Page 104 of Her Mercenary

“You’re a sick fuck.”

“That I am. I truly, truly am, mi amor. I know this.”

“Where are you taking me?” I asked, slipping my bound hands onto the door handle. Locked, of course. I searched out the window for Roman, for help, an idea, anything.

An eerie blue glow was pushing through the darkness of night. The storm had relented, leaving a growing fog in its wake.

“We’ll go to Africa to start, then Thailand. I have new operations starting there. You’ll be mine. We’ll live by the ocean and have a good life. Together, we will have many children to carry on the legacy.”

“I will never bear your children,” I spat out.

Conor looked in the rearview mirror, his wicked, slitted eye fixing on me. “It is not your decision.”

Yes. It. Is.

I reared back, slamming my feet into the back of his seat.

“What the fuck?” he bellowed, bouncing against the seat.

Again and again, I kicked the seat like a mule, releasing the rage boiling inside me. The car swerved back and forth, sliding on the mud.

Conor flung his fist back to hit me, but accidentally slammed the gas in the process of half turning.

The car lurched forward, its tires spinning. The wheel yanked, sending us off the road and slamming into a tree.

My body was propelled forward, flying into the front seat. Scrambling, I yanked the door handle and threw myself out. Unable to use my cuffed hands to cushion my fall, I landed face-first with a thud on the muddy road, my yellow dress snagging against the door frame.

Conor caught my ankle.

I twisted painfully, squinting at the man who I knew, with certainty, would be the end of me. His face was bloodied, contorted with rage.

“Come back here, you fucking bitch.”

I writhed and bucked as Conor slithered his way over the console and across the passenger seat, a tight grip around my ankle.

When he crawled on top of me, Roman’s words echoed through my head.

Fight, Samantha. Fight.

And I did. I fought like a wild animal.

I fought until Conor wrapped his hands around my throat, cutting off my air supply.

51

ROMAN

I raced the borrowed red truck out of its hiding spot behind the trees and fishtailed onto the narrow dirt road, heading in the direction that I’d last seen the black car that held Lucas Ruiz—aka Conor Cussane, my brother—and Sam.

What remained of the thunderstorm dripped in heavy, bloated drops from the thick canopy overhead, blurring my windshield. A thick fog had settled between the trees, snaking in and out of the ferns and making visibility shit.

I pressed the accelerator, driving far too fast for the conditions, fixed on finding that fucking car.

The truck skidded around a sharp corner, sending mud and rock spinning from my tires, ricocheting off the trees like gunshots. Ahead, two taillights glowed through the murky gray mist.

I punched the gas, not realizing the vehicle ahead was stopped until I was almost on its bumper. I hit the brakes just as a gut-wrenching scream echoed through the fog.

Sam.