Page 48 of Her Mercenary

He opened his palm, impatiently waggling his fingers.

Swallowing hard, I pulled my disfigured hand from my pocket, clenching my fist so he couldn’t see the grotesque nub that once was my pinky finger.

He took my hand and opened my palm with surprising gentleness. Examined the nub again, for infection, I assumed.

“They did it after I acted out, shortly after kidnapping me,” I whispered.

“No,” he said, “they did it to trick the authorities. They used your bones as a diversion, to make everyone think you were dead.”

Stunned, I blinked at him. “They’d told me that no one was looking for me anymore, but I didn’t realize ...”

Roman ran the tip of his finger along the inside of my bruised, dirty, skinny wrist.

The humiliation dissolved the rush of confidence I’d felt moments earlier.

He leaned in even closer.

Peeking from under my lashes, I was startled at what I saw. Roman’s face was flushed, his jaw hardened to razor-sharp edges. The veins in his neck were bulging, his lips twitching.

“It’s fine.” I pulled my hand away and stuffed it into my lap.

Our eyes met, mine fighting tears, his so intense that goose bumps rippled my arms.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, completely out of nowhere and with no emotion whatsoever.

I frowned. “What?”

“You’re beautiful.”

Roman lifted his chin. His face was fierce, his green eyes daring me to object.

My brows pulled together in confusion. The comment didn’t seem so much of a compliment, but more a way to ensure that I was simply aware of the fact.

Thanks?

“Okay,” I said slowly.

He dipped his chin—conversation over—then pulled another canteen out of the pack, along with two MREs. “Now, eat.”

Food. I sat up with a surge of excitement.

He ripped the top off the MRE and placed the contents in front of me. My mouth watered.

As I ripped into the tiny bags, Roman ignored his. Instead, he perched on a rock and began sharpening a knife he kept in his boot.

The food was surprisingly good, or perhaps it was just because it was the first time I’d eaten outside of a cage in two weeks. I was starving, I realized, and had to force myself to slow down so that I wouldn’t get a stomachache.

“Is that your only wound?” he asked, apparently still thinking about the finger that I just wanted to forget about.

“Yes.”

“You haven’t been branded?”

I coughed, choking on a dehydrated-something. “Branded?”

“Yes. The CUN brands its slaves before being sold. On the inside of the wrist, they carve the letter C.”

My stomach rolled. “Oh my God ... No. No, I haven’t been branded.”