Page 23 of Judge's Mercy

What if she’s in trouble? What if that wasn’t her I saw walking around but an intruder? Reaching back, I pull my pistol out from the holster in my waistband and do a press check. It’s loaded and a round is chambered, ready to go. Violence is never the answer, but I’ve seen too many situations go down where it was kill or be killed, and I’m not ready to die. I press the numeric sequence to unlock her door and step inside quietly, my weapon aimed ahead.

I move through her seemingly empty living room, checking behind curtains and in closets but don’t find anything out of the ordinary. On silent feet, I move to the hallway and go right, clearing the half-bath and the spare room. The only other place she could be is the primary bedroom or the en-suite, so I creep silently in that direction.

The door is open just a crack, so I tap it with the toe of my boot and do a quick scan of the area, squinting to adjust to the dim lighting coming from one nightstand lamp. Her room reflects the kind of person I’ve been told she was when she worked for the Honey Pot. Sheer and gauzy pale mauve curtains dress the one window, artsy and sensual prints of women hang on the walls, and a white furry rug is placed under a bed that’s covered in more white and the same pale mauve from the curtains. The bedding and pillows are a mess and there are clothes tossed over every surface. Her nightstands are crowded with glasses of water, bottles of pills, and empty food containers. Judging by the amount, I’d say she hasn’t cleaned in nearly a week.

“Myla?” I call out, moving toward the en-suite, gun at the ready. As I near the bathroom, I hear running water at full volume, which might make it hard for her to hear me. I yell her name louder and still get no response. It raises my hackles because unless her mouth is bound, she’d answer back.

I’m surprised when the doorknob turns and I’m able to push the door open, but I have no idea what I might find. My gun lowers and gets tucked back into the holster as I take in the sight before me. Even in my wildest dreams, I wouldn’t have imagined this. My stomach turns, and a sense of foreboding washes over me.

It’s worse than I thought. So much worse.

In the reflection in the mirror, Myla’s nearly naked body is on display. Her black satin and lace bra barely covers her ample breasts, while a matching thong hugs her rounded hips. Fuck. Her pebbled nipples strain against the fabric, and the sensual curve of her perfect ass is what dreams are made of. As my gaze travels down, I notice a pile of dark clothing at her feet, stained with something thick and viscous. Blood? Without acknowledging me, Myla scrubs her hands relentlessly with a nail brush and the soap my brothers use to wash away evidence—the same soap I use to sterilize my back. The foam turns a morbid shade of pink as she works, the pristine white sink now marred with a ring of crimson. There’s no mistaking it—definitely blood. Looking her over, I know it can’t be hers. Her milky white skin is unmarred except for her hands and forearms, which are bright red from the scrubbing and small blotches on her forehead, cheek, and chin. She must’ve already gotten around to washing the blood off there.

What the hell has she gotten herself into?

“Myla?” I move slowly so as not to startle her, catching sight of a bloody knife tossed in the bathtub. “Sweetheart, what happened?”

With lightning speed, she spins around, her eyes wild and unfocused. In a split second, she pulls out another knife from God knows where. Adrenaline courses through my veins, and I sway to the side just in time for the blade to whiz past my ear, the sound of it slicing through the air too close for comfort. I whirl around seconds after it embeds itself deep into the drywall with a resounding thud. My heart races as I realize how close I came to meeting my maker.

Not knowing if she planned to hurl any more sharp objects my way, I move in, gripping her by the wrists and pinning her against the wall. She struggles, throwing all her strength into the fight, but she’s no match for me. I press my body into hers, stepping between her legs so she can’t kick. She’s a good foot shorter than me, so her thrashing head knocks against my chest, hurting her more than me.

“Myla!” I grit out, slamming her wrists against the wall. My intention isn’t to hurt her but to grab her attention. The sound of her name breaks through whatever trance she’s in, and she freezes, body stiffening. “What the hell is going on?”

“Get off me!” Her nostrils flare, and her blue eyes are crazed as she focuses on me.

“Not until you tell me what you’ve done.”

“None of your business!”

“The hell it ain’t.”

“Let go!” She twists her body, still trying to get me to release her, but all it does is rub her barely-concealed breasts against my chest and her hot little center against my thigh. My cock thickens between us, and the second she feels it, her blue eyes grow impossibly bigger. Violence and sex have gone hand-in-hand for me for so long that I should’ve known how my body would react. Add in my growing attraction for the woman, and this was a disaster in the making.

My head drops, and I curse under my breath, but I can’t let this get in the way of questioning her. There’s a good chance she put the club in trouble with whatever she got herself into, and I owe it to my brothers to find out. Peering down at her, I gentle my tone and say, “Not until you tell me why there’s a knife in the tub and you were washing blood off your hands.”

It’s too late to appeal to her rational side, though. She already felt my reaction to her body, and I see a switch flip as she changes tactics to get what she wants. Her struggle is intentional this time, her back arching and her hips circling to grind on my thigh. I swallow hard as her tone turns sultry and smooth. “It seems there’s a bigger issue to deal with right now.”

In one quick move, I spin her around, shoving her front to the wall. Drawing her arms down and back, I pin her wrists together at the base of her spine.

“Tell me what happened,” I say but immediately recognize my mistake when she pushes her hips so her mouth-watering ass juts back into me. I get lost in the way the thin string of her thong disappears between her round globes, and I have the urge to trace the path with my tongue.

Fuck.

“Does the priest want to play?”

I usually follow the old adage of honesty being the best policy, but not this time. “Fucking you won’t make me magically forget that you’re into some serious shit right now.”

“It’s worth a try.”

“This isn’t you, and I sure as shit am not one of those men.” I don’t need to specify which kind of man I’m referring to. “I won’t pretend to understand what those unimaginably horrific and unfair experiences have done to you, but it pisses me the fuck off that you think I’m so weak that I’d contribute to your trauma. I’ll never hurt you, Myla. Do you hear me? Not your body, not your mind, and goddamn it, not your soul either.”

Her mood shifts again, confusing me because I didn’t think I’d get through to her so quickly. Dropping her shoulders, she tucks her ass back in and presses her cheek to the wall. I remain silent, giving her all the time she needs to process. “The first time I saw you was when I woke up after. . . well, you know.” She cranes her neck to look at me, and what I see devastates me. There’s so much suffering in eyes that are so pure, they shouldn’t know even one day of sadness. “Everyone else looked at me with such pity, but you? You looked at me like you were proud of me for surviving.”

I can’t tell if this is just another ploy—using her body didn’t work, so maybe she’s trying to appeal to my emotions? Except I know for a fact that she doesn’t discuss the details of that day with anyone, not even Tinleigh. But it would be stupid to trust her just based off of that. People will go to wild lengths to save their own ass. I’ve seen it time and time again through the interrogations my brothers conduct.

“I was, but that has nothing to do with what’s going on right now,” I say, trying to keep her on topic.

She ignores me. “I know I’ve been a bitch, but you scare me, Judge. The only thing that’s ever attracted me to a man is his body. To be honest, I find most men stupid and irritating. The patriarchy has convinced all of you that you’re special just for existing, creating a bunch of overly-inflated egos who make my pussy dry up like the desert.”

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