Page 4 of Mercy for Reaper

I study him for a long minute, hating him a little when I consider the position he’s put me in—that I’ve let him put me in. It’s clear he is some kind of criminal, and I’m pretty sure I saw a motorcycle club patch on his jacket. My aunt must be rolling in her grave right now. From the time I came to live with her as a child, she’d ingrained in me that MCs and men on motorcycles could never be trusted.

I can only hope this man is somehow different. As I take in his features, I realize how devilishly handsome he is. He has a prominent nose, full beard, and pouty lips. Every inch of him is masculine and dangerous, with a body covered in tattoos. He isn’t old, but the lines around his eyes and mouth even in sleep suggest a life hard lived. He looks to be in his early or mid-thirties.

Despite what I promised, I know I need to call the police.

I leave the bedroom and go straight to my purse, pulling out my cell phone. I plug it in and set it on the kitchen counter to charge. It’s not too late to call the cops and report this incident to them. I might not even get in trouble if I call now. But something holds me back.

I run my fingers through my dark hair in frustration as I stare down at my charging phone. I’m going to have to stay up all night to check on him every hour. I need to get a look at his head wound too. He will also need to be monitored for a fever and any signs of shock. The hospital, of course, would be the perfect place for those things to happen. He would be monitored twenty-four-seven by fully equipped staff, and . . . the cops.

Make the call, Holly!

Surely, I cannot be hesitating and risking my very livelihood because I made a promise to a stranger, can I? Because that would be insane, and yet . . .

With a sigh, I walk to my bathroom and get out the cleaning supplies. With shaky fingers, I pick up the man’s jacket, a shudder running through my body when I feel the weight of the gun in its pocket. I carefully take out the gun and place it in a drawer, hoping that now that it’s out of sight, I won’t have to think about it any longer.

“It’s not too late to report him, Holly. You don’t know this man!” my conscience admonishes, but I ignore that little voice as I pick up his discarded t-shirt lying on the floor. The jacket and shirt are coated with blood, but I block out everything in my head as I rinse them off in the tub.

I have never been in trouble with the law before. Hell, I was such a good student in school that everyone called me the teacher’s pet, even if I did nothing but strive to get good grades. I put my head down all through college and worked hard to graduate with honors.

Everything I have done, including mortgaging the house my aunt left me to pay my college tuition, was so that I could be a nurse. All my sweat, tears, and blood were put into that one goal, and now . . .

I swipe my hair back as I take the shirt to the washing machine and hang the jacket to dry before heading back to scrub the bathroom. I focus on my task as I get to work, cleaning every inch of the bathroom until it’s spotless and the strong smell of antiseptic has been replaced with the lemon scent of the cleaner.

With that done, I walk back to my bedroom to check on my patient. The man who is undoubtedly going to change my whole life.

Chapter Three

Reaper

I dream of my father.

I don’t often think of the man who raised me to be his little minion. I was the product of a forbidden fling between a hitman and his target. It would be a romantic story if my mother had not decided to disappear shortly after my birth and leave me behind with a monster.

A monster who was set on raising me to become one too.

At ten years old, while other kids were swinging on the playground and screaming as they chased each other around under the watchful eye of their caring parents, I was practicing how to shoot under my father’s critical gaze. By the time I was fifteen, I could shoot any target with precision.

I took my first contract at eighteen. He was an ex-convict on parole antagonizing a former victim, and after exhausting all legal means, her family finally hired my father to get rid of him. He sent me to take care of him instead. At eighteen years old, I was well over six foot, but my target was built like a tank. One look at me, and he’d scoffed, underestimating me on sight, sneering and laughing when I revealed the gun and pointed it at him.

“Do you even know what that is, kid?” he’d mocked me. “Now put the toy down before I knock all the teeth out of your mouth.”

All it took was one bullet to wipe the smug look off his face. His moment of shock was almost comical, and I would have laughed if my sense of humor had not been beaten out of me.

That was almost two decades ago.

But for some reason, I am taken back to that moment now.

I would rather dream of anything else. Like my dark-haired angel with her soft touch and wide, forest green eyes that look so innocent and pure. So . . . uncorrupted.

I haven’t seen eyes like that on anyone else in my life. Surrounded by violence from the second I was brought into this unforgiving world, I never imagined something as bright as her could exist, someone whose touch is gentle and caring. Her words, soft and concerned, are unlike any that have ever been directed at me.

“Good God, you’re burning up!” Her soft voice breaks through my hazy consciousness, as if hearing my silent plea for her to return. “I have to get you to the hospital.”

“No!” I say, my voice coming out hoarsely. Despite the heaviness of my arm, I reach out blindly and grab for her. “Please, you can take care of me here. I’ll be . . . I’m fine. I’ve been in worse shape than this before.”

But I am not really fine. My body is freezing, but I’m sweating like I’ve run a marathon. I’m not lying when I tell her that I’ve had worse, though. Way worse than this. Like the one time a target trapped us both in an abandoned house and set it on fire with the intent of sending us both to hell. Or another time I almost froze to death in the winter cold after getting lost in the woods as a kid when I’d tried to run away from my father. I was nearly hypothermic by the time my old man found me. Once I’d recovered somewhat, he’d made sure to show me what would happen if I ever tried to run again.

“Fine,” my angel says with a resigned sigh that sounds so fucking sexy even in my height of fever. “I’m only giving in because I think your body is trying to fight an infection, and I don’t believe you’re in actual danger, but if the fever doesn’t break by morning, then you’re going to the hospital.”

---