Page 16 of Her Mercenary

The brunette had been returned sometime during the night. Locked in her cage, she hadn’t moved since, probably still knocked out from whatever drugs they’d given her.

The smell of coffee wafted down from the rusty vents. I closed my eyes and inhaled, momentarily swept back to my leather couch and tattered blanket.

You’d think after weeks of not having a drop of caffeine, the craving would subside.

Nope.

Every morning—every single morning—my captors brewed coffee. Some days, the smell would be so strong, I assumed they were brewing it on top of the floor vents, just to fuck with us. A silly thought. Regardless, every morning, the scent alone made my mouth water, a flurry of sorrow igniting in me seconds later.

Coffee. God, I missed it. I missed the ritual of it. I missed my couch, my blanket, my dog. I missed the hope that came with each new day.

It’s going to be a good day, I would tell myself every morning after the buzz of the caffeine kicked in. And dammit, I would do everything I could to make it a good day. I’d remind myself how lucky I was to have a job that I loved, a car that got me from point A to point B, students who meant the world to me. A mother who meant more.

Fucking coffee. I would have killed for a cup that morning.

I noticed increased movement across the floors overhead. Loud, excited voices, which was abnormal for that time of day. Something was happening, I could feel it in my bones.

I began to grow nervous, listening to—feeling, rather—the sense of urgency upstairs.

I stared at the ceiling, wondering what the fuss was about. What the random bangs were, the orders being shouted in Spanish.

Just then, the basement door opened.

Capitán clomped down the steps, wearing his usual army fatigues and black boots, followed by one of his minions. Another followed, then another.

My instinct that something was about to happen skyrocketed. I looked at the brunette, still asleep, then back at the men.

There was a sudden and very noticeable shift in the room. It was fear, I realized—and not only from me.

Capitán ordered the men, pointing around the room. The guards scattered, checking this, checking that, picking up this and that. They whispered back and forth.

I caught the name Ardri.

The word was familiar to me, and not just because I’d heard it a few times already. Ardri had been a character in one of the fairy tales I’d read as a little girl. The word translated to high king.

The basement door opened.

A black figure—all black—stepped into the room, a massive, ominous silhouette backlit by the hallway. Black hair, black suit, and a pair of shiny black wingtips that probably cost more than my car. A black shadow over a face that somehow gave me chills.

Tap, one step, tap, another. Even the sound of his heels against the concrete was intimidating.

The guards snapped into line, straightening like soldiers greeting the president.

I was bewildered, wondering who could make these evil, seemingly fearless men act like subservient little boys with nothing but the click of his shoe?

One of the guards cleared his throat, glaring at me.

I quickly looked down, immediately regretting not chancing a peek at the face of the man who had turned Capitán compliant. There was no question the man who entered the room was someone of great importance.

The King. I was sure I hadn’t come into contact with him before.

Who was he?

I watched Capitán and the guards stride across the room, single file. Hands were shaken, pleasantries exchanged, and again, I heard the man addressed as Ardri.

Then he spoke. His voice was low and deep, with a terrifying authority that cut like glass. He spoke in Spanish, but his voice carried a strong Irish lilt.

Something tickled in my stomach.