Page 112 of Merciless

I’m no longer a person, only a shell.

He leans in, and before I know what’s happening, his addictive, manly scent fills my nose before his warmth surrounds me.

He lifts me into his chest as if I weigh nothing.

“Hold tight, Doll,” he whispers, before carrying me into the house, making a point of securing every single lock and bolt on the front door.

He walks me through to a living room. It’s seen better days, but it’s more luxurious than anything I’ve ever experienced.

Dropping to his haunches, he studies me closely. I’ve no idea what he can read in my eyes. I hate to think.

“What do you need, Alana? Name it and it’s yours.”

27

MAVERICK

She shakes her head as tears continue to coat her cheeks.

I hate seeing her so weak, so terrified.

But other than going out there on a suicide mission with a gun and as many bullets as possible, I’ve no idea how to fix this.

“Food?” I blurt. I’m so out of my comfort zone here, but I’m determined to prove to her that I’m trustworthy and can keep her safe. “Are you hungry? I can cook or order something in.”

She shakes her head, although I’m not sure I believe her. I just carried her from the car. There’s nothing to her. She has to be starving.

“Drink? Water? Soda?”

But instead of answering, a sob breaks free.

“You can’t do this,” she whispers, her voice fractured with emotion.

“I can. I am.”

“They’ll kill you.” She whimpers. “Because of me, they’ll kill you.”

I shake my head. “No, they won’t. I won’t let them. Just like I won’t let them anywhere near you ever again.”

Her sobs get louder. I wish I knew if they were from fear, or relief, or what.

I hesitate, my fists clenching with indecision.

My instinct says to hold her, but my brain screams for me not to.

The house I grew up in sits on the nicer side of Harrow Creek. The nicer side… what a fucking joke. The road outside is quiet, our neighbors are far enough away not to see anything, but still, my need to protect her takes over.

“Don’t move, okay? I’m going to double-check all the doors and windows and close the curtains.”

She nods, sucking in shaky breaths as I move toward the sliding door leading to the backyard.

I keep one eye on her as I move through the room, before slipping out and meticulously checking every way a person could enter the house.

When I return, it’s with a plate of cookies and a glass of milk.

I know she’s sixteen. She’s not a child, not after everything she’s endured. But cookies and milk are good at any age. Right?

Fucking hell.

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