Page 39 of Judge's Mercy

“You don’t have to—” She watches from the doorway as I light the few candles she has on her nightstand and dresser before turning off the bathroom light, bathing the room in a gentle glow. A bed isn’t ideal for a massage, but I can make it work.

“Breathe with me.” I place my hand over her heart and bring one of hers over mine. It’s a little woo-woo, but I need to connect with her.

“This again?”

“Inhale.” I suck in air through my nose. “And exhale.”

I’m sure she’s used to being naked because of her previous job, but I’m still impressed with the way she can stand before me like this with so much confidence. Straightening her posture, she follows my lead, and I set an intention to give this woman peace of mind. Now that part is very woo-woo, but I feel the energy of her walls coming down and her heart opening.

“Now come with me.”

“Okay.”

I shake out the towels over her comforter. “I don’t want to ruin your new bedding with the oil.”

“Makes sense.” She lies on her stomach, her head turned away from me and her arms at her sides.

Squirting more oil into my palm, I warm it up before bracing a knee on her mattress and beginning her massage. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing—I’ve never given or received a massage—but the concept is simple, so hopefully the execution is too.

“What happened tonight? And don’t skirt around it because the only way our deal works is if I’m certain you’re safe,” I say softly.

She sighs and begins speaking, her words jumbled with her cheek mashed against the bed. “Cory Barlow is a piece of shit who likes to beat up sex workers and then make them disappear when they report his behavior. I’ve been following him for a couple weeks because his schedule wasn’t as predictable, but on Friday nights, he always takes a client out to dinner and then to a club. He has a family at home, so the club was my only shot. I lured him to an area where the cameras didn’t reach and stabbed him.”

“Can’t be that simple if he was able to hurt you.” I knead the muscles in her back and shoulders before moving down each of her arms, working my thumbs into her palms. There’s no doubt in my mind that Myla’s assessment of this man is accurate. She’s not a psychopath; she isn’t killing for killing’s sake. She’s strategic and thorough, but she’s also a small woman who can easily be overpowered.

“The problem with trying to conceal a knife under a form-fitting dress is that it can’t be very big. The puncture wound to his side when he came in for a kiss wasn’t deep enough to cause much damage, and he was able to get a hit in before I got to his neck.”

“The ice,” I say, remembering the ice pack I made. Picking it up off the corner of the bed, I set it near her face and she places it over her eye.

“Thanks.”

“What would you have done if he’d overpowered you and turned you in?”

“I thought about that, and I would’ve claimed self-defense. I mean, who’s afraid of a five-foot-nothing woman who looks like a strong wind could take her out?”

“If he was able to escape charges with the sex workers, why do you think anyone would believe you over him?”

She seems to think about that for a minute. “Fair point.”

“The cons are beginning to outweigh the pros.” Do I dare feel relief that Myla’s not in a manic state like before? Or do I recoil at the thought of her losing pieces of her humanity as she becomes more comfortable with murder? She’s so strong, resilient, intelligent, clever. . . it would break my heart to see any of these qualities stripped away.

She pushes up on a hand and peers over her shoulder at me. “Maybe in numbers but not in value.”

I encourage her back down with a palm to her back. “It was just a suggestion.”

“A dumb one.”

I dig into her lower back, where she has two cute dimples right above her heart-shaped butt that I can’t ignore any longer. If she told me to stop, I would, but she only moans as I knead the globes of her ass. Each time my fingers dig into a healthy cheek, I get a glimpse of what’s between them, and that, along with the sounds she’s making, have my cock straining against my zipper.

“Please don’t stop. This feels so good,” she moans.

When I can’t, in good conscience, spend any more time on her ass, I move lower to her legs and feet, finding the right amount of pressure to make her body sink into a deeper state of relaxation. I twist my fingers around her toes and pull gently on each one, noting that even her toes are cute. That’s when I realize I’m unbelievably and irrevocably gone for this woman who sees me as nothing more than a confidant and occasional fuck buddy.

“Turn over,” I say.

She doesn’t even hesitate. “I was starting to get a migraine when I got home, but what you’re doing has pushed it away. You have magic hands.”

“I’m glad.” I rub up her arms, over her shoulders, up her neck, stopping to work my thumbs into her jaw. She clenches when she’s stressed, and the muscles are hard as rocks. “Two questions.”

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