Page 131 of Merciless

“I’ll meet you down there,” he says, before taking off and leaving me alone with the coffee machine.

My addiction to the girl in the basement means that I pull my cell back out as I wait. I thought he was going to march straight in there, but to my surprise, her door stays shut.

“Get ready, little dove. Your time for keeping those secrets is over,” I warn before finally heading in the direction Reid disappeared a few minutes ago with a perfect latte in my hand for my dove.

The familiar metallic scent of blood hits my nose, reminding me of what Reid said about visiting someone else last night.

I come to a stop at the open door, and my eyes widen in shock.

“Holy hell. You really did need to let off some more steam.”

He shrugs as he none too gently throws the cell’s resident onto his cot.

“Is he—”

“Not yet,” he confirms. “Not much longer, though.”

“When did you decide to end him?” I ask out of interest. He usually tells me when he’s decided to open up vacancies down here.

“I didn’t. And we’re not going to make the decision. She is.”

My stomach knots.

“What are you going to make her do?”

He looks up, his signature devilish smirk in place.

“I might have said you were right, but that doesn’t mean we’re doing things entirely your way,” he warns. “But we are getting answers today.”

Turning his back on the half-dead guy who’s slowly bleeding out on the cot, he unlocks Alana’s door and pushes it wide open.

“Good morning, Pet,” he announces loudly, like an obnoxious asshole. “Did you sleep well?”

I can’t help but laugh as she growls at him like a caged wild animal.

Following him, I step in the doorway to find them glaring at each other, tension crackling loudly.

Oh yeah, when these two finally collide, it’s going to be fire.

Obviously, that will have to be after I’ve had my time with her. That motherfucker might like to win, but not this time.

She’s mine.

32

ALANA

Reid fucking asshole Harris stalks into my cell, wearing a shit-eating grin and nothing but a pair of low-hanging sweatpants, looking like he’s slept a full eight hours. His cuts and bruises from the night before don’t deter from the sheer hotness that is him, if anything, they only add to the dark and dangerous look that makes my mouth water and my thighs clench.

And it only gets worse when JD strolls in behind him wearing the same—only his sweats are black—and he’s accessorized it with a mug of steaming coffee.

“Oh, little dove,” he muses with a smirk. “This cell smells like pussy and desperation.”

Ignoring him and the mug, assuming it’s not for me, I focus back on the dickhead standing at the foot of my bed.

“You’re a cunt, you know that, right?”

He laughs and JD snorts. “Yeah, Pet. I know. How are you feeling?” he asks. He almost sounds like he cares, but I know better.

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