Page 35 of Judge's Mercy

“Treat them with the same cocktail of soaps and then drop them in a dumpster somewhere busy. Do I pass your test?”

“So far,” I say. She seems to have thought of all the logistics, but did she factor in the mental toll of taking a life? “How do you feel?”

“Strangely okay. I was a little manic last night, as you saw.” She peers over at me, the confidence she had up until now waning.

“That’s the other thing I wanted to talk about.”

“If you’re about to apologize that you took advantage of me or tell me it was a mistake, just please don’t.”

Last night was a mistake, and doing it again will be an even bigger one. She just admitted to killing someone and that she plans to do it again. The right thing to do would be to tell Cy, Rigger, and Lucky what’s going on so we can get ahead of this. She’d hate me, and that would be for the best because I’m not the right man for her, and she’s not the right woman for me.

My gut, conscience, and logic all agree that this is the right course of action, but I know deep down that’s not the choice I will make. Myla has somehow infiltrated my heart, and despite my logical mind telling me otherwise, I’m compelled to act on my emotions. It could be mere hormones clouding my judgment, but I refuse to believe that. This is something greater, a cosmic pull or divine intervention guiding me toward her. No matter what the consequences may be, I can’t turn my back on her. And if I have it my way, she’ll let me in so I can tow some of the weight she carries.

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

Her chin lifts. “What were you going to say?”

“That I loved what we did last night, and I want to explore these feelings I have for you.” I tap my fingers on the table, watching for her reaction.

She rears back, shocked at my confession. My honesty often has that effect on people, but I find that a lot of miscommunication and insecurity can be avoided when you lay all your cards on the table. Exposing yourself this way will make you vulnerable and uncomfortable, but it’s like any other practice; the more you do it, the better you get at it.

“No.” One word, no explanation, and she’s on her feet, padding down the hall.

Well, shit.

CHAPTER TWELVE

MYLA

Walking into my room, I grab a pair of leggings and panties from my dresser before walking into my closet and dropping my robe. While pulling them on, I’m pleased with the delicious way my body is sore. I’ll give the man credit—his stamina and technique are remarkable. My lady bits tingle thinking about the way he worshipped my body, but I was clear when I told him what I was offering, so how dare he try and renegotiate?

I pull a T-shirt over my head, scoffing as I walk out of the closet. He wants to explore his feelings for me? Is he insane? I just described, in detail, how I murdered a man and how fine I feel about it. There’s evidence of my bloody expedition in my shower and on the floor of my bathroom, and he wants a relationship with me?

“We’re not done talking,” he says, leaning against the doorjamb, looking calm and casual despite his collar being back on and his black shirt buttoned up tight. He’s tall and on the thinner side, but last night proved he’s deceptively strong. I get sidetracked thinking about the way his strong hands felt on my hips as he moved me up and down on his cock. I hardly had to do anything toward the end. It was all him.

I tilt my head, wondering what else those clothes are hiding, and decide now is a good time to bring it up. Maybe I can scare him into retracting his statement and doing what’s best for both of us by staying the hell away from me.

“I can’t ‘explore feelings’ with a man who won’t even take his clothes off during sex,” I say, moving about my room, organizing things that don’t need organizing, just to have something to focus on.

“That’s a different conversation.”

“Is it?”

“What happened last night was fucking incredible, and I want to do more of it, but what I’m talking about is getting to know you, taking you on dates, spending time with you.”

I drop the sweater—that I’ve folded six times now—to the mattress and huff. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not in the best headspace right now. I don’t exactly have the emotional capacity for what you’re proposing.”

He holds up his hands. “That’s fine. I can wait.”

“I don’t want you to wait. That’s too much pressure, and I can’t handle the burden of your expectations.”

With a flicker of a smile on his lips—as if my response was cute and not a rejection—he makes his way across the room in confident strides, stopping just inches from me. Before I know what’s happening, his hands are framing my face and his lips are on mine. I’d like to say I push him away to prove I’m serious, but it would be a lie. His lips feel too good, and I’m still too raw from yesterday’s events.

I drop the sweater and hook my fingers in the belt loops on his hips, once again cursing our height difference. He tilts my head back to deepen the kiss, and I allow it because this will probably be our last. Probably.

He pulls away, but just barely. Looking deep into my eyes, I can practically see his thoughts churning. I try to pull away because he weakens me with every word he speaks, but he holds on tight.

“Can you try something for me?”

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