Chapter Three
Octavio
T hree days later, I tap on the door to Faith's room at the hospital, nervous energy zinging through me. I feel like a teenager knocking on his crush's door. It's ridiculous. I've never been thrown off-kilter by a woman like this before. But Faith Donovan isn't like any woman I've ever met before.
I've spent the last few days trying to convince myself that things between us need to be strictly professional. I'm not sure I've accomplished it. Actually, I know I haven't. She's on my mind far more often than I'd like to admit.
If Roman Gregory, the massive ATF agent at my side, notices my nerves, he doesn't comment.
"Come in," Faith calls out, her lilting voice muffled by the door.
Her private room is in a mostly empty ward on the third floor. For the last several days, access to the unit has been restricted to only those who were directly responsible for her care, LAPD, and the ATF. The hospital has been pumping her full of antibiotics, fluids, and nutrients while I worked out arrangements for her care once she leaves.
Two officers have been stationed at her door around the clock with two more posted at the doors to the ward. Despite their presence, Tarasova's people have tried seven different times to sneak into the unit. They're getting more desperate the longer she's here. It's not safe for her, so we're moving her to a safe house today.
I push the door open and step inside, my gaze instantly landing on her. Just like every other time I've seen her, the sight of her sends a frisson of desire shooting through me, stiffening my cock. She's sitting up on the side of the bed in a pair of pink scrubs, her hair up in a messy bun on top of her head. With it pulled back from her face, her eyes seem even wider, her lips fuller. She glances up at me, far too beguiling for her own good.
I haven't stepped foot inside a church since I was a kid. I believe strictly in what I can see, and I've never seen heaven or God. But looking at Faith feels exactly like I always imagined looking at an angel would. I don't think she has a clue how truly beautiful she is. Or how badly I want to reach out and touch her, just to assure myself she's real.
"Hi," she whispers to me, the tip of her tongue darting out to touch her bottom lip in a move that's becoming familiar to me. She does it when she's nervous. I doubt she even realizes she does it. She'd make a terrible poker player.
Roman steps inside the room behind me, drawing her attention. She has to tilt her head back to look up at him. Fear slides through her eyes as she takes him in, sending my protective instincts soaring. I trust Roman implicitly, but I loathe seeing that look on her face.
"Faith, this is Agent Roman Gregory," I murmur, stepping closer to her. "Roman, this is Faith Donovan."
"Ms. Donovan," he says with a polite nod. As if sensing her unease, he hangs back, sticking close to the door instead of stepping deeper into the room. "It's nice to meet you, little one."
"You too," she whispers, her gaze bouncing back to me as if seeking reassurance that Roman won't hurt her. She might not like me much, but she's come to trust me to some extent. Her trust doesn't extend far, but I think she knows her safety matters to me.
I take a couple more steps in her direction, carefully placing myself between the two of them to help ease her mind. Roman is built like a mountain and is about as dangerous as they come, but he'd lay down his life before letting anyone hurt her. He's a damn good friend and an even better cop. He's spent years working the ATF's multi-agency gang taskforce and knows just about everything there is to know about gangs and cartels. His team will be watching over her while she's in protective custody since LAPD doesn't have the resources to spare.
At this point, no one really does, but Roman knows how much I want to take Tarasova down, and he's more than willing to help me do it. Especially since Tarasova blatantly refused to stand down when he asked them not to retaliate for the shooting.
The cartels and gangs in this city have been on the verge of all-out war for months, thanks to Jose Guerrero and el Demonio . He targeted anyone he thought was a threat, trying to claim Los Angeles for himself and his own little drug enterprise. Roman killed him after he shot Mila, but that didn't solve the problem. He had a DEA agent working for him. When that news came out, all hell broke loose. The last thing we need is for Tarasova to add fuel to the fire, but he's determined to do it.
"If it's okay with you, Agent Gregory is going to help me get you moved to your safe house today," I explain to Faith, leaving the choice up to her.
She glances from me to him and then back again before nodding slowly. "Okay," she agrees simply enough, though I know that one word cost her more than she'll ever admit.
Pride waves through me. Despite everything she's been through, she's brave as hell. Cristo, it's impossible not to want her, not to ache for her.
"Where are we going?"
I smile at her, holding out a hand to help her up from the bed. "Come with me, and I'll show you."
She eyes me doubtfully and then places a hand into mine. The large bandages on her hands are gone. In their place are small pieces of gauze, held in place with strips of surgical tape. The largest of the cuts are covered, but the smaller scrapes have been left exposed to promote healing.
My skin hums with energy where we touch. I think she feels it too. As soon as she's on her feet, she jerks away, quickly putting distance between the two of us. I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to close the short distance between us.
"Is there anything here you want to take with you?" I ask, immediately wishing I hadn't. Her room is small, barely large enough for the hospital bed and the pullout shoved into the corner. Aside from the hospital phone on the table, a Bible, and a small pile of toiletries, the only other items in the room are a pitcher of water and a half eaten candy bar. She has nothing. Even the clothes she wore to the hospital are gone, probably packed away in evidence bags in a storage locker. She's been wearing borrowed scrubs for the last few days.
Fuck. I'm an asshole. I should have bought her something to wear long before now.
"No," she whispers and then bites her lip, eyeing the candy bar.
I grab it for her, tucking it into my shirt pocket without a word.
Roman ducks out into the hall, letting his guys know we're coming out. When he pops back in, he draws his gun, which makes Faith shrink, a little whimper leaving her lips. Her body presses into mine like she's seeking comfort or safety.
I hiss when her ass brushes against my groin and my dick throbs, raging back to life. Quickly putting a couple of inches between us before she notices the hard bastard, I place a hand on her arm.
"It's okay," I soothe, keeping my voice soft. "He's not going to hurt you."
"I…" She glances over her shoulder at me, her gaze running over my face. Whatever she sees there seems to reassure her. She nods and straightens, her shoulders going back.
Roman meets my gaze over her head, his blue eyes serious. He doesn't say a word, but he doesn't have to. I've known him for almost fifteen years and can read him like a book. With a simple look, he lets me know he thinks I'm right about her. She's too damn scared to have been with Tarasova by choice. And they're trying far too hard to get to her for her to be a simple cartel slave.
They want something from her or think she knows something.
I'd really like to know what.
"Roman is going to go out first, and we're going to follow behind him," I explain to Faith. "The two agents outside will follow behind us. We're going to take you down in the freight elevator and then go out through the employee entrance. There's a car parked right outside the entrance."
Her eyes widen, but she doesn't ask if we're going overboard with safety precautions. Despite trying to keep it from her, I think she knows Tarasova's people have been here looking for her more than once. She's scared out of her mind.
Guilt settles like rocks in my stomach. She thinks about survival. I think about fucking her. If ever I needed proof that this can't happen, it's staring me in the face.
"Stay beside me, angel," I murmur as Roman steps out into the hall, waving us out.
Faith takes a deep breath and then nods, sticking as close to my side as she can get without actually touching me. Even then, the heat from her body sears into me until I'm clenching my jaw so tight my teeth grind together, trying to quell my reaction to her.
Once she catches sight of the two ATF agents in the hallway with their guns drawn, her courage falters. One of the two, Michael Gunner, barely spares her a glance, instead scanning the hallway like he expects the Russians to ambush us at any second. The other, Rick Sanders, eyes her with thinly-veiled interest.
A warning growl vibrates in my chest.
"It's okay," I promise Faith, unable to keep from wrapping an arm around her waist to steady her when she flinches at the sound. My lips accidentally brush the top of her head. The scent of strawberries and cream whirls around me, making my mouth water.
I expect her to tense up or pull away from me, but she doesn't. Instead, she leans into me like she's trying to hide in my shadow. Her soft skin feels like silk against my fingertips.
Heat pumps through me at the feel of her body pressed against mine.
?Dios mio! Get it together, Octavio, I curse myself, reaching deep into the almost limitless well of resolve I've built over the years. I steel myself against the rush of desire and the softer emotions jangling for attention, pushing them down into a little box and locking them away. I learned long ago to detach and stay focused. To do the shit I do, to see the things I see every day and still sleep at night, I had to learn to remain uninvolved and unaffected, to hold a part of myself back. Doing it with her warm body tucked against mine is a hell of a lot harder than it should be.
I give Roman a curt nod, letting him know we're ready.
"Let's go," Roman barks.
Both Sanders and Gunner snap to attention.
Roman heads toward the freight elevator, his gun up and ready. Faith and I follow behind him. I keep her tucked against my side, shielding her with my body. Her short, jagged nails dig into my side, but I don't think she even notices how she clings to me. Her face is pale, her lips compressed into a thin line. Her eyes are huge, making her appear waifish and so much younger than she is. She's breathing fast, like she's on the verge of an anxiety attack.
"Do you go to church, Faith?" I ask, trying to distract her.
She jerks, shooting me a look that's so full of adorable confusion I would laugh if she wasn't so obviously terrified.
"My mother was a devout Catholic," I explain, keeping her focused on me as Roman hits the button for the elevator. "So, when I was little and something frightened me, she would have me recite the Apostles' Creed in different languages to help keep my mind off my anxiety."
Sanders and Gunner take up positions behind us, watching our six. The elevator groans and begins climbing toward us.
"Do you know it?"
"I…no. I don't go to church." Faith jumps when the elevator dings loudly, her nails gouging into my side.
"Look at me," I command, trying to keep her focused on me so she doesn't panic.
Her honey-brown eyes meet mine again. The tip of her tongue peeks out to dance across her bottom lip again. "I don't know it," she whispers almost apologetically. "I've never gone to church."
"That's okay. I haven't gone to church since I was a kid, but I'll teach it to you anyway," I murmur. It always worked when I was a kid. Maybe it'll work for her, too. Besides, it's the only goddamn text I know long enough to keep her mind occupied until she's safely in my car. "I'm going to say it in Russian. I want you to try to translate it to English for me, okay?"
I don't know how much Russian she speaks, but I'm guessing she's picked up quite a lot. She hasn't said much about her family or her background, but she's biracial, with strong Eastern European and Puerto Rican roots, I think.
How the fuck she ended up in Tarasova's hands, I don't know. Most of his cartel slaves are Eastern European immigrants. He preys on people with no family or connections, people no one would ever come looking to find. But she's very obviously not an immigrant he lured over here. She's American.
I'd very much like to know how he got his hands on her.
"I…" Her gaze sweeps over my face again, uncertainty blazing in her eyes. And then she nods. "Okay."
I smile at her, unable to help myself. For someone who's been through what she has, she's sweet as hell.
I help her into the elevator behind Roman, tucking her into the far corner with her back against the wall. Despite the charitable size of the elevator, once Gunner and Sanders step in with us, she ends up crowded into the corner, my body almost flush against hers.
Once again, I find myself fighting to control my body's automatic reaction to her. My dick presses against my zipper, my skin humming.
Cristo, she smells good.
She tips her head back, staring up at me. She has a tiny tear-shaped scar right above her left eye. There's another at the right corner of her bottom lip. Both appear as little white marks against her soft, brown skin. The sight of them pisses me off. Anyone who mistreats women or children doesn't deserve to live.
The pulse in her throat flutters wildly as she stares at me. Her breasts rise and fall in rapid movements, her breathing still too quick and shallow. Her eyes are haunted and full of fear. But for one split second, I think I see something else flare to life there. Desire. It's gone as quickly as it appeared, burned out by the panic beating at her. But that little glimmer has my heart pounding against my ribcage.
I skim my nose along her crown.
She whimpers softly.
I force myself to pull back, fighting like hell for control.
Roman mutters something to Gunner, who nods and hits the button on his mic, letting the guys downstairs know we're on the way down with her. A second later, the doors slide closed and the elevator jolts.
Faith jumps, a distressed sound leaving her throat.
" Veruyu v Boga, Otsa vsemogushchego, Tvortsa neba i zemli ," I murmur, clenching my fists against the urge to scoop her up in my arms and carry her to safety.
She eyes me uncertainly until I nod, silently encouraging her to translate it for me…though I'm no longer sure if this exercise is for her benefit or mine.
"I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth," she whispers, translating as flawlessly as I expected she'd be able to.
"Good. That's very good." I smile, reaching deep to find the words of the prayer I haven't uttered in years. " I v Iisusa Khrista, Edinogo Ego Syna, Gospodа nashego, kotoryy byl zachat ot Dukha Svyatogo, rodilsya ot Marii Devy. "
"And in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit, born of the Virgin Mary," she repeats, her gaze still locked on my face. Her breathing slows little by little, evening out.
" Stradal pri Pontii Pilate, byl raspyat, umer i pogrebyon, " I recite.
"Jesus Christ," Sanders mutters under his breath.
"Shut the fuck up," Roman snaps at the younger man.
"Say it, angel," I order Faith, turning to glare at Sanders when she flounders.
"Um, s-suffered," she whispers and then looks at me for confirmation. I nod, which seems to give her the courage to keep going. "Suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and was buried…"
" Soshel v ad, v tret’i den’ voskres iz mertvykh ."
"He descended into hell. On the third day, He rose again from the dead," she says, barely flinching when the elevator jolts to a stop.
Roman murmurs something to Sanders and Gunner, who both nod. The doors slide open and Roman steps out into the hallway, Gunner and Sanders on his heels. Gunner sticks his foot in the door to keep it open. Once they do a quick scan, Roman motions us out.
Faith trembles as we step out into the hallway. Aside from the two agents stationed at opposite ends of the hall and a massive bin that looks like an industrial-sized laundry basket on wheels, the hallway is empty. The entire area is closed to the public, used only by staff to get equipment and food from one place to another. The hallway smells like a school cafeteria.
"This way," Roman mutters, turning to the right.
" Voshyol na neba, sidit odestvnuyu Boga Otsa vsemogushchego, " I whisper to Faith, tugging her close to my side as we follow behind him.
"He…He ascended into heaven and is seated at the right hand of God the Father," she says, her voice shaking slightly.
Roman moves quickly down the hallway, his boots hitting the linoleum with purposeful strikes. Within seconds, he's at the end of the hall, speaking to the agent stationed there. He holds up a hand, silently telling us to wait.
I draw to a stop, keeping Faith close while he and the agent check outside to make sure the coast is clear. She cringes when the door squeals but doesn't otherwise react.
" Ottuda pridyot sudit’ zhivykh i mertvykh ," I recite, waiting for Roman and his teammate to finish their quick sweep.
"From there He will come to judge the living and the dead."
"Good," I murmur to her, nodding at Roman when he steps back inside and motions us forward. "We're almost there, Faith. Just a little bit farther."
"Okay," she whispers bravely. Her nails dig into my side again as we step forward, walking quickly toward Roman.
He pushes the door open, holding it for us.
" Veruyu v Dukha Svyatogo, svyatuyu Vselenskuyu Tserkov’ …" I murmur as we approach the door. My unmarked Tahoe is pulled up right outside, so close I could probably toss her the short distance from the entrance to the vehicle. Instead, I duck outside, checking both ways to make sure the coast is still clear. Aside from a couple of nurses vaping on the far side of the employee parking lot, there's no one else in sight. I still feel like there's a giant red target painted on Faith's back as I usher her outside.
"I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Holy Catholic Church," she says, her voice shaking hard now.
" Svyatyh obshchenie, ostavlenie grekhov …"
"The communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins," she gasps as I hurry her to the Tahoe.
I keep my body curled around hers, barely daring to breathe until the door of the SUV opens and she's inside, out of view. I climb up beside her, sliding her over to make room for me on the bench seat.
" Voskresenie ploti, zhizn’ vechnuyu ," I breathe in relief when the door closes behind me.
"The resurrection of the body, and life everlasting," she repeats, slumping weakly against the seat. Her entire body trembles with the force of her relief. She closes her eyes, her long lashes fluttering against her cheeks as the word "amen" whispers from her lips in a dulcet puff of sound. She looks drained, as if the trip from her room to the safety of the car took every ounce of energy she had.
I grind my teeth together, fighting the urge to pick her up, put her in my lap, and tell her that everything is going to be okay. I've never met anyone who sends every protective instinct I have clamoring like she does. I've never felt such a lack of control before.
She's been used and abused for most of her life. The last thing she needs is a controlling bastard like me slowing taking over her life. That shouldn't piss me off, but it does. Because I want to take control for her, want to put her life in order, teach her what it means to be safe, cared for, and protected.
And I fucking can't. She's off-limits. Untouchable.
Even if there was a tiny moment where desire sparked in her eyes…she doesn't like or trust me anyway. To her, I'm just another man keeping her in a cage.
" Mierda ," I mutter under my breath, not liking that reminder any more than I like the thought of her being afraid of me. Because, for the first time in my life, I think I want something else more than I want Tarasova out of this city.
And there isn't a goddamn thing I can do about it.