Page 18 of Scorpion

Maybe I’ve bitten off more than I can chew by accepting this job. Who knows what kind of shit I’ll be exposing myself to?

Really, I’m just making excuses. The prospect of danger has never stopped me from doing anything. I’ve been in war zones and full-blown shootouts more times than I can count. I’ve broken into heavily guarded places, played assassin, killed with my bare hands, and faced down men in underground fight clubs. Being muscle for a grinning mobster might be the least dangerous thing I’ve done.

The most difficult thing about this will be spending days around Mathijs without being sucked into a dark hole that I can’t get out of. Because every time I’m with him, I’ll be haunted by things I’ll never be able to change.

I clear my throat and square my shoulders, hoping it’ll instill some level of confidence in me. “Then what exactly am I doing for you?”

He shrugs. “Standard security work. Escort, lookout, raids.”

“Raids?”

“Oh yes. They’re a lot of fun. Gangsters, mafia, gunrunners. You name it.”

“That’s not the term I’d use.”

I narrow my eyes as he circles me, his husky voice holding the slightest purr. “Darling, you’ve entered the land of mayhem. Surely you realized that when you accepted my offer.”

“My head had been pounded into the concrete. I was potentially concussed. Bleeding from my forehead. Dehydrated. Stressed. And exhausted. I wouldn’t call that clear, concise thinking. Raids are illegal.” I cross my arms.

Leaning against the counter barely an arm’s length away, copying my pose, he says, “Don’t tell me you’re a law-abiding citizen now. That would be rather boring.”

“I made money from illegal fighting rings. I think my fear of the law is long gone.” Really, the only thing I was scared of was my mother’s wrath.

“Good. You were always too much of a good girl.”

I cock a brow at him. It’s hard to ignore the thrum of excitement in my veins. No more monotonous days. No more staring at a TV for countless hours, waiting for night to fall so I can go back to bed and attempt to sleep.

“I have arranged for a physiotherapist to come around tomorrow morning to help you with your nerve damage. She will be able to get you any medication and further treatment you might need.”

My excitement comes to a screeching halt at the reminder that I’ve turned into his pity project. “You said I get medical insurance. I never agreed to physical therapy.”

He gives me a knowing look. “Would you have gotten proper treatment to permanently fix it, or medicated just enough to function?”

Screw him for being right.

“Consider this a requirement of your employment.”

Shaking my head, I say, “I can accept the job, the accommodation, and its perks. But the rest of it is too much. I don’t know if you’re doing this out of guilt or whatever it is you’re planning.” As if I need to prove something, I add, “I’m the one who fought and bled to get into Special Ops. I’m the one who killed to get those records.”

Me.

Not my mother forcing me to do it. Not my father’s—or any man’s money. I did it. Mathijs helped get me into shooting and getting my hands dirty outdoors. But the rest was on me. I earned everything I have.

“Say what you like, but you’re treating me like a charity case,” I say.

The tension in the air is thick enough to slice through. Any semblance of playfulness is wiped completely off his face, replaced by a mask solely for business.

“If you don’t want to accept what I’m offering out of genuine hospitality or kindness, then that’s your prerogative. Not every deed is a business transaction. If you’d like, I can turn it into one so you can justify to yourself why you’re allowed to accept it.” Mathijs straightens and angles his body so we are perfectly parallel to each other. “So let me explain it another way: People want me dead. I need you sharp and functioning to ensure that doesn’t happen. That means I need you fully recovered or on a quick road that way. I need someone who won’t faint because they haven’t eaten. I need someone whose head is clear because they aren’t worried about making rent or when they can organize for an electrician to come in to fix the light. I need someone who can run when they get the order to run.”

My body stiffens with each point he makes. They’re all valid and completely faultless. Sleeping in a tent and waiting weeks to get an appointment with the doctor means that I can’t do my job properly. And if I can’t do my job, people die. And…

Fuck.

What was I even thinking? I can’t do this job. My foot is screwed up. My brain is scrambled to shit. I can’t bring myself to step foot inside a car. I have to stave off a panic attack every time I hear metal scrape against metal. Hell, my observation skills have become nearly nonexistent. How am I meant to protect him?

I shake my head. “If you want a soldier, that isn’t me. I’ve been…” I search for the words that don’t translate to I’ve been rotting away for the past two years and I’m broken beyond repair. “I've been off duty for two years, and my senses aren’t as sharp.”

“How many guards did you count between entering the gate and stepping inside this house?”

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