Page 115 of Mercenary
“What did you do to her?”
“Go, Kylie. I’ll protect her,” Declan says. This time, there’s something in his tone, a rawness. Like when he told me about that other word he was thinking about.
Love.
Kylie hears it, too. Her jaw drops open. It takes a second for her to gather herself, before she asks me, “Oh. My. God. What did you do to him?”
“Simple. I loved him.”
Declan grunts.
She shakes her head in disbelief. “You’ll take care of her?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” I’m pulled into a tight, bone-crunching hug. “I promise you, Madelyn, all will be resolved. Then I’ll come back for you.” She releases me and stalks toward the window.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” I say.
“Oh. I plan on keeping it. Just watch me,” Kylie replies. “Love you.”
“I love you, too,” I whisper. Then watch as my sister, once more, disappears from my life. At least this time, I’m not on the outside looking in. Yeah, I’m scared. You bet I’m worried about her. But if anyone can take care of herself . . . my eyes roam over the bodies splayed out across the room . . . it’s Kylie.
“Let’s go,” Declan orders, taking me by the arm.
I hold my ground. “Where to?”
“Home.”
33
Declan
Madelyn stirs in the seat next to me. We’ve been on the road for eighteen hours, headed east, through the gulf states and toward our final destination, the Sunshine State. My girl wants a life in the sunshine and, fuck knows, I’ll do whatever it takes to give this to her.
I park my pickup on a familiar beach, one I never took time off from work to appreciate, and sit back to view a sunrise I never stopped long enough to appreciate.
“Where are we?” she murmurs, sleepily.
“Florida. St. Petersburg.”
“Number ten on our bucket list. The best beaches outside of San Diego.” She sits up in her seat, and I point. Her eyes follow my finger and she gasps. “It’s gorgeous.”
Yes, she is. I almost lost her. If Franco’s men had been more capable shooters . . . Fuck. FUCK. I’ve spent eighteen hours reliving what happened. Eighteen goddamn hours beating myself up for underestimating Hayden. Eighteen hours coming to grips with my feelings for the woman next to me. She wears a band-aide on her thigh, the bullet wound minor compared to the fear I’d felt.
“Take a walk with me,” I tell her.
She meets me halfway, in front of the hood, and grasps hold of my hand. “Do you like old movies?” she asks me, as we move toward the water.
I shrug. “Westerns. War movies.”
“Ever see the WWII flick with Deborah Kerr and Burt Lancaster?”
“Do I seem like a guy who follows celebrities?” I answer.
She sighs. “Ever make love on a beach? Wait . . . don’t answer that.”
“I don’t make love.”
