Page 1 of Mercenary Daddy’s Girl (Daddy’s Girl #9)

GEMMA

“ G emma? What are you still doing here?” Eduardo Vasquez asks, and I jump at the sudden voice breaking the silence.

I spin on my heels to greet him the way I was instructed at the Maid in Heaven training course, folding my hands over my lap and giving a degrading half-bow.

Though I left that job long ago for full-time service under the Vasquez family, some habits die hard.

Eduardo’s head is the only thing poking through the door, his eyes scanning the room as he speaks.

“Mrs. Vasquez said you two were going away for a few weeks. I didn’t want to leave the place in a mess,” I say honestly. With how well they pay, I’d rather put in extra hours now than face a mountain of catch-up work later.

“Okay, but hurry.” A grim severity lingers in his tone, but his stone-cold face refuses any hint at more emotion. “My timeline’s changed, and we need to catch the first plane out of Hamlet.”

“I’m almost done here. These are the last few boxes, and I’ll be out of your hair.

” Cleaning houses for the rich wasn’t where I expected to end up at twenty-one.

But with a sick mother who can’t care for herself and no father in the picture, my options are limited.

Online courses at a subpar college don’t exactly pay the bills.

I struck gold when I met the Vasquez family. They pay too well for what they ask of me, with one condition above my normal duties—if I see or hear something I shouldn’t, I keep my lips sealed.

Luckily for them, my mom barely remembers my name most days, and I don’t have friends to gossip with. Life has made it easy for me to keep their secrets.

His eyes linger on me for an excruciating moment. My first thought is that I’ve pissed him off, overstepped my bounds, and I can kiss this cushy job goodbye. Instead, Eduardo gives me a stiff nod and vanishes down the hall.

It’s not my place to make sense of the strange interaction, so I get back to work.

Tonight’s task is moving boxes full of baby stuff from a pile on the floor into the closet.

Mrs. Vasquez told me they’ve been trying to have a child for years without success, and it’s finally time to box up those dreams until they actually happen.

Knowing how much this must hurt them makes standing in this room so much harder, but somehow it still feels like a monument of hope.

A few minutes pass, with Eduardo’s muffled voice down the hall my only company. Even through multiple walls and the hallway, I can tell something's off. Not sure what, but it makes taking up his offer to leave much easier.

Finishing half the stack and leaving the rest for when they get back from their trip, I’m satisfied with my progress and head for the door.

But as I step into the hall, I hear it. Or rather, I don’t hear it.

Not a single sound. The sort of empty, eerie quiet in a horror movie right before a jump scare.

And like that build up, it’s immediately drowned out by a woman’s screeching wail, cut short before the sound can travel too far. Behind whatever covers her mouth, Mrs. Vasquez’s muffled cries still echo through the house.

That’s my cue to run. Bolt down the stairs and never look back. But my body refuses to listen, staying rooted in place by terror and forcing my eyes to stay glued to the inky black hall.

Eduardo says something, but I can’t make out his words over the sound of my heart pounding in my ears. The response he gets is two loud bangs that make my body stiffen so rigidly, my bones ache.

Gunshots. Oh, fuck.

I trip, stumbling back into the nursery, almost toppling into the box tower I left behind. A few inches off, and there would be a third bullet fired with my name on it. Then again, maybe there still is. Just because two shots rang out doesn’t mean Eduardo or Mrs. Vasquez wasn’t the triggerman.

No time to think about that. I have to hide.

Slipping behind the boxes, I crouch low, curling in on myself until I’m as small as possible. Nothing to see here, just another box on the floor.

A box that’s having a mental breakdown. Ready to scream or cry or both.

Yeah, definitely both.

“Ha, the guy dropped funny,” I hear someone say when the ringing in my ears starts to fade. A jolt of terror courses up my spine when I realize it’s not Eduardo talking.

“Didn’t know a body could twist like that.” And that isn’t his wife.

Oh shit. Clear voices. That means the door is open, and it’s only a matter of time until they find me cowering.

“Where the fuck are you going? The Don told us to sit tight until he arrives,” one of them asks, inadvertently becoming my savior .

“Gonna stretch my legs,” the other replies, cocky and careless. The sort of guy you can tell has a chip on his shoulder without needing to see him. “Who cares what Ghost wants anyway?”

Ghost .

I’ve heard the name before, and hearing it now turns a feeling of being in a horror movie into a terrifying reality. He’s more myth than man, the kind of legend kids use to scare each other. The monster under your bed. A creak in the night when no one’s awake.

A shadow looming in the corner of the room, always watching.

“Don’t tell me you buy into the bullshit. The prick isn’t even made. He’s a freak we call in for the dirty work.”

“Think the Don would let him make orders if he wasn’t something special?” The other guy sounds nervous, like he does buy into the stories.

“Ever consider he’s a smooth talker? Or too good at playing people?” The other scoffs.

"Have you considered that he might really be as good as they say?"

“Christ, I definitely should get out of here. My job’s done, and I don’t want to stick around to see you blow Ghost,” he emphasizes Ghost with sarcastic flair.

No answer. Left in silence again, with the remnants of ringing still plaguing my ears.

Too afraid to move, I remain still for what feels like an eternity, taking short breaths wherever I can, but never deep enough that I might make a sound.

I’m just biding my time, praying for this nightmare to end.

I feel it before I see it. A shift in the room so intense it’s like the room itself is holding its breath too. And as a dark shadow consumes what little light washes over me, I know it’s too late. That someone made it in, and damn close, without making a sound .

Like a ghost would move.

I turn my head, slow and cautious, while scouring my heart and mind for a way out of what’s coming next.

But instead of finding myself on the business end of a nine-millimeter barrel, I’m met by him.

A statue carved out of muscle and dripping with intensity.

He doesn’t move, his chest barely rising while he draws in oxygen, staring straight back at me.

His dark eyes lock onto mine, making my entire body seize.

Well, everything except my pulse, which gallops out of control.

The lower half of his face is covered with a black-and-white ceramic half-mask. Sharp-toothed and snarling, it’s unmistakably Japanese. Unmistakably demonic.

Fitting for a man who carries the title, Ghost.

I want to scream, beg for mercy, do anything that would turn this monster’s attention away from me, but the only sound that comes out is a pathetic, breathless whimper. And Ghost reminds me not to make another by raising a gloved finger over the mask's jagged teeth.

Shhh .

I obey because there’s no room left in my body for anything but obedience.

Not while he looks at me like this. He isn’t scanning my face or glancing at my body.

He’s ravenously consuming every inch of me.

His dark eyes flicker and glow with delight as they pore over my features, trail my curves, and settle between my breasts.

Somehow, beneath the fear of this monster’s shameless gawking, something else thrums even louder inside me. Something deeper, needy, desperate.

No one has ever looked at me this way. Smoldering, dangerous, as if I’m his and I don’t get a say in the matter.

My stomach coils into a tight knot while the shame of whatever the hell is going on with me bubbles beneath my skin. And it lingers there, teasing the ache between my legs, until my thighs clench without permission, and I can’t tell if it’s from my panic or want.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I can’t feel this way. Not now. Not ever.

Yet, here I am, my heart pounding against my ribcage as I wait for his next move.

Getting out of here alive should be my only focus, so why is the way his muscular frame hasn’t budged an inch all I can think about?

And still, somehow, I can pretty much feel him reaching out, those strong, gloved hands latching onto me.

Squeezing me tight, pinning me in place, making sure I know his gaze isn’t the only thing claiming me.

What’s worse is how I almost want it.

Who is he? What is he?

And why does he make my body ache in places that should be numb from fear?

“Holy shit, when is this guy gonna get here?” the same cocky voice bellows out, breaking my focus. Not his, never his. It’s locked on me, no matter what.

“He’ll get here when he gets here.”

Ghost’s gaze snaps from me to the window and back again. He doesn't need to speak for me to understand that he’s guiding my route with a haphazard glance. Barking his order for me to escape.

And I’m not going to waste the opportunity.

Regaining my senses and realizing how bat-shit crazy I’m being, I stumble to my feet and rush to the window.

Even this escape is insane. I’ll be jumping from a second-story window into Mrs. Vasquez’s rose bushes.

But a few scrapes from their thorns and a sprained ankle sound a lot better than ending up in an unmarked grave .

My arms tremble violently as I reach for the window’s latch. My twitching fingers struggle to grip the hook and lift it. I’m ashamed to admit it takes more than a few tries to get it right. My nerves bite harder when it finally swings open, and I kick my first leg over the narrow ledge.

Every inch of my being screams that I should drop down and run when the second leg joins in the chilly night air. But the knot gripping tightly in my core makes me stop. Turn back. Steal one last look at the Ghost who saved me.

And he’s still there. Still watching. Still terrifying. Still … branding me with those eyes. Memorizing every detail from head to toe, as if he’s already decided we’re not done here.

Not even close.