Page 58 of Her Mercenary

“I saw it in your eyes when I spoke of mine. When you asked if my mom and I were close—I saw emotion in your eyes.”

He sniffed dismissively, a bit of a snarl to his lip.

“Tell me,” I said again quickly, before he could close up completely, knowing I was on to something.

A pair of ice-cold green eyes met mine.

“My mom is dead, Sam. She was murdered.”

26

SAM

A piece of the complicated puzzle that was Roman Thieves clicked into place. His mother had been murdered, and somehow, in that moment, I knew this was his driving force. This was his life.

He refocused on sharpening the knife in his hand.

A long moment stretched between us as I tried to find the right words, but came up short.

Finally, he said quietly, “My mother was a victim of human trafficking.”

My heart stuttered, my eyes widening.

“More than thirty years ago,” he said, keeping his focus on the knife he was sharpening against the rock. “In Ireland, in the slums where I grew up. I was kidnapped when I was nine years old. They kept me chained like a dog in a house only three blocks from where I lived. After a few days, I was returned to my mother, on threat of death if she didn’t do as they said. They used me as bait to make her work for them. Told her that they would kill me if she didn’t work for them.”

His strokes against the stone became more aggressive, the grate of the blade against stone like nails on a chalkboard.

“This went on for three years. Random men in and out of our house. Taking me away for hours when she wouldn’t comply or do exactly as they told her to do. And then I would be brought back—I know now because she finally complied ... I know now that’s why her eyes were so vacant every time they brought me back. They stole a little piece of my mother every time I was taken away.”

The knife violently sliced at the rock.

“Until they eventually took all of her.” A beam of sunlight reflected in his feral, deadly eyes. “And killed her and left her corpse to rot in a dirty alleyway.”

A bright red streak of blood ran down his hand.

“Roman ...” I pushed up and dropped to my knees in front of him. Frantic, I grabbed his wrist and squeezed, stopping the manic sharpening. “You’re bleeding, Roman.”

Carefully, I pried the knife from his vise-like grip and rolled over his wrist. Blood pulsed from a deep gash that ran from the top of his wrist to the pad of his thumb.

“Jesus, Roman.”

The cut was deep. The bleeding wasn’t stopping anytime soon.

I was astonished that he hadn’t reacted when it happened. Hell, maybe he hadn’t even noticed.

Roman was staring at the ground, his face flushed red, his breathing heavy—not with pain, but with anger. Mentally, he was somewhere else entirely.

“Roman.” I set the knife on a pad of fern leaves beside us. “Roman, look at me. Please. Take a deep breath.”

He turned to me but didn’t focus.

“Take a deep breath.”

His pupils dilated. His jaw unclenched.

“Inhale, exhale ...”

Locking eyes with him, I watched the anger slide from his face like a melting candle. “That’s it.”