Page 26 of Mercenary

7

Madelyn

An odd sense of euphoria swept over me before I blacked out. A twisted kind of elation for what should have been a horrific experience. Like I’d been touched by an angel instead of being tackled by the devil incarnate.

My hero. My naughty fantasy. My pursuer.

He’s come.

Except our reunion isn’t exactly how I’d imagined it’d be.

My jaw feels achy and numb and . . . wet. I turn my head to find chunks of melting ice lying next to me and soaking the edge of my pillow. An unraveled hand towel lies partially wedged between my pillow and the mattress. A shiver runs up my spine, caused by something far colder than an ice cube.

“No one can see me . . .”

I blink, trying to shake away the cobwebs in my head. He’s brought me inside a sparse room, put me on a bed, and iced my jaw. He’s taken care of me himself.

I sit up. I’m still clad in my pajamas.

How did he even find me?

My gaze sweeps around the room. To the window with its curtain pulled shut. To the faded picture of a cattle range hanging precariously on the wall at an odd angle and an empty Jack Daniels bottle on the floor beneath it. Onward to the chair positioned within arm’s distance off to the side of the bed. He’s dragged it closer; I can see the foot marks on the worn carpet in its original spot by the corner. My pink duffel bag’s been set on the cushion, and my eyebrows arch up at the sight of it. But not as high of an arch as they make when my gaze falls on what’s sitting on the bedside table.

A knife.

“You should have listened. Hung low. Stayed hidden,” the voice of my dreams interrupts me. Except it isn’t the soft, oh-Madelyn-glad-to-see-you greeting I frequently fantasized about.

It is him. Holy hell.

I track his hard, clipped tone across the room to the bathroom doorway. He stands in the threshold, rubbing a towel across his wet blond hair before tossing it back onto the bathroom sink, then stalking across the room toward the foot of the bed.

I don’t know whether to run, cry, or say hello.

But mother of God, he’s ten times hotter than my distorted memory of him.

His closely cropped head of hair, which I dreamed about running my palms across, is no more. It’s longer, messier. Bedhead. Or in this case wet-and-just-showered head—Heaven help me. His hair falls around his face, unbridled and wild like the stranger glaring down at me.

It’s him, all right. No one has eyes like his. Mint green, like when the gulf’s waters flow so crystal clear, you can catch a hint of seaweed reflected across the placid surface. Such a distinct color. Eyes I could stare into for hours on end, if circumstances were different.

If I weren’t in such an awkward, vulnerable position.

I drop my gaze to his bare chest. Drops of moisture from his shower still cling to him, to the well-defined muscles of his chest, the chiseled planes of his abdomen, the fine line of hair leading from his navel and down into his sweatpants. I remember far too clearly that he’s big, his body a sculpted work of art. My memory doesn’t do him justice. Now he’s harder, more defined. Rock solid, powerful, and a hundred times more drool-worthy. A thousand times more unsettling.

As for dangerous . . .

I bite my lip, completely taken aback by my very physical response to him, my pulse quickening, my breasts feeling heavier, every fiber of my being acutely aware of him, of the tension filling the space between us.

“You could have died,” he says, breaking the silence.

I stiffen and drag my eyes away from his chest. I’m immediately captured by the iciness in his green depths, in such contrast with his concerned tone.

“It’s common to pass out from a hit to the chin. The quick spin of my head when I hit the tile caused my brain to shift into my skull, which causes brain trauma. This overloaded my nervous system and caused me to pass out. It’s your body’s way of coping with pain. I was never seriously at risk of dying.”

He stares at me.

I shrug, then joke, “I can elaborate even more if you want me to.”

For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to crack a smile.