by M. A. Grant
Peirce jolted awake, lost in the fog of the nightmare. Normally he didn’t wake until he was thrown to the ground by his commanding officer while trying to run into the burning rubble of the garage to find Callie. Until he felt the hot metal and burning wood searing his hands, blistering them, leaving him to wake up with phantom pain from wounds long since healed.
But this time was different because someone was actually screaming.
He ran to the bedroom, adrenaline surging, and shook Emmaline as she scissored on the bed.
“Emma! Emma, wake up!”
She stopped once his hands were on her, his fingers digging into her shoulders with enough force he worried she’d be bruised. She stared up at him blankly.
He didn’t know why, but it felt right to press his forehead to hers, stroke her hair, run a hand up and down the column of her throat as he whispered promises that she’d be okay, that the nightmare would fade. Gradually, she stopped whimpering with every breath she took in. Her pulse stopped fluttering in her neck like a bird flinging itself against cage bars. She rolled to her side and buried herself against him, wrapping his huge body over her tiny one like he was some kind of blanket.
Even though his mind told him he should move once he felt her body relaxing again into sleep, he couldn’t pull himself away from her.
In fact, he was almost asleep when she asked tremulously, “I woke you up?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You stopped the worst part.”
“Cordova?”
“Every time.” He pressed his face down into her hair, grateful for her warmth and scent and softness. “Plymouth?”
She shuddered against him and he tightened his grip on her. “I can’t forget it,” she admitted.
“It’s okay to accept that.”
“Have you?”
“I’ve accepted she’s gone.”
Silence.
Finally, “Do you acknowledge that you couldn’t have done anything else?”
She had him there. He shifted uncomfortably. “No.”
She didn’t let him pull away. Instead, she nuzzled in closer. When she sighed, he could feel her body loosening even more, the pull of sleep winning her over. “You’ll keep me safe from them?” she asked.
Mercenaries or nightmares, his answer was the same. “Of course.”
Emmaline blinked slowly, trying to shrug off the remnants of the dream. There was darkness, the sensation of weight across her chest, uncertainty of where she was. There was a low grumble next to her and the weight on her chest disappeared.
She turned her head and saw Peirce stretched out beside her. His blonde hair was plastered down unevenly from his fitful sleep. She took in his long eyelashes, the narrow scar across an eyebrow, the sign of a formerly broken nose.
It was his mouth that really fascinated her. Even in his sleep, Peirce scowled. Before she’d seen him smile, she’d wondered if he didn’t know how to move his face into any expression other than a scowl, a smirk or a leer. Now she knew that he only smiled on rare occasions.
She couldn’t help herself. She traced his lips with a finger, still unable to comprehend this mouth had been on hers. She’d never tell him since it was far too embarrassing, but his kiss had been better than she’d ever imagined.
Her fingertip had just brushed the other corner of his mouth when those blue eyes snapped open and stared right at her. She was frozen, finger still on his lips, nervous and guilty about getting caught.
To her surprise, he just blinked at her and closed his eyes again.
“I—” she began.
“Give me ten more minutes and I’ll get up to shower,” he interrupted, settling in deeper to his pillow.
“Oh. Okay.”
She was getting out of the bed when his arm snaked out and pulled her back to him. He made a noise of appreciation and mumbled, “You smell good.”
“Thank you?”
But he was out again. Probably a military trick…He must have been used to getting sleep whenever and however he could.
Still, it wouldn’t hurt to doze for a little bit.
She didn’t wake until the shower turned off. Peirce emerged wearing nothing but a towel and some lucky water droplets. One slid down his shoulder, over his pec, down to the scars, tripping over the uneven skin and vanished as it soaked into the towel.
She swallowed when she saw the scars, but they didn’t upset her like they had the first time. They were reminders of what he’d been through, that was all. She had a few scars of her own, so who was she to cast the first stone?
“I’ve got to go meet your dad,” he said casually as he pulled clothes out of his drawers.
Panic squeezed at her chest. “Why?”
“To let him know he broke contract.”
“I thought he didn’t want to meet you for a few days.”
“True. But I’ve decided I don’t give a shit what he wants.” He looked back at her, taking her in slowly. “I want you to be able to have a life again.”
She managed a weak smile. “No more being trapped in an ivory tower?”
“Not unless you want to be there.”
She had to stall him somehow. “Would you take my jewellery with you? See what you can get for it?”
He nodded his assent. “Kai’s better at it than I am. I’ll hand it off and bring back what he gets for it.”
“Okay.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and waited patiently while she tugged at the hem of her skirt. But after a few minutes, he wasn’t so patient. Heaving a sigh, he finally passed her his knife, which made the process far easier. She handed over all the jewels and his knife, which he placed on the dresser.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Mm-hmm.”
But she couldn’t stop the dread that was seeping into her bones. She blurted out, “Do you have to meet him face to face?”
Peirce gave her an inscrutable look. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
She saw his jaw tighten. He grabbed his clothes and went back to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. She waited anxiously as he got dressed, wishing she could explain what was running through her mind.
Rationally, she knew Peirce could handle himself, but the irrational Emmaline was afraid that something would happen to him.
Peirce stepped back into the bedroom. His canvas pants were worn but clean, his t-shirt tight across his chest. He ignored her as he put on his belt, cuff, comm and gloves. The knife was slipped into a boot sheath. The jewellery tucked into one of the many pant pockets. He took a slim armoured vest from one of the hooks in the closet and strapped it on, wincing just a little as he pulled on his shoulder. His jacket covered the vest but allowed access to the gun he strapped at the small of his back.
It wasn’t until he was at the doorway to the main room that he paused and said, “I’m not afraid to face him.”
“I know you aren’t,” Emmaline promised as she scrambled from the bed and followed him.
He was pulling on his lighter boots by the front door.
“But he’s such a hateful man…how do you know he hasn’t set a trap for you?”
Peirce’s expression was one of amusement. “Douglass has been monitoring all his communications since we got back to Monterrey. Your father’s taken special care to avoid anyone who could let Stone know what’s actually going on.”
“So they aren’t working together?”
“At this point I’d have to say no. Your father lost his only bargaining chip. He’s desperate.” His eyes darkened and she realised he was giving a slow perusal of her legs, bare since she was wearing one of his shirts. “It’s easier to tell what men want when they’re desperate.”
He turned away from her, started to open the door.
It must have been split-second insanity, because she was across the room and had her face pressed against his chest a moment later, stretched up as high as she could on her tiptoes so she could lock her arms aroun
d his neck. “Please be careful,” she whispered, strangely emotional from watching him gear up and leave.
One of his large hands spanned her shoulder blades and she felt his awkward patting turn into slow circles on her back. Then he was holding her close, almost tenderly.
“I’ll be okay,” he told her quietly, calmly. “I’ll be back this afternoon. Go play in the garage. Just don’t use the torch.”
She still didn’t let him go.
He pulled back from her, his hands cradling her face, making her feel even tinier than she was. “Emma, trust me. I’ll be safe.”
The door closed behind him, locks clicking into place with unnerving finality.
He’d called her Emma. Not Miss Gregson.
Emma.
Peirce knew he would strongly dislike Arthur Gregson. He’d known that from the few times they’d met to discuss the contract, from the rare interactions at the Gregson estate, the attempted assassination and, more recently, from the comm call when the man had shown his true colours. But seeing the louse in person was different.
Worse.
Peirce clenched his fist under the table, refusing to let his face show any obvious sign of his disgust.
“You can’t do this to me,” Gregson sputtered for the third time.
“You broke the contract,” Peirce said calmly, more than aware of the lack of personal guards.
If he came to this meeting unprotected, Gregson must have been haemorrhaging money. Peirce knew he hadn’t come unprotected out of trust.
“I didn’t realise that hiring additional security would render our agreement null and void!”
“How about hiring those mercs to kill me and my men before you had to pay us the full amount?”
Gregson’s mouth dropped open. When he recovered enough, he pleaded his innocence. When he realised Peirce wasn’t buying it, he grew agitated.
Peirce sighed. The man was stuck on defending himself, even if all he was doing was repeating blatant lies over and over. At least he hadn’t asked about Emma.
Peirce didn’t want to have to shoot Gregson this early in the game. Better to leave that to Richard Stone. That way the loose ends would be tied up and Emma’s hands wouldn’t be dirty.
“You can’t blame me for trying to protect that little bitch! She was my way out!”
Gregson swallowed at the look on Peirce’s face, belatedly realising his mistake.
“Listen closely,” Peirce said, tone soft and dangerous. “You will not look for Emmaline. You will not hire anyone to find her, nor will you place any security flags on her for the rest of your miserable life.”
“She’s my daughter,” Gregson snarled, vein pulsating. “I can do whatever I damn well please with her. You aren’t a Lawman anymore.”
“True. But I have friends who are still in the service. They tend to frown on human trafficking, Mr. Gregson.” Peirce smiled, knowing it was more a baring of the teeth. “Come to think of it, I don’t think highly of men who engage in such activities.”
“You’re nothing but a goddamn merc! You aren’t paid to think!”
Gregson was trembling. Peirce knew it wasn’t from anger—the man was scared shitless—but he had nothing to lose from a confrontation with Peirce. Richard Stone was the real threat and Gregson knew it. This was just transference.
That didn’t mean that Peirce couldn’t add to Gregson’s stress level. In a smooth motion, he removed the gun from the holster at the small of his back and pressed it gently against Gregson’s temple.
“Speaking of thinking,” Peirce said as he leaned in, pressing the barrel harder to the flesh, “you are no longer permitted to even think about Emmaline.”
He leaned back as shock set in on the man’s face. “If you do, I will make it my personal mission to find you and introduce you to some of the persuasive techniques I learned in the wars.”
Peirce got up from the small table in the pub and turned to leave, holstering his weapon. Gregson didn’t have the balls to try to attack him.
“Don’t you know who I am? You can’t threaten me!” Gregson protested.
Peirce looked over his shoulder and smiled at the man, mind already wandering to all the wonderful things he could do to make Gregson swallow his holier-than-thou, aristocratic bullshit. “I don’t make threats. Only promises.”
He was leaving as Gregson screamed after him, “I’ll kill you for this, Taggart! I’ll hunt you down!”
And Douglass said negotiations were never fun, Peirce thought to himself.
He was a few blocks away when his cuff lit up. He pressed the comm in his ear, adrenaline levelling out at the familiar crackle.
“Boss?”
“What, Kai?”
Quietly, “Found a fence. Where do you want the credits sent?”
“Can you avoid a transfer?”
The comm went quiet for a moment and Peirce knew Kai was there negotiating with the buyer. A quick burst of static and Kai reported, “Yeah.”
“Drop them by my apartment later tonight.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
Another thing off his list. With credits and no father on her back, Emma would be able to start that new life of hers soon. Which was good because all he could think about was watching her face as she rode him into oblivion.
“Dammit all to hell,” Peirce growled under his breath.
The walk back to his apartment should have cleared his head. Instead, his mind was twisting on itself, obsessing over the tiny details of Emmaline’s face, her body, her voice. He was losing it.
Too many years fighting in the wars. Too many missions behind enemy lines, leading the assaults, being knee-deep in shit that stank to high heaven. Too many years trying to repent for Callie’s loss. Too long spent hiding from the fact that he was getting old and sentimental and that he had no life waiting for him outside his work. His bloody, fucked-up work.
He’d never wash his hands of it all.
The elevator dinged open. The hallway was quiet as ever, but there was a strange scent in the air. He sniffed, memories stirring deep below the surface. It was coming from his apartment.
The moment the door opened, the past surged up and sucker punched him.
Callie and he sitting at the kitchen table while their mother served dinner. Another blue-blood meal, the kind that resulted in leftovers his friends would mock him for. But it didn’t matter because she was there and his broke-as-sin, welder father was smiling like his face would split open and Callie was giggling and he was so happy even though they all knew his mother would leave again after they’d finished eating—
Douglass waved to him from the couch. “Welcome home, sir. Kai suggested I come over until you got back.”
He didn’t add the obvious reason why: in case Gregson sent someone to the apartment.
“Miss Gregson asked for some things,” Douglass continued.
Peirce couldn’t respond. He was transfixed by the sight in his kitchen.
Emma was there, wearing one of the dresses he had bought her, and that silver and blue corset pushing her breasts up to there, her hair up and her face flushed in excitement as she set the small table. She looked up and their eyes met and he couldn’t breathe.
His mother in her pale blue walking dress, a delicate confection of a hat perched atop her head, handkerchief in her hand, tears in her eyes. She wasn’t coming back. Couldn’t. A kiss for Callie, a pat on his head, a tearful shake of her head at his father who was still pleading with her. Who was falling to his knees and begging. She was walking out the door—
“Get the fuck out,” he ordered to Douglass.
The man was a good soldier. The only noise in the silent apartment was the sound of the door closing behind him.
“Hi,” Emmaline said, hands wringing nervously. “I wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done and lunch seemed like a good idea—”
Emmaline gestured at the spread, but stopped when she saw the way his lip had curled in revulsion. And the look he was g
iving her...
Dread blossomed in the pit of her stomach.
“Um...” She picked up a premade plate, one she’d carefully arranged for him.
He was still watching her and she didn’t like the distance in his eyes.
“My mother taught me to make this,” she continued with false bravado. “It’s a traditional dish.”
“I know.”
Gods, his tone was cold.
“You do?”
That definitely wasn’t a smile. It probably couldn’t even be classified as a smirk. A smirk at least had humour behind it.
“My mother used to make it for us.”
“She knew the recipe too?”
“Of course. Every blue-blood knows it.”
Even if she’d wanted to, she couldn’t have moved. His words and tone were brutal, but he hadn’t been looking at her when he’d said them and if they didn’t refer to her... His hatred of the upper-class suddenly made sense. His mother must have been one of them—
“Don’t.”
She wasn’t sure what he meant by that. “Don’t?”
“You don’t need to know about her. It’s none of your damn business.”
This wasn’t what she’d planned for the afternoon. All she could manage was to ask, “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.”
He was lying.
“You hate her.”
His fists clenched. When he saw her looking at them, he crossed his arms over his chest, hiding his hands. “I don’t care about her.”
Either this was the bravest thing she’d ever done, or the stupidest. Seeing him standing there with so much raw pain in his eyes, even though he was trying to hide it, pain put there unintentionally from her actions. It forced her hand. She took a small step toward him, holding onto the plate like it was a talisman.
“Don’t lie to me, Peirce.”
The muscle in his jaw was ticking. “I’m not talking about this.”
Another tentative step. “I don’t know what she did to you, but whatever it was, it helped you become who you are today.”
A sharp laugh. “A bastard merc who’s willing to take on any job as long as it’s good pay?” His eyes flicked to hers. “Even if it means selling someone into the sex trade?”