Page 32 of Judge's Mercy

“Yes, Dad,” I sass.

He leaves the room with a scowl, and when he returns minutes later with a bottle of water and a box of crackers, the irritated expression is still there. Sitting on the edge of the bed, so close he’s touching me, he hands me the bottle of water with the lid already unscrewed, sets the crackers down, and then shakes a pain pill into his palm. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Even the dim light from the lamp on my nightstand has me squinting as I sit up to swallow the medicine, not bothering to keep the sheets over my breasts.

Because Judge is Judge, he keeps his eyes above my neck as he takes the water bottle back and circles the room to flip off all the lights. I lie back down, expecting him to leave, but instead, he gets into bed beside me, though he remains on top of the bedding. I’m about to argue when he turns me away and drags my body against his. A heavy arm rests across my middle as he spoons me, and I’m too stunned and too wiped out to argue.

I’ve never slept with a man, not in the literal sense, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t ever think about it. During the day, I can keep myself busy and distract myself, but the second I get in bed and am alone with my thoughts, I might sometimes wonder what it would be like to have someone.

My world was shattered when that pack of sadistic men stripped me of my dignity and destroyed all my hopes and dreams. Now, instead of envisioning ever finding love, I’m consumed by the burning desire to paint the town red with the blood of men who underestimate the strength and resilience of women. They’re in for such an awful surprise.

“I can practically hear your wheels turning.” The arm that’s caging me in bends at the elbow and Judge weaves his fingers into my hair, rubbing my scalp. I only allow it because I don’t have the will to fight with him tonight. And because it feels fucking incredible. “Get some sleep, Myla. Things’ll look different in the morning.”

Knowing I can’t sleep without it, I reach under my pillow and pull out a shredded up piece of fabric that used to be my baby blanket. I know it’s disgusting and weird or whatever, but I don’t think I can make Judge’s opinion of me any worse, so I bury my nose into it and inhale my personal scent of comfort before tucking it under my chin and closing my eyes.

“Is that a woobie?” Judge’s head lifts off the pillow we’re sharing, amusement in his tone. I ignore him. “You sleep with a security blanket?”

I say nothing and fall asleep to Judge’s deep chuckle, wondering why I don’t hate having him here.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

JUDGE

Idig through Myla’s cupboards, desperate to find her coffee. She must have some because there’s a pod-style brewer on her counter. Then I notice a little drawer underneath the machine and sigh in relief. My excitement is short-lived when I pull the drawer open and scan the pods.

Caramel Cream Crunch Medium Roast? Texas Pecan? Chocolate chip?

“What the fuck is this?” I ask no one. The pods all tout a different flavored coffee, each one weirder than the last. “Where the hell is the coffee-flavored coffee?”

“Find the one that says ‘Donut Shop.’”

I look over to find a sleep-rumpled Myla. She’s adorable in her over-sized robe that makes her look like a marshmallow. I shake that thought away. Today, I’ll get answers, and I won’t allow her to distract me.

“I don’t want my coffee to taste like a donut,” I say.

“It’s just the name. It’s a light roast, though, and I know you like your coffee dark and black.”

I scour the pods until I find the one with a pink frosted donut on it. “It’ll do. Thanks.”

After putting it in the machine and mashing the brew button, I turn to face her. She’s sitting down at the small dinette, arms folded on the table and looking surprisingly nervous. Good, she should be.

“Did you sleep okay?” she asks.

“Yeah.” It’s a lie. I slept like shit because my mind was on overdrive all night. I had too many questions, and the only one who could answer them was sleeping soundly in my arms. I found myself frustrated as hell while also grateful as fuck that I somehow ended up in her bed. Half of me wanted to strangle her, while the other half wanted to wake her up and repeat our activities from earlier. “What about you?”

“I don’t remember the last time I slept a solid eight hours.” She finger-combs her hair, as if just realizing it’s probably mussed—which it is, and I find that adorable too.

“That’s good,” I say, wondering if it was because of me or whatever trouble she got herself into that eased her mind enough to rest.

“Your coffee’s done.”

“You want a cup?” I ask, turning around to grab a mug that has “Fill Me Up, Daddy” printed on it.

“Sure, but can I have the pink marshmallow flavor?”

I reach for another mug, this one with the phrase, “Blow Me. I’m Hot” on it. While setting the reservoir under the spout and switching the used pod for a new one, I absentmindedly ask, “What exactly does a pink marshmallow taste like?”

“Um, I guess it tastes like sugary coffee. I don’t really like the stuff, so I have to have flavors in order to choke it down.”

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