Page 95 of Her Mercenary

Roman pulled a small knife from his suit pocket, the same one he’d used to filet the fish. The same one that had sliced his thumb.

My breath caught.

“Be still,” he said, his voice low and menacing.

The basement fell silent as Roman knelt in front of me, a glint of light catching on the tip of the blade.

I peeked behind him, to the men. One was grinning. Then I looked back at Roman, my eyes wide and wild with fear.

Saying nothing, Roman grabbed my cuffed arms and yanked me to him. I clumsily shuffled, regaining my balance.

He turned over my left palm, exposing the inside of my wrist, and this was when his words from our first night together echoed in my head.

“You haven’t been branded?”

“Branded?”

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

Before being sold ...

“No,” I whispered breathlessly. Panic ran like fire over my skin. “No. Please, no, Roman.”

He yanked my arm closer to him, my entire body jolting with the force.

My heart plummeted, and I began to sob. “No, Roman.”

The guards snickered.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I stared into a pair of cold green eyes I didn’t recognize. He was no longer the man I knew, the one who had made love to me under the stars. His grip tightened around my arm as the blade was pressed against my inner wrist.

“Please,” I whispered, begging as a drop of blood formed under the blade.

Suddenly, he shifted his body, blocking the view of the men behind him.

The blade was lifted from my skin.

I blinked, and our eyes locked.

Positioning his arm next to mine—in a way that looked like he was holding me down—Roman used the tip of the blade to lift the cuff of his jacket.

My eyes rounded as he pierced his own skin.

“No.” I tried to jerk away to stop him but was held in place by a vise-like grip.

The guards laughed, thinking I was getting sliced open.

“No, no,” I whisper-hissed. “No, Roman, please don’t do this ...”

Blood popped from his skin as he slid the blade down his forearm, slicing through his own flesh.

“Oh my God.” Hurting for him, I wept. “No ...”

“Look at me,” he snapped, his voice solid, despite the pain that was surely ravaging his body.

Our eyes locked once again, his jaw as tight as granite, his eyes wild, his pupils dilated as he cut his forearm. I felt his blood drip down my wrist, warm and wet.

We trembled together, sharp inhales and exhales, staring at each other, drawing strength from each other.