by Alessa Thorn
SHARPEST EDGE
MERCENARIES AND MAGIC: BOOK TWO
ALESSA THORN
Copyright © 2022 by ALESSA THORN
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editing and Proof Reading by Damoro Design
1
Five years ago, Minsk, Belarus
The room was so cold that Izabella was crouched in a ball on the floor, a thin blanket wrapped around her shoulders to hold in some of her heat. It had to be January or February. She didn’t know anymore.
Time held no meaning in the windowless room she was kept in. Her world had narrowed down to the times when the door opened, and a needle was stuck in her arm, or a laptop was set before her.
Her arms itched, a thousand ants under her skin slowly eating her alive. Ruslan, the son of a bitch who was holding her, should’ve been back with her next injection and her laptop by now.
They usually only gave her the drugs after she had done the work, and she was ready for them. She only needed one more session, and she would have the information she had gleaned from his organization sent through to the Militsiya and Interpol. Maybe they would reach her in time.
Ruslan and his gang ran drugs, guns, and girls through Poland to Germany. Izabella should’ve asked more questions, but she was so keen, so arrogant, that she had willingly accepted the job to hack into the Militsiya. She had done the job, and instead of being paid, she had been shot up with drugs and locked in that godforsaken fucking room.
Ruslan had liked having his own personal hacker and had taken her like he had taken all the other girls he had been trafficking.
It had been weeks. Izabella had done the jobs he demanded, collecting evidence from his own system and hiding it within the data. She knew she was a dead woman walking, but if she managed to stop Ruslan by exposing him, then maybe her death would be worth it.
Izabella felt Death drawing closer every hour she was in that room, just waiting for her to finally give in…
A rustle and groans outside of her cell had Izabella’s head lifting in attention. There was a low murmur in English, and the door to her room opened. It wasn’t Ruslan but a fair-haired woman, her skin flecked with blood.
“Dad, over here,” she whispered harshly over her shoulder. The woman walked into the room, a knife in each hand and dripping with gore. Izabella crawled backward, the metal chain around her ankle dragging against the floor.
“Athena, what the fuck…” a deep voice said, and Death walked through the door. Izabella curled herself into a frightened ball as the large man came further into the room, hands as bloody as the woman’s and a saber slung over his back.
“Hey, easy there. Can you understand me?” the woman—Athena—asked.
“Y-yes,” Izabella croaked. She looked up at the man, his green eyes boring into her. “Are you here to kill me, Dios de la muerte?”
“No,” he replied firmly. He crouched down beside her. “Let me help you with those chains. Cub, watch the door. Kill anyone you see.”
Athena did as she was told. Death pulled a small, thin pick from his pocket and put it in the heavy padlock. Izabella was shaking, unable to stop. The lock popped, and he tugged the chain off her ankles. He hissed when he saw the torn, infected skin underneath the cuffs.
“Fuck. Can you stand up?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
Death helped her to her feet, and she cried out, her cramped body protesting and sending sharp bolts of pain through her. She would’ve fallen again if he hadn’t caught her.
“Do you know what they have been injecting you with?” he asked, and Izabella shook her head, tears tracking down her face. “It’s okay. We’ll figure it out when we get you out of here.”
“Why are you helping me?” she asked.
“Because that’s what we do. We kill assholes like Ruslan and save ladies in bad situations.” Death took off his heavy coat and wrapped it around her. Enclosed in pine and eucalyptus-scented warmth, Izabella started crying even harder. She buried her face in the collar so he wouldn’t see it.
“All right, let’s get you out of here. Apologies for the manhandling,” he said and lifted her up in his arms. “I’m Silas Edgeworth.”
Her face rested between his neck and shoulder. She never thought Death’s arms would feel so safe. “Izabella S-Silversmith.”
“What an excellent name.” Silas smiled at her, showing his dimples, and it was like she was seeing the sun for the first time in months. “It’s nice to meet you, Izabella.”
2
That had only been the beginning of Silas Edgeworth’s kindness.
Iz couldn’t remember how they got from Belarus to London. She had vague recollections of being very warm and delirious, clinging to Silas’s shirt, convinced she would die if she let him go.
Over the following weeks, Iz had come down hard off the drugs Ruslan had been dosing her with. Death had been with her every step of the way. Feeding her. Cleaning her up when she vomited. Staying up with her and watching old movies when she had woken up, screaming.
Silas Edgeworth had literally pulled her out of Hell. He had looked after her until she had been able to function as a human again. He and Athena had bought her a laptop and got her working again when she felt like she was dying. They had organized her possessions to be brought from the tiny flat in Minsk where she had been living before Ruslan had gotten to her.
Silas had seen her a starved, raving, drug-addled wreck of a human. He had taught her to fight so she would never be vulnerable again, and Iz never forgot his generosity. She owed him more than she could ever repay.
That was why living under the same roof as him again, the first time since she had gotten clean enough to go home to Barcelona, was a curious and unexpected kind of nightmare.
Sure, there had been visits to London, various short jobs in cities around the world where they had hung out, and she had tried to hide her awkward crush. But never…co-habitation. There had never been the smell of eucalyptus and pine in the bathroom after he had a shower or encountering him in the kitchen in the morning when he was shirtless and sleepy and utterly fuckable.
Iz still had nightmares, especially when she was stressed, and living with Silas was stressful in the most painfully pleasant way.
Like right now, when she should be asleep, she was staring at the ceiling of her bedroom, obsessively shuffling her deck of cards. It was meant to be one of her soothing techniques. It wasn’t working. Every time she pulled a card, Death would be there, grinning at her.
She tried going through the slight movement with her hands, reaching for the magic Kon had helped confirm that she really possessed. She had devised the training to help her create a small spark that would become a flame. It had worked once with Kon helping her, but she hadn’t been able to do it again.
He had been interested in seeing her family’s book crammed with curses and spells and recipes for food that had been passed down to her.
Now that he was free of his revenge and wasn’t on a murder spree, Iz had discovered that the Basty of Istanbul was a magic and history nerd.
Giving in to the inevitable, Iz got out of bed, pulled on a tank and some sleep shorts, and crept out into the kitchen. She put her cards on the counter and turned on the hot water kettle. She took a deep breath, lifted her arms above her head, and did some side stretches.
“Can’t sleep either?” Silas asked, and she started at the sound of his voice. The man was a fucking
ghost when he wanted to be.
“Sorry, did the kettle wake you?” she said, turning. She cursed inwardly.
Faded gray sweats hung low on his hips, and he was shirtless, his whole body corded with hard muscle and decorated with a few tattoos that she had never dared look too closely at.
He was without question, the sexiest man she had ever seen.
Santa Teresa, why do you hate me so much?
“Nah, I was already up. Nightmares again?” he asked, moving past her to take down some cups. He ran a hand over his graying dark hair, mussing it so it looked even sexier.
Living with you is my only nightmare.
“No, my mind won’t turn off,” Iz said, admiring his scarred back while it was turned. Her eyes drifted to his perfect ass, and she had to tear her gaze away. “How about you?”
“Same thing. Worried about Athena. I don’t think I’m going to sleep properly until we put Gadal into the fucking ground,” Silas admitted.
They had been in Istanbul for six weeks, trying to gather information on the next Secret Chief of the Aurora Aurea. The man was more of a ghost than Liddell had ever been. Of course, Gadal was bothering her too, just not as much as the man in front of her.
“He can’t hide forever,” Iz said and made them tea, stirring honey in with his camomile because she knew he liked it. “Besides, if Liddell’s rant is to be believed, Gadal is going to come looking for Athena.”
“That’s about as comforting as a kick in my balls.”
Iz tried not to think of his groin area as she prayed for mercy. “It should be comforting. All you will have to do is wait and take him out when he gets too close.” She made finger guns at his face and made pew pew sounds.
“That simple, huh?” He grinned and knocked her hands back playfully.
“I have faith in your abilities. You are silent Death after all,” she said.
His grin slipped. “God, I haven’t heard you call me Death in years.”
Not to your face.
“Well, you just crept up on me and nearly stopped my heart,” Iz replied. She turned and slid his mug across the counter towards him. “Careful, it’s hot.”
His eyes glanced to her bra-less breasts, but he quickly looked away, grabbing his cup. He hissed as hot tea spilled on his thumb.
“What did I just say?” she complained, even as heat pooled at the base of her spine.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m half asleep. Give me a break,” he grumbled. “You want to try out some late-night Turkish TV with me?”
Iz knew she would kick herself over it later, but she still nodded and followed him to the lounge. She curled up at one end of the couch, and he took the other and switched the TV on.
“You okay?” he asked, passing her the remote.
“Sure I am. Why do you ask?”
Silas lifted a brow. “I know you’re not sleeping, and you are jumpy. I only wanted to make sure nothing else was bothering you.”
It bothers me how much I want to climb into your lap; does that count?
Iz tugged out her hair tie and ran her hands through her thick curls, trying to buy herself some time. Silas’s green eyes were watching every movement like he knew she was searching for a lie to tell him.
“I’m not used to living with two boys and in a new city,” she said honestly.
Silas stretched out his arm along the back of the couch and poked her in the shoulder. “Hey, I believe that is one boy and one man. It’s Dante who leaves all of the toilet seats up, not me.”
“If you say so, Jefe.” Iz stilled as his fingers brushed her curls.
“It’s getting long. You should leave it out.” Silas was staring at the thick strands running over his calloused fingers.
“It needs a cut, but it’s taken me a long time to get it back to this length, so I’m reluctant to do it,” she replied, trying not to freeze up.
After Iz had gotten clean, she had taken a pair of scissors to it and cut it all off. Ruslan had used its length to grip her and throw her around. She wasn’t going to let anyone do that to her again.
In fact, apart from the occasional hairdresser, she didn’t let anyone touch her hair. The few hookups she had attempted in the past few years had thought she was just vain about messing up her hairdo, but it wasn’t that at all.
When someone touched her hair, it made her feel vulnerable, and panic would race under her skin like ants. She would be in that freezing fucking room again with no escape.
Iz didn’t feel cold when Silas touched her hair. She felt like a dog who had been denied too many pats and wanted to rub herself all over her owner.
Silas realized what he was doing and quickly dropped his hand away, flexing his fingers like he had been burned. “Shit, sorry. I know you don’t like…sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Iz replied a little too quickly. Her skin was hot, sweat prickling at the base of her spine. She needed to move before she did something monumentally stupid. She got up off the couch. “You know, I’m just going to try and get some sleep. The tea worked.”
Silas’s green eyes shuttered, the softness in his expression shifting to something more guarded. He smiled, but it didn’t show his dimples. “Sleep well, Izabella.”
“Thanks. You get some sleep too,” she called, cringing at herself, and closed her bedroom door. She rested her head against the wood, muttering soft Spanish curses under her breath.
Her hair held the phantom touch of his fingers, and she hugged herself, fighting the urge to go back out and beg him to touch her again.
Iz ran her fingers over the tattoo on her inner forearm, a series of numbers that covered the track scars left from Ruslan’s needles. She took deep breaths through her nose, trying to calm her heart and the ache in her chest.
This was also the problem with Silas. He was another drug to her. Whenever she was near him, she didn’t know how to think straight because she wanted to sample him so badly.
Izabella was an addict and knew one hit would never be enough, so it would be better to never have the taste she desperately wanted.
Iz sat on the floor, rested her back against the bed, and opened her laptop. Code was streaming over her screen, and she felt some of the tension inside of her uncurl. To Iz, the only thing more beautiful than a line of perfect code was Silas Edgeworth’s ass.
With the latter firmly off-limits, Izabella let the code drag her under.
3
Silas stared at Izabella’s still full, steaming cup of camomile tea on the coffee table and fought the urge to hurl it against the wall.
Shouldn’t have touched her hair, he bitched at himself. He didn’t mean to; it had happened without thought. God, her curls were so soft. Just like the rest of her.
Silas ran a hand over his face, trying to push the thought away. He was usually cautious when he acknowledged how stunning she was. It was such dangerous ground. It was also next to impossible not to be tempted when she wandered out in pajamas that showed off her tattoos and the curves that had taken a year for her to get back after he had found her.
Even as a starved wraith, her beauty had punched through him. A year later, she had met him and Athena in Lisbon for a job. She had strolled along the waterfront with a Sophia Loren bob cut, her curves wrapped in a red dress, bare shoulders showing off the red carnations she had tattooed on her honey brown skin.
She was the picture of glowing good health, and Silas had felt like someone had kicked him in the sternum for the rest of the trip.
If he was honest with himself, he would acknowledge that the feeling had never faded. He had rules he would never cross, though, and making a move on Izabella was one of them.
Sleeping with someone on your team was a bad idea, even if she was interested. And from the way she had cleared out of the room, it was a straightforward indication that she wasn’t.
“Fuck,” he muttered, tilting his head back on the couch. He knew better than to touch her hair…to touch her at all.
After he had pulled her out of
the crumbling warehouse in Belarus, she wouldn’t let anyone touch her, except for him and Athena. He had cleaned the wounds on her brutalized scalp himself and had passed her the scissors to cut her hair off so that it could heal faster.
Once Izabella had gotten over the worst of her withdrawals and her wounds had healed, even that brief contact had stopped.
Silas didn’t hold it against her. He knew what fucking monsters like Ruslan did to women. He had gone on a slaughter fest of Ruslan’s extended operation and his boss above him afterward.
He had told Athena it was for the money, but they both knew it was a lie. It was for the woman who smelled of burned cinnamon, palo santo, and magic.
Silas allowed himself one weak moment and thought about the way her breasts had looked under her sleep tank, those cotton shorts hugging her ass in a way that made a man want to…
The front door rattled. Silas had pulled the gun from under the coffee table before it swung open to reveal a tall man dressed in a too tight green shirt.
“Fuck, boss!” Dante exclaimed, hands going up. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“Where have you been?” Silas asked, slipping the gun back into place.
“Out. You’re not my real dad. I don’t owe you an explanation.” Dante went to the fridge and pulled out a beer.
“You forget that we took out a major player a few weeks ago and must keep a low profile for a while? Can’t going out and getting laid wait?”
Dante rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t out getting laid.”
“Well, that explains your pout.”
“Fuck off,” Dante mumbled, taking another deep swig of his beer. “I was checking on Leo.”
Silas joined him in the kitchen, dumped the tea, and grabbed a beer himself. Fuck it. It wasn’t like tea was going to help him sleep anyway after seeing Izabella in her jammies. Sleep was something hard enough for him to come by without that visual.
“How is he?” Silas asked, leaning back against the counter. Dante was irritated and trying to hide it, which wasn’t a good sign.
“Still fucking hiding out,” he muttered.