Page 15 of Hostile Love
Even though they aren’t wearing face coverings, they’re too far away for me to study their features.
Then I catch a glimpse of another soldier. Except this guy wears all black and skirts the length of a trailer with his machine gun primed and his strides confident.
The peak of a non-descript baseball cap hides his eyes and casts a shadow over his face.
He’s not like the others. More self-assured and lethal. Goosebumps race over my arms and I dare to think it could be Matheus.
Except, the guy who rounds a truck and disappears isn’t wearing a balaclava to hide his identity.
It couldn’t be him.
Shaking off my obsession with Matheus, I consider my next moves. Use the vehicles for cover. Dodge the testosterone fueled assholes firing machine guns. Reach the boundary gates. Warn Blanco of the danger.
In theory, it should be simple.
Despite the fact I take great pride in my skills as a sicario, I can’t outrun a team of men who have more ammo than me.
I’m good, but I’m not bulletproof.
Frenzied bullets continue to spray. One narrowly misses me, others arc over the top of my hiding spot, and another burrows into the wood above my head.
Recognizing the need to keep moving, I tuck my hair behind my ears, crawl on all fours and strategically stay in the shade.
I ignore the stinging slice over my cheekbone and stop beside a huge tire of a shiny green transportation truck.
In that moment, a sudden flow of inexplicable heat charges my veins and prickles the back of my neck. It’s not something I can control or understand.
The sensation is a flaming hot awareness reaching deep inside of me.
I glance right, squinting at the far end of the long trailer, not seeing anyone.
But that scorching vibration hums through me and I start to think I should start running. When I take a couple of steps, something locks around my ankle, tight and aggressive.
I lose my balance and end up toppling, breaking my fall with one hand and expelling a gust of air when I land.
My ears prick at the nearby muffled noise. I roll onto my side, point my gun and stare at a metal chassis and a familiar, unmasked face beneath it.
Matheus.
Stunned, I don't fight back when he roughly drags me under the truck with him. Both of us stare at each other, not saying a word, only breathing heavily.
This guy who thinks he’s my hero is so close I can smell the pungent hit of nitroglycerin left after firing his Uzi, cigarette smoke, andhim.
Woody amber cologne and Matheus Souza. I’ve become addicted to that unique masculine scent.
Trapped in his gaze, I feel myself burn in the richness of his chestnut eyes. Even now, in the middle of a war zone, I’m buzzing next to this guy.
It’s abnormal and stupid.
“You okay, Dani?” his hoarse voice rumbles between us.
I grunt at his question and roll my eyes.
“I was fine until you pulled me under here. You’re delaying my escape.”
The carnage unfolding around us fades when he bites off his glove, thumbs my cheek and glares at the blood covering his skin.
Without saying a word, he draws it into his mouth and sucks.
