Page 59 of Her Mercenary

He blinked wildly as if just returning to the present moment, then squinted at the blood pooling in his palm. Still, no emotion. He stared at his hand as if trying to figure out how the blood had gotten there.

“It’s a deep cut,” I said. “Do you have a first aid kit in your pack?”

He frowned, yanking his hand away. “It’s fine.”

I pulled it back. “No, it isn’t. It needs to be tended to.”

“Sam, it’s fine. It doesn’t—”

He started to yank it away again, but I clamped down on his fingers like a bear trap.

“Stop, you stubborn hypocrite.” I shook my head, examining the wound. “God, you’re something else, you know that?” I angrily jerked his hand. “Be still.”

I wiped away the blood with the bottom of my—his—T-shirt. The gash was deeper than I’d realized.

Keeping my grip on his wrist, I awkwardly stretched and grabbed the pack that was almost out of reach. I knew if I let him go, he’d be gone. The man wouldn’t accept help on his deathbed.

I rummaged through the pack until I found a small bag that appeared to be a first aid kit. Using cotton balls and peroxide, I cleaned the wound.

“It needs stitches.”

My heart skipped at the expression on his face.

He was fixed on me—not his wound—his stare so intense that butterflies exploded in my stomach. There was a hint of confusion in the crease of his brow. By my taking care of him? By his reaction to it?

Feeling my cheeks flush, I returned my focus to the wound. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I had no idea how to stitch someone up.

Well, there’s a first time for everything.

Roman remained still and silent as I rummaged through the pack. No butterfly bandages, but I did find black duct tape and scissors.

I cut several short, thin strips of tape. One by one, I used them to close the wound.

Roman watched me—not his hand—the entire time.

My pulse rate had picked up somewhere during the application of the second strip. I could feel the sexual tension bouncing between us like an invisible force.

After securing the last piece, I cut a strip from one of the ACE bandages I wore as shoes and wrapped it around his palm.

“Don’t use this hand for the rest of the day,” I told him. “Seriously. The cut needs to close. I’m not a survivalist, but it’s deep enough to worry about getting infected. Just,” I sighed, “relax for a minute.”

27

ROMAN

“Just ... relax for a minute.”

The last time I’d been told to relax, I was eleven years old. My mother was cooking breakfast. I’d demanded to help because I couldn’t sit still. I kept waiting for the men to return, to take her away again. I knew she needed to rest because she always seemed so tired and sad when they returned her, though she tried to conceal it from me.

“Relax, Roman, please, relax for a minute ... You need to learn to just relax, my beautiful son.”

She made chocolate chip cookies for me that day.

That was the last time a woman had ever done anything for me that didn’t involve balancing on her knees. That was the last time someone had truly cared for me and my well-being. That someone had simply helped me.

It seems like such a simple thing, helping someone, and that someone accepts the help. Such an easy thing to do, but you’d be surprised by how many don’t even think of it.

Because of losing my mother so young and in such a savage way, I’d developed a hard personality, a tough, callous outer shell that made people cross to the other side of the street when they saw me coming. A persona that implied not only that I, this big, tall, mean man, never needed help, but that I wouldn’t have accepted it anyway.