Page 9 of Mercenary's Redemption

Raising my voice, I snap back, "You don't know anything about my life! I'm a single mom doing my best to raise a teenager on my own. Sure, it might not be as dangerous as your...lifestyle, but it's far from easy!"

Chance grunts, seeming taken aback by my outburst.

"Didn't mean it like that," he mutters gruffly. "Just saying...you can't expect kindness and cuddles from a man called the Mercenary."

Lifting my chin defiantly, I hold his intense gaze.

"A name is just a name - it doesn't have to define who you really are inside."

For a long moment, Chance is silent, simply staring at me with those piercing eyes. Then he sucks in a deep breath and rakes one broad hand back through his short dark hair.

"Maybe for normal folks," he allows grimly. "But I am who I am 'cause I choose to be. Don't go feeding me no cliché bullshit about changing."

"Okay, okay..." I murmur, throwing up my hands in surrender. I'm just too tired to keep arguing philosophy with this stubborn man. "Where's your med kit? I'll patch you up and then leave you be."

Chance eyes me warily for a moment as if wondering whether to trust me. Finally, he jerks his chin towards the bar.

"Under the counter."

Nodding, I retrieve the battered old kit and bring it over. As I pop it open and survey its meager contents, I realize I'll need better access to properly clean and dress his wounds.

"You'll need to take your shirt off so I can see the full extent of the damage," I tell him matter-of-factly.

Chance hesitates, those intense eyes locked on mine. For a wild moment, I wonder if he's going to argue or refuse. Then, with a resigned huff, he reaches down and yanks his torn, bloodied shirt up over his head in one smooth motion.

I can't help but suck in a sharp breath at the sight of his bare torso. Thick cords of muscle ripple beneath tanned skin riddled with old scars. Running across his broad shoulders and down his powerful back are a series of nasty-looking gashes from the broken glass.

Swallowing hard, I force my wandering eyes to focus as I wet a clean rag.

"This might sting a bit," I warn before gently starting to clean the first jagged wound.

To his credit, Chance doesn't so much as flinch, his jaw merely tightening slightly.

I continue carefully cleaning and disinfecting each slash and laceration, trying to avoid openly staring at the rippling muscles of his arms and back. Chance remains stoic and still through it all, not even a flicker of discomfort crossing his rugged features despite the pain he must be feeling.

My mind is an utter mess. I just wanted to properly thank him for his heroics, and now here I am with my hands roaming over his strong, tattooed flesh. It's all too easy to imagine what those powerful arms would feel like wrapped around me, carrying me to...

No. I give my head a firm shake to derail that dangerous train of thought.

Chance is clearly a dangerous man—they don't call him the Mercenary for nothing. Getting any more tangled up with him than I already am would only put myself and Jayden at risk—a risk I swore I'd never take again.

Pushing those thoughts aside, I move on to cleaning the jagged cuts along his broad back. That's when I notice it - a thick, puckered scar in the shape of a bullet wound, the skin gnarled and twisted from what was surely a near-fatal injury at some point.

Unable to contain my curiosity, I gently trace the pad of my finger over the old scar.

"Looks like you got some professional help patching this one up," I can't help but remark.

Chance tenses at my touch, his shoulders tightening. "Ain't none of your business," he bites out gruffly. Drawing his good arm across his chest, he gestures vaguely at the scar. "Got careless on a tour overseas back when I was dumb enough to buy into the whole serving my country' bullshit. Those days are long gone now."

My eyes widen at this new revelation. The brutal, infamous Mercenary...was once a soldier? Is that where his codename originated?

So many more questions spring to my lips, but I bite them back, sensing I've already pushed him far enough tonight.

Instead, I simply murmur, "I'm surprised you used to be military, but...I can understand why you were so quick to protect me then."

"Had nothing to do with that," he growls, shooting me a sidelong look. "Only reason I stepped in was because having folks killed in my own damn bar is bad for business reputation. That's all there is to it."

Of course he had some selfish, pragmatic reason for protecting me. I should've known better than to read too much into the gesture from a man like Chance. Clearly caring about anyone beyond his biker buddies is the last thing on the cold Mercenary's mind.

---