Page 52 of Mercenary

Avirgin.

If I’d been thinking with my head instead of my dick, I’d have picked up on it. The signs were there when I touched her back in Corpus Christi. I’d kept an eye on her in Cabo with that dipshit on the beach until I couldn’t take it any longer and marched off. Add in how she’s been to college, she’s hot as fuck, and judging by how goddamn wet her pussy was just now, she’s eager for a good fuck, why would I believe any different?

A virgin.

That dipshit hadn’t managed to get between her thighs after all. No one has.

I shake my head, disturbed by how much this pleases me. It shouldn’t, but it does.

I run the sink, then douse my head beneath lukewarm water, in a lame effort to come to grips with my senses. I don’t know what to make of this. Of . . . her. She stirs up something inside me, something foreign and purely animalistic in nature.

Mine.

She can be mine.

I turn the faucet off and shake my head, ridding my hair of excess water much like a dog does. Telling myself no. NO. Who’s the dipshit now, thinking dumb-ass thoughts he has no business thinking.

Why kid myself? I’m nobody’s fool, least of all my own.

I stare at the wet polka-dot pattern I’ve splattered across the faded wallpaper on the bathroom wall. Watermarks will dry. Bloodstains, however, persist a hell of a lot longer. I learned that the hard way, after Joe “the Butcher” Cabrianni, my first kill.

Hayden gave the order, and within twenty-four hours, I executed it. Secured my reputation as a brutally efficient killer, someone Hayden could depend on. In and out, neat and tidy, that’s how I roll. No fuss. No regrets.

I terminate with ease, like picking daisies. Getting the job done using any means possible.

Weaponry. Bare-knuckle fighting. Lies and manipulation. Psychological foreplay. Fuckery. Whatever the job demanded, I’ve done. Gathering the Bastard’s intel. Each hit shaping me into the stonehearted fucker I am today.

I’ve proven myself over and over again, hit after hit, becoming part of Hayden’s most trusted trio of hit men. Me. Diego. Jaxson.

Jaxson.

Doing the right thing isn’t part of this picture.

Madelyn will never be mine. Not in any way other than physical. Not in the way she wants. “I like you,” she keeps telling me.

Not for long.

She’s pure, like a first snowfall before life’s vicious mongrels come and piss all over it. Uncorrupt. Unspoiled. So unlike me.

A novelty, that’s all she is. Like a golden apple in a barrel of rotten fruit.

I wipe the back of my hand across the water on my forehead, stopping the drops of water from trickling down my face. Like teardrops—the kind I won’t be shedding while I do what I have to do.

She’s an opportunity that came knocking. And I’m going to grab hold of it with both hands, along with my hard-as-a-motherfucker-dick.

I can’t afford mistakes.

Losing Madelyn before her sister shows up isn’t going to happen.

Fucking hell. Enough time wasted. For all I know, Hayden could call me back any minute with a direct order to find then terminate the younger sister. Like I have far to look. It’s like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Business before pleasure. Always.

What I’ll do is bide my time and ride it out. Proceed with my plans for drawing Kylie back to Shelby. Without reporting in to Hayden with the small, inconsequential details like who I’m keeping company with.

I plan on keeping Madelyn right here with me.

Safe, for the time being.