Page 30 of Cold Mercy

“Oh, I insist. I’d love to see your face splattered across the ground.”

His mouth curves, as if I’ve amused him instead of threatened him. He curls two fingers toward himself in a slow, taunting gesture.

“Come here then, princess.”

I launch myself at him before he finishes the sentence. It’s messy, frantic, a full-body attempt to take him down with pure fury instead of technique.

My shoulder slams into his ribs hard enough that I think I have him, but he recovers instantly. He pivots, traps my wrist, shifts his weight.

I hit the floor on my back with Reed above me, every muscle in my body tightening from anger and the simple fact that he has me exactly where he wants me. His arm pins me down just enough to keep me in place, controlled in a way that tells me I’m not getting out of this unless he lets me.

I see his eyes looking at mine, steady and impossibly focused, like he’s trying to read straight into me. His stare holds me in place more than his grip ever could, and I hate the way my breath stumbles for a second. The nickname ‘pretty boy’ suits him too fucking well.

He’s barely winded.

“If you don’t listen, I’ll tie you up.” His voice is low, a quiet threat, delivered right above my ear.

“Let me go. I’ll listen, then I’ll kill you.”

“Fair enough.”

He releases me and rises with infuriating ease, wipes the thin line of blood at his cheekbone, and then extends a hand like this is a polite dance lesson.

“May I?”

“May you fucking not.”

CHAPTER 6

THOMAS

I look down at her, lying on the floor beneath me, and even though her eyes are blazing with fury, I see a spark of interest that mirrors my own, too. I offer her my hand, but she slaps it away and scrambles to her feet on her own. I watch her over to the wooden drawers, and a slow, predatory grin spreads across my face because, oh yeah, I know exactly where this is going, and I'm here for it.

I stand here, waiting, anticipation humming against my skin as she pulls the drawer open and picks up three thriving knives. She turns to face me and gestures toward the scuffed wall opposite us. The scarred wood tells me she's done that before.

“You have three minutes. If your explanation isn’t good enough, I start throwing,” she says, her eyes locking onto mine with a challenge that makes my pulse spike.

Ohhh, fuck yes. This is not the confrontation I imagined when I walked in here, but I like it a hell of a lot more. I walk over to the wall without protest, keeping my hands loose, my eyes fixed on her because I don't want to miss a single second of the way she moves.

“God,” I say, letting the amusement bleed into my voice as I watch her take her place opposite me. “If that’s you angry, I’m not complaining.”

Her arm snaps forward, and the blade slices the air, thudding into the wood a millimeter from my ear. I don't flinch, don't even blink. It's not the first time someone has thrown a knife at me, but it is definitely the first time a woman has done it, and the sheer audacity of her doing that hits me harder than I would like to admit.

I look back at the knife vibrating in the wall next to my head, then turn my gaze to her, giving her a look of hurt surprise while my smirk gives me away completely.

“You almost nicked me, princess,” I say, daring her to do it again.

“Next one goes in you,” she says, her voice dripping with sugar-coated poison.

I watch the knife trembling in her hand, poised and ready to fly, and I feel a weird kind of thrill. Okay, let's play this game, then. If she wants a story, I'll give her one. I let the smirk fade from my lips, pulling a mask of somber vulnerability over my face as I lower my voice to a serious pitch.

“You asked me once why I carry a gun,”

Her arm stays locked, ready to throw, but her eyes flicker with curiosity.

“A few years ago, someone close to me died in front of me,” he continues, his eyes darkening. “My father. He was shot on our front lawn because he refused to play ball with the wrong people. I stood there and watched it happen. I couldn't do anything then… and I swore I wouldn't be helpless again.”

I watch her absorb the story, scanning her reaction, while inside, my mind is running on a completely different track. Yeah, so that story is…a little bullshit. He died almost eleven years ago, sure, but I have no idea who killed him, and I never cared. The old man got exactly what he deserved. He wasn't the victim of ‘the wrong people’; he was ‘the wrong people,’ a crooked politician deep in mud.