, number three, escaped before I arrived. The day I was delivered to the man who’d bought me, Tomas—along with Van’s other escapees—showed up, shot my buyer, and took me in. That was eight years ago.”
“You had sex with a man? You?” She laughed upon a slapping breeze, her pulse stammering and mind whirling in flux. “How can I possibly believe anything you say?”
“Listen. Hear me. Then decide.” He released her and ran a hand over the top of his head as though it might arrange the order of his thoughts.
“You have five minutes.” She folded her arms across her chest.
“I’ll see your defensive posture and raise you fifteen minutes.”
“Eight.”
“Ten. It’s a complicated story.” A rough finger crooked beneath her chin, forcing her head to turn so he could examine her swollen jaw. “Then I have a man to kill.”
“Just spit it out.” She knocked his hand away.
A crease appeared between his copper brows. He dragged a palm down his face, over his mouth, and stared off in the distance. Then he started talking.
He told her about a woman named Liv Reed, who gave birth to Van’s baby in captivity. Van’s father stole the child to control Liv. She became Van’s accomplice. A captive-turned-captor. From there, the tale spun into the far-fetched land of make-believe, packed full of courageously gruesome misadventures about how Van’s nine slaves escaped then befriended their captors. Afterward, they all banded together with the Colombian cartel to take down other sex traffickers.
Freedom fighters, he called them. As part of this vigilante group, he said they infiltrated the darkest corners of the world and fought evil-doers outside the boundaries of the law.
Seriously.
His story had no merit. Nothing he said sounded sane or credible in the slightest. What kind of fool did he take her for?
He was a liar and criminal. She’d encountered enough of them, so full of their own poison they couldn’t fathom how a woman could resist drinking the Kool-Aid and falling in line.
“This isn’t Gotham City, Batman.” Her head pounded. “I live in reality.”