Page 25 of Mercenary

I frown. A familiar aroma I can’t quite place.

Alarmed, I sweep my gaze across the room. Searching for anything that might be cause for concern. Acting on a feeling rather than a fact, but I’ve learned that sometimes, your sixth sense is all you’ve got.

The lists are exactly where I placed them. My duffel bag is packed and off to the side of the door where I always leave it, just in case. And as I move inside the bedroom, the only other room besides the kitchenette, the bed is still as I made it. I keep a Do Not Disturb sign on the door handle so no one enters my room uninvited.

If someone has been inside, there’s no telltale proof of it.

One part of me tells me I’m overreacting. That recent events have me easily unsettled at the slightest provocation. The other more logical side is clapping cymbal-sounding alarm bells inside my head. That if I want fact-based proof something is not right, to look at the tiny mountains of goose bumps running across the skin on my arms.

Take a sip of water and have another look around.

I head into the kitchenette, fill a paper cup with bottled water I retrieve from the mini refrigerator. It’s after I shut the door and am halfway through my drink that I spot it.

Or rather, I realize something’s missing.

A cupcake.

Gone.

And the plastic wrap I so carefully secured over the top . . . is on one end . . . a wrinkled mess . . .

My cup of water hits the floor and splatters onto my flip-flopped feet.

Heaven help me.

A slight noise behind is the only warning I get before a hand is placed over my mouth and someone slams into my body from behind, throwing me off balance and sending me crashing into the kitchen floor, my chin connecting with the hard tile.

Fight, fight! my brain screams at me, as I struggle to stay conscious. Squirming beneath the massive weight that followed me down, pressing into my back, I try to army-crawl forward. A hopeless strategy—I can barely add two plus two together let alone move.

He thrusts his pelvis into me, flattening my belly against the floor. Panic sets in, only to be amplified by the feel of him, the long, hot, hard length of him up against my backside.

He’s . . . huge.

I stop wiggling.

Is this how it was going to be? Me stamping my V card from an act of violence?

No. No way.

I sink my teeth into his hand. He growls and snatches it away.

“Help. Someone help,” I scream, this time in a full, desperate voice. My world is swirling, swirling.

He lifts off me and flips me over onto my back, pinning my arms overhead as he anchors me into place with a hard forward thrust of his hips. Manhandled like I weigh nothing.

“Quiet,” I hear him say. “Madelyn, you need to be quiet. No one can see me.”

I blink. And blink again. His . . . voice . . .

I shake my head, trying to catch sight of him through the fog threatening to drag me under. I can barely make out his face, his high cheekbones, his sandy blond hair. His beautiful green eyes glaring down at me. If I wasn’t struggling to stay conscious, I’d have gasped in surprise.

He’s come.

My hero. My imaginary lover.

“Damn it,” he murmurs, leaning over me to cup my cheek. “You’re bleeding.”

My stranger, who is the last face I see before darkness claims me.