Page 26 of The Outlaw's Savage Revenge

I may have prevented her sale yesterday. What about today? Tomorrow? The thought races through my mind like poison, making my heart pound against my ribs.

Between Hector Lobo and the government hunting her, no one can keep her safe.

I lean against the cool glass, memories crashing over me like a tsunami: my mother’s agonizing screams drowned out by the sadistic glee of the dozen guards who broke the cartel’s rule of not sampling the merchandise before sale. The rule she made them break.

I vowed to return for her. And I broke that vow.

If only Jackson Pype, her husband at the time, hadn’t gotten himself killed in some pointless biker war. If only her ex, Thomas Quinn, hadn’t chosen that final line of coke over saving her.

If only her son had been quicker on his feet and wiser with the hitchhikes, he might have made it across the border early enough to save her.

But we all failed her.

Luna’s situation twists the knife deeper. The men in her life aren’t just failing her; they’re actively feeding her to the wolves.

The parallels make my chest constrict, guilt and rage burning in my gut like acid.

You can still go and get her, Cade. It’s Thursday.

The thought is dangerous and tempting.

I know every inch of the Romano mansion by heart. Narcotics are delivered with the groceries every Thursday at four. The loaded van leaves FreshFruits warehouse at three thirty. Simple. Clean. A perfect window of opportunity.

I could intercept the driver, slip through the kitchens up into Luna’s rooms, and bundle her into the back of the van. It could work—if she doesn’t crush my vital organs first, or scream down the house. She’s likely to get me all bruised. If not killed.

Yet she’d become docile at the mere feel of my cock against her.

Theway she melted into me despite her rage all comes rushing back, making my blood run hot. Seduction. That might be the only way to get her to listen.

Christ. I can’t believe I’m considering this. Actually plotting to kidnap her. Again.

A distinctive six-rap knock yanks me from my thoughts. There’s only one person on earth who knocks like that.

Scar. His knock is less a request and more a warning: I’m coming in, whether you like it or not.

Time to face another complication.

The second I crack the door, he storms past me, bristling with fury. The air in the room shifts, charged with the energy of two predators sharing the same space.

“The fuck happened last night?” Scar snaps. No pleasantries. No easing into it—something we have in common.

I don’t answer immediately, choosing to draw out the moment. I return to my watch of the Chicago skyline, arms folded across my chest. Behind me, Scar paces like a caged animal, his movements a mirror of my own training. Only, his steps are soundless.

How on earth the fucker manages to glide across the floor without making a sound is still a mystery.

“I called off the operation,” I say, finally keeping my tone measured.

“Oh, you think I came all the way here so you can state the obvious? Don’t play with me, Pretty.”

“Something came up.”

“No shit.” Scar’s green eyes flash with anger and confusion. “Something like what? Like interfering with Hector’s merchandise and getting the cops crawling all over the club, kind of something?”

I school my features to hide my surprise. Scar shouldn’t know this level of detail. For this to work, he’s supposed to live in the dark and be content with the information I or the media dish out—which isn’t much.

“Kat told you.” It’s not a question.

Scar’s jaw tightens in response.

---