The Mad Heiress's Dangerous Mercenary Lover

The screw slipped.

Cilla Clark's hand shot out, her fingers pinching the cold metal threads before the screw could hit the ceramic tiles below. The sharp edge bit into her palm. Blood welled up, warm and sticky against her skin. She didn't flinch. She didn't even blink. She just held the screw in a death grip until her knuckles turned white.

Ten years in this place had taught her that a single sound could kill you.

She pulled her hand back into the narrow ventilation shaft and let the screw drop into her pocket. The final bolt was gone. She pushed the grate open, the metal scraping softly against the wall. Her legs trembled, the muscles spasming from the years of sedatives pumped into her system. It felt like trying to walk on wet noodles. She dragged herself forward, her elbows scraping against the dusty aluminum.

The air in here was thick. It smelled like formaldehyde and old dust. It tickled the back of her throat, making her chest tight. She bit down hard on her lower lip, forcing the cough down. She tasted copper. Good. Pain kept her focused.

She turned the corner and stopped. Red light crisscrossed the darkness ahead. Infrared. A web of invisible lasers waiting to slice her open or trigger an alarm. She reached into the pocket of her thin hospital gown and pulled out a handful of baby powder she had stolen from the nursery.

She blew it lightly. The powder hung in the air, illuminating the red beams. They were tight, spaced irregularly. She mapped the path in her head in a millisecond. She took a breath and moved.

She twisted her body, contorting her spine in a way that defied normal human anatomy. She slid through the gaps, slow and precise. Halfway through, her right shoulder gave out. The old injury tore, a hot, sickening pain ripping through the joint. Sweat broke out across her forehead, soaking the thin cotton. She clenched her jaw and kept moving.

She made it to the exit vent. Through the slats, she saw the storm. Rain was coming down in sheets, hammering the mud below. Lightning flashed, illuminating the dark grounds of the psychiatric facility.

She kicked the louvers open. She didn't hesitate. She fell.

The two-story drop felt like flying. She hit the muddy grass and instinctively tucked her shoulder, rolling to absorb the impact. But her legs gave out. She crashed into a puddle, mud splashing up into her eyes and mouth. She gasped, struggling to push herself up on her shaking arms.

A pair of black tactical boots stepped into her line of sight. Mud caked the heavy soles.

She froze. Her eyes tracked up the boots, over the tailored black slacks, to the long black trench coat soaked by the rain. Lightning cracked again, highlighting the man's face. Hard angles. A sharp jaw. Cold eyes that looked like they had seen a hundred wars.

Her pupils contracted. The analytical engine in her brain roared to life.

Six-two. Low center of gravity. Left hand hanging close to his waist. He's armed. Ex-military. No, private contractor. Top-tier mercenary. High threat level.

The man's body went rigid. It was barely perceptible, a sudden tension in his shoulders, a slight widening of his stance. His eyes flickered with a split-second of pure shock before the cold mask slammed back down.

He looked down at her, his face unreadable. "Cilla Clark." His voice was a low rumble, like a cello playing in a dark room. "Your father sent me to get you."

Cilla switched gears. It was like flipping a switch in her brain. The sharp, calculating light in her eyes vanished, replaced by a hollow, terrified stare. Her body started to shake, violent tremors that rattled her teeth. She scrambled back in the mud, wrapping her arms around her head.

A broken whine tore from her throat. She sounded like a wounded animal.

The man frowned slightly. His gaze dropped to her wrists, tracking the dark bruises from the restraints, and then to her bloody fingertips.

What a poser, Cilla thought, her inner voice cold and mocking while her outer body cowered. With that face and those muscles, he's wasting his time playing bodyguard. He should be charging by the hour in Manhattan. Rich divorcées would eat him alive.

The man's jaw twitched. The muscle beneath his stubble jumped. A storm of complex emotions churned in his eyes before he looked away.

The voice in his head was unmistakable. He had heard something like it once before, years ago, in a place he didn't like to remember. He pushed the thought away.

He didn't say another word. He stepped forward, bent down, and scooped her up off the ground. He threw her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. His grip was hard, bruising, but he deliberately avoided the deep cuts on her hands.

Cilla pounded her fists against his broad back. She screamed, a raw, guttural sound that pierced the noise of the storm.

Good, she thought, going limp against him. Saves me the walk to the highway.

He carried her to the edge of the tree line where a black, armored SUV waited in the shadows. He opened the back door and dumped her onto the leather seat. The door slammed shut with a heavy, final thud, cutting off the sound of the rain.