Page 36 of Her Mercenary

My legs were thrust open, my muscles screaming in protest. They sniffed dramatically, taking in my scent like dogs.

Tears welled in my eyes, a mixture of both fear and hate roaring through my veins.

I could smell their privates as they unfolded their erections from their pants and crawled onto the bed. I was flipped onto my stomach, my cuffed wrist painfully twisted.

My entire body began to shake with fear.

There was laughter, then fingers on my flesh. I squeezed my eyes shut, buried my face into the comforter.

Somewhere over the rainbow ...

Nails raked down my back.

Bluebirds fly ...

My buttocks were spread open.

And the dream that you dare to ...

Suddenly, a loud boom shook the room. The door burst open, the knob clattering to the floor after it slammed against the wall.

The older man was lifted from my back and thrown into the wall.

I screamed and flipped over, the rub of the metal cuff burning my wrist.

The teenager jumped off the bed, ready to fight, but was immediately silenced by a blow to his face. Blood splattered the wall, and what I assumed was teeth ticked onto the floor.

The King moved like water as he fought off both men with lightning-fast strikes and calculated blows. He moved with the ease and smoothness of someone who had been expertly trained in lethal combat. Like an animal, leading a deadly dance of speed and strength.

I heard the sickening pop of bone, then another. The teenager fell to the floor, his neck obviously broken.

The King wrestled the older man onto the floor and wrapped his hands around his throat. His white dress shirt was covered in blood spatters, like someone had flung a red paintbrush at him.

“Conor ...” The man gasped for breath.

The King slammed the man’s head against the floor.

“Conor, no ...”

The King stilled, the man’s words penetrating the haze of rage. He frowned.

The man struggled, writhing in pain in the King’s grasp. “Please, Conor ...”

I watched the King’s face twist in confusion.

“Conor, please, don’t kill me. I have been loyal to you, to the—”

“What the fuck?” the King snapped, banging the man’s head once more. “I’m not Conor, you sick fuck.”

“Conor ...” The man’s voice cracked. “Please ... everyone knows ... I won’t tell ...”

“Everyone knows what?”

“That you’re him. You are Conor Cussane. P—plea—”

The man’s jaw went slack and his eyes glazed over as he took his last breath.

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