“You.” Luke opened his mouth to say more, but all that came out was a scathing exhale.

His first thought? She did this. The vicious scrapper tortured this young girl and hung her by a hook.

But no, that didn’t make sense at all.

The blood on Marco’s shirt, the shackles on the fighter’s arms and legs, and the fact that she couldn’t stand after the fight… She was as much a victim as the others. Perhaps more so. She’d been thrown into the dark with a dying girl, forced to listen to her shallow cries for help.

“End this.” The blonde’s fractured voice pulled him back. “Kill…me.”

His blood shivered, and denial banged in his skull. Again, he took inventory of her injuries, searching for a sign of hope, anything that might save her.

Rust and dirt coated the hook through her leg. Infection would set in soon. The amount of blood on the floor beneath her was more than a human could lose. She wouldn’t survive this, and every minute she lived was a cruelty she didn’t deserve.

“Why is she in here with you?” He glanced at the fighter.

She glared back, a hostile, rancorous glare that promised death to him and everyone if she broke free.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She slowly raised a hand, dragging the chain across her lap, and extended her middle finger.

The blonde moaned, choking out another plea for death. Her cries thickened with distress, producing a change in the fighter’s expression.

For a fleeting moment, those savage eyes softened. Grief, compassion, whatever it was sank into the grooves of her battered, swollen face, blurring her gaze in a sheen of moisture.

Then she blinked, and the tenderness vanished, replaced with red-hot fury.

Do it. Her eyes demanded.

A camera hung in the doorway. Would they try to stop him? Shoot him for interfering?

Fuck it.

Fuck the cartel. Fuck his dead parents. Fuck Van Quiso. Fuck every injustice he’d ever gone up against. None of it owned him.

But this? This he couldn’t walk away from.

As the blonde continued to cry, he blocked everything out—Tomas, the fighter, the mission. He put one foot before the other and did the only thing he could do.

He stood behind her inverted body, wrapped a large hand over her nose and mouth, and smothered her air.

She struggled, an involuntary reaction as her mutilated body fought to breathe. His other hand held the crown of her head, his fingers hidden by her crusty hair, discreetly massaging, stroking her scalp. The only comfort he could offer.

As interminable seconds passed, he felt chunks of his soul rip away. He was breaking inside. Battling hardwired convictions. Roaring on his knees. Dying with this girl.

Dying.

Dying.

Make it end. God almighty, I can’t do this.

But he did. He finished it, holding her against him as she fell limp.

Lifeless.

Gone.

Fucking God, help me. What have I done?

He’d killed men before. Vile men. But never with his bare hands. Never a woman.

Never an innocent.

His chest squeezed so tightly he thought his heart stopped working. But no, it was still beating, pulsing strenuously, yet… Altered. Twisted into something nastier. Stiffer. Thorny. No longer human.

Raising his head, his gaze caught on the fighter. She watched him, motionless, her expression iced over with suspicion and horror, but deeper, closer, he glimpsed gratitude.

He hadn’t done it for her. He hadn’t done it for himself, either, and he would live with the cold, stricken guilt for the rest of his life.

She and Tomas hadn’t been the only witnesses to his heinous crime. Marco and Vera stood in the doorway, clotting the room with displeasure.

Pure scum of the earth. Neither of them deserved to breathe, let alone stand there in a snit of condemnation. Marco had butchered a young girl, strung her up like slaughtered meat, and left her to die.

Luke’s vision turned red. Adrenaline charged, and wrath fired on all cylinders.

Kill him.

Gut him.

Make him pay.

He would. Goddammit, he would exterminate all of them. But to do that, he had to become a man that no one fucked with.

Make them cower.

Earn their horror and respect.

Beat them at their own game.

With his hands still wrapped around the dead girl’s head, he showed them a monster that all monsters feared.

“Look what you made me do.” He hauled the corpse upward so that he could stare into the dead eyes. “Sniveling little cunt. We could’ve played so well together, but you just…wouldn’t…shut up.” He shook the body, punctuating every word before shoving it away. “What a waste.”

His stomach cramped. Saliva gathered around his gums. He was going to puke.

“This is unexpected.” Marco lumbered into the room, head tilted. “You killed her… Because she was crying? That will cost you—”

“She was half-dead.” He wiped off his hands on a clean scrap of her shirt. “I’m not paying for broken goods. Besides, I know which one I want.”

He prowled a circuit around Marco and paused before the fighter, staring down at her with a malicious smile.

Realization burst behind her eyes, and she went wild, spitting a string of Spanish and bucking in her restraints.

Across the room, Tomas shot him a look that said he didn’t agree with the turn of events.

Too bad. Luke refused to leave the girl chained in the dark with a corpse.

“This one,” he announced to the room.

“No.” Marco folded his arms over his chest. “She belongs to me.”

“And your brothers.” Vera scowled.

“I see. And those hypercars out front?” Luke clasped his hands behind him, head down, with his back to Marco. “They belong to you, too?”

“Of course.”

“Of course.” He glanced over his shoulder. “When I arrived, Vera promised I could test drive one of your toys around the property.”

Her eyes widened. “I didn’t promise—”

“Shh.” Marco’s hand slashed through the air, and he held Luke’s gaze, deadly captivated. “Is that right?”

“Yes. Perhaps you can appease me another way.” Luke straightened his suit jacket and turned to face the capo. “Sell me the Pagani Huayra.”

Marco laughed, a shocked sound, and sobered abruptly. “Not in a million lifetimes.”

“What’s her name?”

“The Huayra?”

“The whore.” Luke met her livid stare.

“Who cares?” Marco grunted. “She’s a whore.”

“Which do you value more? The Huayra or the whore?”

“There are only a few hundred Huayras in existence.”

“I’m aware. Yet I’m only asking to test drive a common whore.”

“Ah.” A humorless grin underscored Marco’s wagging finger. “I see what you’re doing.” Then he went still, thoughtful. “Just a test drive?”

“Give me a week with her. I’ll keep her in working, fighting condition. At the end of the week, if she still holds my attention, we’ll discuss a more permanent arrangement. If not, I’ll pay for the mileage I put on her and make another selection.”

Marco’s eyebrows pulled tight, his gaze narrowed on the thrashing fighter, considering her worth.

“Why her?” Vera fisted her hands, the snarl of her lips baring white teeth. “Omar will not allow—”

“Cállate!” Marco returned fire, spitting a mouthful of Spanish before thrusting a finger at the door. “íVete!”

With an enraged glower at Luke, Vera spun and stormed out of the room.

“I’ll gladly test drive Ms. Gomez, instead.” Luke ogled at her retreating backside, angling his neck and making a show of it.

She slammed to a stop, just long enough to shoot daggers over her shoulder before vanishing around the corner.

“No, no, no.” Marco shook his head, chuckling. “I will not share that one.”

“Because she’s your sister?”

“Because she’s mine.” With that unnerving announcement, the man removed a key from his pocket and held it up. “I give you a week with the whore. But I warn you. Watch the grill.” He gestured at his mouth. “She bites.”

“I look forward to it.” He grabbed the key and squatted before the seething girl.

Woman.

Hard to be sure with her face banged up, but her eyes confessed her maturity. Mid-twenties? Possibly older. Jaded beyond her years.

She hadn’t stopped kicking and bucking in the shackles, her anger so intense it foamed from her mouth. He couldn’t fault her for the tantrum, but all that straining couldn’t be good for a concussion.

Marco left without another word. Luke waited for the heavy thud of footsteps to fade in the distance. Then he addressed the woman now in his charge.

“You can fight me.” He caught her swollen jaw in his hand and squeezed, making her eyes burn hotter. “Kick and scream and wear yourself out. It only makes me harder. Hungrier. But if you cause serious harm to my bodyguard or me, or if you run and make us chase you, I will find another girl and hurt her worse than this one.” He tilted his head at the dangling corpse. “I’ll make her beg for death, and there will be no mercy next time. No escape from the agony. And you’ll watch every second of it, knowing you caused it. Nod your head if you understand.”

Her eyes flashed, but her head didn’t move.

The point was to scare her with threats instead of his fists. She didn’t know he would never follow through. Only it wasn’t working. He didn’t detect a trace of fear in the air.

Maybe she didn’t speak English?

No, there was too much comprehension in her expression. Too much stubbornness. She understood him perfectly.

He yanked her up by her long black hair, hauling her body against his, and grazed his teeth across her swollen cheek, the corner of her mouth, and bit her ear. “Nod your goddamn head.”

Her lashes fluttered against his face, and her breath came in rapid gusts. Then she nodded.

He unlocked her restraints.

When she didn’t move to stand, he scooped her up and cradled her to his chest. She weighed nothing but felt as strong as hell. Compact muscle. Sturdy bones. It would require a lot of effort to really hurt her.

He hoped he was right about that, for both their sakes.

“Should I bring the shackles?” Tomas asked.

“No.” His threat would suffice.

As he carried her out, the pull to look back at the dead girl slowed his steps. He wanted nothing more than to bow his head and give her a moment of respect. He needed to tell her he would never forget.

He’d stolen her life, and he didn’t even know her name.

How would he ever redeem himself? Ever forgive himself for what he’d done? Or what he was about to do?

Pushing forward, he felt like he was wading through ice, every step a perilous obstacle, every breath a frigid stab in his chest.

Vera waited at the exit, holding the door open to the final tunnel. Marco had already left.

“I want a medical kit.” He strode past her, tightening his grip on the injured woman. “Ice packs. Food. High-calorie, nutritional food. And a bottle of your best whiskey.”

“Tequila.” The fighter buried her nails into his nape, deliberately breaking skin.

“And tequila.” His lips quirked. “Make sure it’s in my room within the hour.”

“I’m surprised.” Vera hurried after him, eyes on her phone, presumably passing along his demands. “There are sixteen untouched girls back there, and you choose a whore who can’t even walk. She’s been thoroughly used up by all four of my brothers. This very moment, their come is leaking down her legs.”

His jaw hardened, and he almost lost his footing. But the rage inside him didn’t compare to that of the woman in his arms. She exploded in a fit of slashing claws, reaching toward Vera’s face while shouting in Spanish.

He wrangled her back, using more strength than he wanted to restrain her against his chest. Then he threw a withering glare at Vera.

“Oh, you didn’t know?” She swiped her key card and opened the elevator. “Marco and Omar tag teamed her after the fight.”

Raped.

If he’d acted sooner and followed Omar down here, he could’ve prevented that.

“Why do you care?” He stepped onto the lift with Tomas at his heels.

“I just think… You can do better.”

“Better, as in… You? Have you reconsidered my offer?”

Her gaze slid to the woman in his arms, and a malevolent drum of energy electrocuted the space between them. A hatred so rancid and sticky it raised the hairs on his arms.

“The two of you have a story.” He looked from one to the other, back and forth, before pausing on the woman he held. “How long have you been here?”

“Too long,” they snarled in chorus.

“Are you related?”

“God, no.” Vera laughed.

Similar brown eyes, black hair, and tawny skin. Both had Mexican accents, like many of the girls here. But their likeness ended there. Where Vera held herself with sophistication and reserve, the fighter was feral and impulsive. Vera had grown up in a loving home, until her mother died of heart disease.

The common thread between them was Hector’s sons. The brothers prized the woman in his arms, whether for sex or blood sports. But the nature of Vera’s relationship with them wasn’t clear.

Was she jealous of the fighter? Because Hector’s sons showed interest in another woman? Or because Luke showed interest in her?

The elevator opened, and Vera sashayed away, leaving Luke standing there holding an unsolved puzzle.

She entered a breezeway in the opposite direction of his rooms and paused, glancing at him before scowling at the fighter. “Have fun with that.”

“Have no doubt.” He headed the other way, placing his full attention on the woman he was about to become intimately acquainted with. “Tell me your name.”

Stubborn silence.

He growled, “This will go much easier if you give me that.”

“Easier for you?” Her accent dripped with vitriol while somehow retaining a seductive quality that made his balls tighten. “I’m not giving you shit.”

“We’ll both have fake names then. I’m John, and you’re Gina.” At her thinned stare, he clarified. “Gina Carano. The hottest female fighter of all time. At least, she was until I saw you defeat that kid tonight.”

She clamped her busted lips into an angry slash and looked away.

Why had he said that? He was supposed to scare her, not charm his way into her panties.

Old habits.

“Tell me what happened in the basement with the girl.”

“Go to hell.” She shoved at his chest with a shocking force of strength. “Put me down.”

He constricted his grip, which only spurred her to push harder. In the next breath, she went wild, flailing and cursing in Spanish.

After spending years with Camila, Matias, and Ricky, he understood common words. Mostly slang. Too little to hold a conversation.

Not that this woman was interested in talking.

She aimed her mouth toward his, her eyes promising teeth and blood. He dodged her, wrapped her up, and still, she kept fighting.

The little heathen needed boundaries, and now was as good a time as any to set them.

He opened his arms.

She dropped. Her legs buckled, and her rear hit the floor. The woman had been hit so many times in the head tonight she couldn’t keep her eyes focused. She was in no state to stand, and they both knew it.

“Let’s go.” He took three steps toward the room and stopped with his back to her. “Start walking, Gina, or I will rip off your pants and blister your ass.”

Tomas stood off to the side, his expression blank. No one moved.

He set a toe behind the opposite heel, pivoted, and stalked toward her. With her legs sprawled and chest heaving, she thrust up her chin. It was all she could do before he was on her.

Flipping her to her stomach, he set a knee on her back and shoved a hand beneath her waistband.

A button flew. The zipper broke, and the thin cutoffs ripped like tissue paper. Her panties followed, and he tossed the shreds aside.

Nude from the waist down, she clenched a firm, round, tanned backside.

Lust hit his circulation like a crackle of fireworks, lighting him up from the inside out. But he couldn’t enjoy this. He shouldn’t.

That was the real bitch of it. He had to behave as if spanking and touching and fucking this woman was pure goddamn bliss without taking real pleasure in it. Without becoming the monster he pretended to be.

She’d been violated and abused in unspeakable ways. No matter what he did with her, to her, he couldn’t forget that.

So as his hand came down on her ass, he made her feel it without feeling it himself. He wailed on her, avoiding her injuries smoothly enough that she didn’t notice the mercy. He hit her just enough to make her fear him, and she took the punishment without making a sound.

When he was sure his point was made, he threw her over his shoulder and hauled her to his room.

She didn’t cry or struggle, didn’t try to hide her red backside from the men he passed. But she didn’t just hang there, either. Her muscles contracted against him, bracing for war, biding time.

She was plotting a way out of this. If she wasn’t, she fucking well should’ve been.

Tomas opened the door with his key reader, and Luke carried her directly to the bathroom.

Placing a chair beside the tub, he dropped her there and got in her face. “Don’t move.”

She gave him an unblinking stare, looking pissed and miserable beneath all those bruises.

He cranked the faucet for the bath, tested the water, and let it run. Then he strode behind her, out of her range of sight.

Tomas joined him at the vanity across the room, monitoring her as Luke doused cold water on his face. In the mirror, he watched her, too, stealing glimpses between splashes of water.

His hands were shaking.

Shoving them under the faucet, he tried to calm himself. Except he didn’t feel nervous. No panic or dread. Could’ve been the lingering effects of adrenaline. But there was something else. He felt different. Dazed. Empty.

“I’m losing myself,” he whispered.

I killed an innocent girl.

Tomas leaned in while keeping his golden eyes laser-focused on the woman’s back.

She couldn’t hear them, not over the water spraying from multiple faucets.

“You’re still you.” Tomas gripped the tie at Luke’s throat, loosening and removing it.

“I feel numb. Cold. Really fucking cold.”

“It’s temporary. Embrace it for just a little longer.” With steady hands, Tomas unbuttoned Luke’s collar and spoke in his ear. “I know it doesn’t feel right, but you’re doing a good thing. Focus on the big picture, the end goal, and remember, I’m here. If you fall too deep, I’ll pull you back.”

Too late.

Luke shrugged out of his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, his movements wooden.

Tomas placed a supportive hand on his neck and gave him a look that had been forged in trauma, friendship, and solidarity.

“You’re John Smith. A slave buyer.” Tomas shored up his grip, squeezing painfully. “Act like it.”

“Done.” He knocked the hand away and shed the remains of Luke Sanch.

Then he turned toward his newly acquired slave.