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know who you ve been hanging around but you re a knockout. You ve got the type of body that makes
men want to fight for you. Your face is like a goddamn sun; it s so beautiful that you can t look
directly at it. If you were any more fucking gorgeous, I d probably die of a heart attack. In fact, I m
going to have to mud up some of your features so that when we do run into natives, they don t try to
keep you as some goddess that they worship. I run a muddy, sweaty finger over her forehead and
then down the bridge of her nose. Her eyes soften and her lids get heavy. Even with my shitty
experience with women, I know what that means, and my body strains toward her.
I step back, drop my hand, and turn away. That s all I can give her now. Reaching down I shift the
monster toward my inseam, hoping that the little extra fabric there can give me some breathing room.
I resume walking and she follows, but this time the dam s broken and the questions come
relentlessly.
Do you really own an island?
Yeah. It was owned by a former Columbian drug cartel owner. He terrorized the locals, cleared
land for an airstrip, and built a compound. He was killed by a rival gang when he was in Sanibel
doing business. It was semi-abandoned. My men and I pooled our resources and bought it. We moved
everyone there who wanted to move because the Brazilian government wasn t friendly anymore.
What s it called?
Tears of God.
Where d you get that from?
I hack at the branches. Her hand slips into the back of my pants, and whatever room I had left
disappears. It s tight but I decide that I don t want to lose her touch, which probably means I m losing
my mind. Hopefully we ll find some natives soon and they can just spear me to death and put me out
of my misery.
And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither
sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain. I quote Revelation.
And is there no death or sorrow or pain?
I snort. No. No matter how high the fence or how strong the barricades, death illness, heartache
all find you.
So why the island?
Because it was the safest place I could find for the people who trust me to protect them. I pause.
I probably shouldn t be sharing this information with her, but she deserves to know why I was
following her. A friend of mine was taken by the U.S. government. He helped me form the Tears of
God. It might have even been his idea. Hell if I know. We were captured by rebels in Tehran. They
brought us to Dasht-e Kavir and said if we could make it out of the desert then we d be free. We were
meant to die but a few of the natives found us and helped us. When we got to safety, they begged for
us to take them with us. I squint up at the canopy of leaves remembering that hot day when Davidson
and I were faced with abandoning our saviors or taking them with us. There really wasn t any debate,
though. We wouldn t have survived without their help. We walked out of the desert, away from the
army, and set up base in a small slum in Brazil. Seemed like a good place to hide from the world.
How did the other people find you?
Word got around. A kid is sold for food or maybe a daughter is offered up for protection. We
hadn t broken ties with everything back home to become slave traders or kid killers. But the slums are
dangerous. It s a kill-or-be-killed mentality, so we fought back and we fought back hard. Touch us
and you suffered not just you, but your whole line.
I could feel her shiver behind me, but she never removed her hand. Sounds biblical.
That s my mom s influence. She read me the Bible when I should have been playing video games
and watching porn. She lived a shitty life and the Bible was her refuge. She wanted me to be a
missionary. She wanted me to atone for the original sin of being born. As if life isn t enough of a
curse.
And it sounds like you are.
How so? I look over my shoulder.
You have an island where you send people you ve saved. She shrugs as if it makes total sense
to her. Isn t that the definition of being a missionary? Saving people?
The Tears of God ain t heaven, Ava, I say more harshly than I intend.
Maybe for some people it is.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AVA
Just when I think I have the guy figured out, he surprises me again. There are so many layers to Rafe
Mendoza that I don t know what to think. I think he s a thug, and he helps me escape the bad guys. He
says I mean nothing to him, but he watches me with such hunger in his eyes that it makes me shiver.
And he says he s just a mercenary, but then he tells me about an island he bought that he s turned into
a refuge for people.
Most of all, he tells me he s a virgin by choice and then jerks his cock in front of me.
So yeah, there s no putting Rafe Mendoza into a nice, safe box.
I can t exactly put my feelings about him into an easily classifiable category, either. I hate that he
wants to sell me out. I m utterly confused about his decades-long celibacy so long he probably is a
virgin, particularly if his only experience with a girl was just getting the tip in. And I m terribly,
horribly, completely attracted to the man. Giant cock or no, there s more to Mendoza than what s in
his pants.
All I know is that when he told me I was beautiful earlier and traced mud down my nose? It took
everything I had not to drag him against me and kiss the hell out of him.
I think he guessed how I felt, too, because he immediately turned away, leaving me all confused.
Didn t he just say he found me attractive? Didn t he want to get rid of his virginity?
I touch my hair self-consciously. God, I probably look like a fucking wreck. Maybe that s why he
turned away so abruptly. My bug bites probably have bug bites. Not a sexy look by any means.
And really, the jungle isn t exactly conducive to hot, steamy sex anyhow. I think of the cave we ve
spent the last two days in and shudder. I think of how long it s been since I ve showered. I sniff one
armpit, and wince. Okay, yeah. Fragrant. I m probably covered in head-to-toe jungle grunge.
It s quiet as we walk through the jungle, and Rafe doesn t seem to be in a chatty mood, so I
mentally fantasize about how I d take his virginity. We d have to have a nice hotel room. Something
special, with a big bed and a big tub. Order some wine, maybe some strawberries. I d wear some
lingerie that would cinch up my slightly-too-wide waist and play up on my breasts. And we d need
lots of lube. Lots and lots of lube. I visualize tearing Mendoza s shirt open and straddling his hips as
he lay down on the bed. The look on his face as he realizes just what I intend to do with him, and then
that wonderful hunger in his eyes.
I shiver a little despite the warm, humid air. If we get out of here alive, I m definitely putting that
plan into action.
We follow along the banks of the river for a while, my hand holding on to the back of his pants as
he moves forward. I have a spear lightly gripped in my bad hand, but I mostly use it as a walking
stick. Mendoza s got Afonso s machete and has been using it to hack through the jungle. There have
been a few caimans and snakes, but mostly on the other side of the riverbank. I m hoping we re
making too much noise for anything to come investigate us. My gaze moves along the river as we
walk. It s murky and congested with debris, the water a muddy, uninviting brown. Trees and brush
overhang the edges of the river so we walk a short distance away but keep it in sight. We haven t seen
anyone in this jungle mess, and I don t expect to.
Which is why I m surprised when, about midday, I see something on the opposite bank, under a
few overhanging trees. Is that . . . a boat?
Mendoza pauses and squints. My sight s shit right now. Let s get a bit closer. I follow close
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