Unchained Desire Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Epilogue

  The Real Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more Amara titles… Darkest Heart

  The Mate

  Her Alpha Viking

  Drakon’s Tear

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by R.C. Alvarez. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 105, PMB 159

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  [email protected]

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Candace Havens

  Cover design by Mayhem Cover Creations

  Cover photography by

  TESPHOTO/DepositPhoto

  Lukas Neasi/Unsplash

  ISBN 978-1-64063-814-3

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition May 2019

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for supporting a small publisher! Entangled prides itself on bringing you the highest quality romance you’ve come to expect, and we couldn’t do it without your continued support. We love romance, and we hope this book leaves you with a smile on your face and joy in your heart.

  xoxo

  Liz Pelletier, Publisher

  Dedicated to Jolene Navarro.

  Without you, Ramiel would have never seen the light of day. Or an editor.

  Chapter One

  Kyria quietly knocked on her father’s bedroom door, rapping her knuckles hard enough that she wasn’t drowned out by the midday thunder outside. No answer. She eased the door open, expecting to find him resting. The cast-iron bed was empty.

  “Dad?” She froze. A familiar suitcase bulged with haphazard piles of clothes. They were going on the run again. Sharp pain shot out from the base of her neck. She sucked in a breath through her teeth and rubbed the tattoo-like mark on her nape.

  It burned more frequently the last two weeks, starting about the same time her father had his first fever. He claimed he didn’t know anything about it, but she had her doubts.

  Emerging from the bathroom, he hurried past her to stuff his toiletries into the already full leather bag. For a man in his early fifties, he appeared young, when he wasn’t so sick. She didn’t take after him much. He was tall and lean, with short-cropped, peppered brown hair and a sharp nose. The resemblance was all in the eyes; there was no mistaking their blood tie.

  “Dad, what’s going on?” Kyria put her hand on his arm, trying to stop him from packing. Childhood memories of all the late-night mad dashes from one hotel to another flooded her brain, along with the bubbling sense of panic she remembered all too well.

  That six-foot-four frame came to a stop. He still towered over her, always had, but he had also lost a great deal of weight recently. Golden-blue eyes were sunk deep into their sockets, and his cheekbones protruded, giving him a skeletal look.

  “We’ve been compromised. Here’s your bag. Meet me at the Bronco in ten.” He disappeared into his bathroom, probably expecting her to just do as he said.

  She gripped the edge of the blanket with white knuckles, teetering between her instinct to act quickly, without question, and her concern.

  “Dad, you’re sick. Val and Eli want to help. And moving again will only make it worse,” she pleaded. As if on cue, heavy thunder shook the foundations of the two-hundred-year-old ranch house. “I want to stay.”

  He reappeared in the doorframe, giving her a long look. Then he sighed. “You’re an adult, so I can’t make you do anything. But I need you to be safe, and the best way for us both to survive is if we stick together.” He crossed over to touch the top of her head. “I know Val wants to help. She’s been good to us these last six years. But we can’t trust Eli. His father is in the cartel. Val might be in on it, too.”

  Electric sparks of panic ran along her nerves as her eyes widened. Eli rarely talked about his father, but she never imagined this was the reason. Could her father’s illness have affected his judgment, causing him to imagine this sort of scenario?

  She wrapped her hand over his to take it off her head and hold it, noticing how cold his palm was. “Dad, Eli couldn’t possibly be involved.”

  “His father just made contact. All those calls he keeps getting from Peru? It’s too much of a coincidence. I can’t risk it.”

  She swallowed thickly. “Where are we going?”

  “You have one bag and eight minutes.” He spun around quickly without giving her time to respond but stumbled forward and grabbed the headboard to keep from falling flat on his face.

  “Dad.” Ice flooded her veins, and Kyria grasped his arm. “You need rest.”

  “No, dammit. That won’t help. I know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Then tell me how to fix it.”

  “You can’t. But there’s someone in Houston who might be able to. Ramiel.” He stood and pulled away from her, his tone firm. “Seven minutes now.”

  “Ramiel?” A character in one of Val’s old mythology lessons. “Like the archangel in Val’s historical text? What kind of witness protection agent picks that as their cover name?”

  For a second he closed his eyes, then he returned to packing. Had he lost his grip on reality, falling headlong into paranoia?

  She loved him, and he was her world, but she didn’t really want to leave the ranch. To be without a place to call home once again. Six years they had managed to stay here, which was twice as long as anywhere else. “What about the horses?”

  His glare told her they were done talking. Disappointment and loss swirled through her with a poignant ache.

  She didn’t have the luxury of crying. If nothing else, her father had taught her to soldier on and never get too comfortable. Because in the blink of an eye, everything could change.

  Picking up her luggage, she jumped when the pocket of the bag moved. Buddy, her hedgehog, poked his adorable face out.

  The little critter ambled into her cupped hands and peered up at her.

  She bent low and whispered, “Rule number one: travel light, absolutely no pets.” She kissed him, car
eful not to invade too much of his prickly space. “But I think it’s okay to break a few rules, don’t you?”

  With her bag in hand, she headed to her room to pack away this life and move on to the next one. There was no time to mourn all the things she was leaving behind.

  Keeping her head down and the tears buried, she went through the motions of leaving.

  Once they’d settled inside a drab motel room four hours later, her father sprinkled a salt mix along the baseboards. He didn’t even bother getting dry first. She’d forgotten all about that weird ritual of his, but the scent of lemon and rosemary that infused the salt brought it all rushing back. Unfortunately, it did little to cover the stale smell that came directly from the 70s fixtures in the room.

  At his laptop, her father opened it and logged in. He shook his head after a few minutes of tapping away. “Devil’s Tale? Really?” He turned to her for the first time since entering the room. “I shouldn’t be gone long.” After gathering a few things from his bag, he was on the move again. “Ramiel might also have more information on Eli and his father. We’ll see.”

  One hand on the wall, he took a few deep breaths, then turned all his focus on her. “No matter what happens, don’t open the door. Not even for me if I don’t use the code word.” He held her gaze, then dropped his head. “Promise me.”

  She carefully took off her coat and set it aside before sitting on the bed. With her hands folded tight between her knees, Kyria kept herself from running to him and begging to go home.

  “It’s been a while,” she managed. “but I remember the drill.”

  “As long as you keep the door and windows closed, you’re safe. Do you understand?” Each word was sharp and hard.

  She drew in a deep breath and nodded. It surprised her how all the old habits slipped back into place without any effort. A small bundle of warmth wiggled against her side, and she smiled. Well, maybe a bit of bending the rules.

  Her father stared at her for what seemed like forever.

  “Dad?”

  Clearing his throat, he broke eye contact and scanned the room. “When I get back, we need to have a long talk. It’s time I tell you everything.” His scowl deepened. “You gave my life purpose, Kyria. Everything I’ve done has been for you.” He nodded as if they had agreed on something. “You know I love you, right?”

  “Of course.” She stood, not able to hold back any longer, and reached out to him. They hugged for a few seconds, then he pulled away.

  “Are you sure I shouldn’t go with you?”

  He shook his head as if he was too tired to even respond. “The door stays locked.”

  “I promise.”

  “Good.” Her father turned to pick up the key and stumbled, knocking the lamp over with a crash. “Dammit.” He pushed his shoulder up against the wall for support.

  Kyria rushed to him and touched his forehead. “Dad, you’re burning up.” She touched his hands next, bewildered—ice-cold.

  “No, I’m fine. I just need a moment.” He balanced his elbows on his knees and buried his head into his hands while taking in long breaths. After a few moments, he went to stand but crumpled to the floor.

  Falling to her knees beside him, she tapped his face. He was out cold. “Daddy, wake up. Come on.” With an arm around his shoulders, she shook him. “Daddy? Wake up.” She tried lifting him to the bed, but he was too heavy. Tears burned her eyes, threatening to spill over as she held him tightly.

  Pull yourself together.

  Hands shaking, she checked his vitals and sucked in a steadying breath to calm herself. He would be fine on the floor if she put a pillow under his head and straightened his legs. One hard yank, and the top blanket was off the mattress and over him. Taking her time, she tucked it around him.

  Unable to look at his face anymore, she stared at the details of the faded floral design of the motel blanket until it distorted through a film of frustrated tears.

  Buddy jumped out from her coat on the mattress, crawled down the bedding, and dashed across her father’s chest before pacing back toward her. The soft bump of his nose against her leg lifted a small weight off her chest. Clearing out the initial frantic chaos of her brain, she went through her options. She had to get help for her dad before it was too late.

  “Buddy, I can’t just sit here and watch him die.” Gathering her courage, Kyria pulled out her phone. But fear of the cartel stopped her from calling Eli.

  Everything was too risky. Calling Val wasn’t even an option—Eli belonged to her. Who else could she contact?

  Ramiel. “Dad came here to find him, right?”

  Buddy wiggled his nose and gave her a soft grunt in reply. With the back of her hand, she wiped her face then went to check her father’s laptop.

  Disposable burner cells were the only devices she’d been allowed to use. The dangers of being tracked had been drilled into her since childhood.

  Shoot, he’d shut down the laptop. Password…what would his password be? She tried her birthday. Her father’s birthday. Nancy, her mother’s name. The date of her mother’s death.

  The blinking cursor taunted her. The Devil’s Tale, that was where she’d find the answers. He said it was close. An address would be helpful, but the computer was a dead-end.

  Throbbing pressure pushed against her forehead. Closing her eyes, she centered herself. It was time to ask a stranger for directions, even as her father’s warnings cluttered her brain.

  She touched the jewelry around her neck. Shaped like a heart, the hollow pendant was all Kyria had left of her mother, who was murdered when she was just a baby. Those same people still wanted to kill Dad and her.

  Her father always warned her that the Peruvian cartel was willing to kill anyone to achieve its goals, and never hesitated.

  If she was ever allowed to have a smartphone or any other device with GPS, the trip would have been easy. But even the SUV lacked any digital navigational system. Dad was old school.

  Hard, cold wind hit the windows. Walking wasn’t a good idea.

  With a glance at the useless computer, she stood. The fear of talking to strangers would not cripple her now.

  Kyria kneeled next to her father again. “Dad?” She touched his brow. Still cold and clammy, but his breathing sounded normal. “Daddy?” More silence. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure this out. I promise you will get better, no matter what I have to do.” Stooping to kiss his forehead, she left the hedgehog on his chest then grabbed her coat with sharp fear needling her.

  Pausing at the door to look back one last time, she said, “You watch over him, Buddy. I’ll be back as soon as possible.”

  A sharp breeze cut through her clothes when she opened the door. She shuddered and stepped out, locking up behind her before heading off into the empty cold.

  Chapter Two

  Ten hours since Ramiel’s release from hell and he still couldn’t summon the energy to get business done. Seven days every month—that was all the time he had to restore what was left of his holy essence before the demon that held him captive dragged him back. The chain attached to his wrist pulled on the iron collar around his neck as he ran his hand through his freshly cut hair.

  These brief tastes of freedom were allowed for one reason. Blood. So, he sat in the dimly lit bar, a scarred gargoyle amid the beautifully ignorant, a weed among roses.

  A fallen angel.

  Why don’t you just write a fucking haiku?

  The empty beer bottle spun under his fingers, emitting a deep ominous whistle as his prisoner chains rattled.

  This place pulled in a wide range of humanity, from stoners to yuppies. All their needs and desires hummed through him.

  He craved peace and quiet. Unfortunately, he needed to feed.

  As he took the first step from his dark corner, the door opened and slammed against the wall from the fierce wind that had picked up outside. A gust of sleet drove into the room, causing the people nearby to yell at the newcomer to shut the door. A female.

  T
he foul odors of sin and debauchery, he was used to, but the new female brought the polar opposite.

  She appeared lost and innocent, hands clenched together with white knuckles. A low curse tumbled from his lips. He’d seen that look before, and he would not fall for it a second time. And yet, just as the chain that shackled his wrist to his neck kept him locked to his demon princess, he couldn’t look away. She approached the closest waitress. As one, they turned. The traitorous server pointed.

  A deep scowl pulled his brow down as the tall female wove her way straight toward him.

  This can’t be good.

  She pushed the hood of her white coat from her face.

  His lungs seized. A pure light radiated from her. He half expected to see a fucking halo on her, glimmering above her head, or hear a choir singing her name.

  Everything sweet and honest, all the same crap he thought he was protecting in another lifetime. The iron around his neck and wrist was proof of his stupidity.

  He did a quick read on her but couldn’t pick up an emotion or thought. Suspicion brewed in his chest.

  “Ramiel?” Sweet and gentle, her voice drowned out the ugly noise of the bar.

  He stood over her, not moving, just staring. She licked her lips. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear she was nervous. Oh, she’s good.

  “I’m Kyria. I need your help.” Her whispered plea pulled at him, reminding him of the stupid hero complex he had suffered from long ago.

  It had been fifty-four thousand, seven hundred and fifty days, to be exact, when a blond beauty had stopped him in his tracks. Gallantly, with the highest level of arrogance, he had offered her anything she needed, clueless that it would end up being his soul.

  Naamah recently renamed herself Nema. An archdemon who had turned him into her personal blood bank.

  He warned her to back off with a gruff sound in the back of his throat. She flinched but didn’t move, just stood there smelling like cinnamon and vanilla, full of determination and hope. I gotta admire that.

  But he wasn’t going to fall for it again. Before she could ask a question, he held up a hand. “Do I look like I care?”

  She swallowed. “It’s a matter of life and death. You are the only one who can help.”