Page 68 of Her Mercenary
How to wait.
Wait ...
And freaking wait.
Night came hard and quick, like a veil of blackness descending on the jungle.
My legs were weak from balancing on the slick rocks, my body tired, impatient.
Suddenly, the rod jerked. In one fluid movement, Roman yanked the line from the water. A spinning, flipping fish hung from the line.
I screamed with delight.
“Stay here,” he said, his tone excited, childlike. “They’re biting. Hang on.”
Roman jogged to shore, unhooked the fish, and secured it in a bag. He jogged back, water splashing around his ankles. The excitement between us was palpable, and I realized then that he must be starving too—and then I realized that I hadn’t seen him eat once that day. Not a single time.
Had he? Or was he reserving all the food for me?
We caught three more fish in under twenty minutes, then waded back to shore.
Roman built a fire at the base of two large boulders covered in vibrant green moss, the massive structures hiding the flames from anyone who might be lurking in the shadows. He’d pulled on his pants, leaving his glorious bare chest on full display. He also had beautiful feet, and a little part of me hated him for that. I had bunions.
The man was perfect ... except for the whole hired-gun thing.
I opted out of the lesson on skinning, instead pretending to take rest against the rock while secretly drooling over the view of his bare chest.
An hour later, we ate like starving POWs next to the fire, under the stars.
My body temperature had cooled, my belly was full, and for the first time since I was captured, I peered up at the sky and felt content. I felt free, happy ... and then felt him staring at me.
Our eyes met, and I smiled.
Something flickered in his eyes, the electricity between us sparking hot.
I became aware of my body, the reaction he was giving me, and was reminded of how pitiful I must seem. I examined the dirt-ridden clothes I wore, my knobby knees, the cut and bruised ankles.
God, how I’d kill for a—
A bar of soap landed in my lap.
My eyes rounded and my jaw dropped as I picked up the bar and gaped at Roman.
His lips twitched, fighting a smile.
“Oh my G—soap?”
He nodded.
“Oh my God. You’ve had this the whole freaking time?” I surged to my feet. “I haven’t bathed in—”
Shut up, Samantha, shut up.
“Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t think about it.”
“About bathing? You didn’t think about bathing?”
He shook his head, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “I’m in survival mode right now. The longest I’ve gone without bathing on a mission is sixteen days.”