Page 107 of Mercenary

What followed was a nasty fifteen minutes of grunting and groaning, cursing and swearing, everything but Kylie selling us out.

As a matter of fact, she’s done everything up to code. Which makes me wonder, why keep TORC secrets if you’ve already done your worst?

Now, I wait, pulling out the branch from my pocket to kill the time. There’s just enough room for fourteen small marks, insignificant terminations. Thirteen disloyal assholes who’ll probably cheer as I terminate Franco, seconds before I take them out of the picture.

The last open space on the branch would have been just enough room for Kylie’s.

I stand and stretch my legs as I secure the bit of branch back inside my pocket.

The room next door is quiet. Kylie better suck it up and shake off what they’ve done to her. Having the element of surprise only gets you so far in our business. She’ll have to handle a few men herself if she has a prayer in hell of surviving.

Yeah, living long enough for me to kill her.

Finish my order.

Right.

I exit, quietly yet efficiently pick the lock to her room, and enter it. The shades are drawn tight and it takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. The smell of sweat and blood greets me, followed by a sharp kick to the abdomen.

“Declan,” she hisses, her eyes piercing mine through the darkness.

Disliking the advantage she has, I reach for the light switch on the wall and flick it on.

I immediately wish I hadn’t.

Her right cheek is a bloody mess, puffy and likely to bruise. She has a deep cut on her eyebrow. It looks like the asshole busted it open with his ring. Her eyes are swollen and her clothes are dirty and ripped. She’s a damn mess. Yet that’s not what sets me on edge.

There’s this desperation in her eyes. Like nothing a good beating or brutal interrogation can drive away.

“Madelyn?” she demands, her tone hoarse and raw enough it sounds like it’s bleeding along with the rest of her wounds.

I could lie. A lie for a liar, right? But it’d serve no purpose. “Safe. She’s at the Ranch.”

“The . . . Ranch . . .” she grounds out.

“Alone. Hayden’s away on business.”

“Oh my God. Thank fuck.”

“Yeah, thank fuck.”

She stares at me. “After she drugged you, you tracked her to that motel?”

I nod.

“Did Franco’s men . . . hurt . . .” She can’t even finish her sentence.

“No.”

“How about you? Did you—”

“Fuck, no,” I snap, wanting this conversation to end.

For a second, she keeps staring at me, trying to read me—good luck, sweetheart—before mercifully moving on. “You’re like a dog with a bone. Figures you’d be the one to show up,” she scoffs, sticking her bloody nose in the air in that familiar know-it-all manner of hers that always seems to get under my skin.

She’s been expecting one of us. Damn her.

She grabs my arm to support herself. “You seem surprised. I always said you focused too much on Sabrina’s How to Shut Down Emotionally lesson and not enough on Reading Your Enemy.”