Page 37 of Her Mercenary
SAM
My chest heaved as I stared at the carnage on the floor, at the man who had just saved my life.
The King’s hands were frozen around the dead man’s neck, his brow furrowed with confusion, his skin speckled with blood. Noise sounded down the hall, but the King didn’t notice, still staring at the man’s face.
“Conor.” I hissed his name quietly.
His intensity startled me. Was this man friend or foe? Good or bad?
Looking up at me, he snapped, “I’m not Conor Cussane.”
I blinked and took a step back, my calves pressing against the bed frame.
The King stared at me—or through me, perhaps—as if still stuck on the dead man’s last words. Finally, he blinked, shook his head, and refocused on me, his expression softening as he returned to the present moment.
“Are you okay?” The King pushed off the dead man and stood, his scrutiny sweeping my naked body for the first time. But not with lust, with concern.
I nodded, unable to form words.
When his jaw hardened to granite as he noticed the scratches down my thighs, I shook my head. No, they didn’t get that far.
An exhale escaped him, and something that resembled relief shone in his eyes.
The King closed the door as quickly and quietly as he could, considering the shape it was in from his kicking it open.
I stared at the dead bodies on the floor, blood streaming from their mouths and noses. Blood was everywhere.
More noise came from somewhere down the hall.
Shit.
The King quickly pulled a small pair of bolt cutters from his pants pocket and snapped the chain that bound me to the bed.
“I need you to run,” he whispered as he removed the cuff. “Out the window, and run as fast as you can into the jungle.”
“The jungle? W—where?”
“Run north, straight from the window. I’ll find you.” He took my hand and pulled me across the room.
“But I’m naked.” I yanked out of his hold, as if my nudity was what mattered at that moment.
The King was one step ahead of me, picking up the jacket that had been tossed onto the floor. “Quickly.”
He held open the suit jacket as I slipped into the sleeves.
He jerked open the window. “Run, now. And I need you to be quiet. Not a word,” he said. “Can you do that, Samantha?”
He knew my name—my real name. Not my number.
I nodded, and to this day, I don’t know why I trusted him so much. I don’t know why I trusted a man who I knew had some sort of leadership position in this fucked-up world. A man who allowed children to be held captive, who watched women get their fingers clipped off.
A man who awoke every sexual sensor in my body.
The King hoisted me into the frame of the window. “Quiet,” he whispered in my ear, guiding my body onto the ground outside. “Go.”
I stumbled on the launch forward, my legs struggling to remember how to run. Digging my bare toes into the wet earth, I took off like a bullet, sprinting into the pitch-black jungle in the middle of the night wearing nothing but a suit jacket.
I remember hearing shouts. I remember a spotlight illuminating me.