Second-in-Command (Men of Hidden Justice 2)

I sighed and let my head fall back.

Just thirty minutes.

A sound woke me, and I snapped awake, sitting upright quickly.

I stared at the woman sitting on my bed. Her honey-red hair tumbled to her shoulders in a chaotic mess. Her green eyes were light and intense, her gaze fixed on me intently.

And the kicker?

My own gun pointed directly at my chest.

Well, well. Things just got interesting.

Chapter Three

Marcus

I lifted my hands in supplication, noting the determined look on the woman’s face. Her hand trembled slightly, but she was focused.

“Put down the gun, sweetheart.”

She swallowed, the motion bringing my eyes to her throat. It was dark and ringed with marks from a rope and other bruises. She had to be in pain. I was certain she felt a great deal of discomfort all over her body.

“Who-who are you?” she demanded, her voice barely a whisper.

“Marcus,” I said simply.

“Where-where am I?”

I angled my head, smiling, hoping to distract her. “At the moment, you’re in my bed in my apartment.”

She frowned, her gaze flitting around the room, the quiver in her hand becoming more pronounced. She was already tiring.

“Are you the man they were saving me for?”

“What? No. We—my team and I—rescued everyone. I found you in the cage behind the wall. Remember?”

She furrowed her brow, still confused.

“Put down the gun,” I repeated. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Where am I?” she asked again. “What city?”

I frowned. “Toronto.”

She was so startled by my answer, she lost focus. The gun dipped slightly, and she gaped at me.

“Canada?”

I took advantage of her shock and began to rise from the chair. She recovered fast, pointing the gun back at me, but now using two hands to hold it. “Stop. I’ll use it,” she threatened.

Jesus, she was strong. Determined. But she was waning, far too exhausted and weak to be expelling the energy this little standoff was costing her.

“You can’t,” I said.

“I assure you I can,” she replied.

I bit back my smile. “Well, you can try, but it’s not loaded, sweetheart. It won’t do you much good.”

Her focus shifted for one instant, her gaze drifting to the gun in her hands. That was all I needed. I was out of the chair and had the gun back in seconds.

I smirked at her.

“Or maybe it would have.”

Melissa

The bastard had the nerve to smirk at me as he flipped open the chamber of the gun, showing me it was, indeed, loaded. Then he slid it back into the drawer and touched something. I heard the sound of a lock engaging, and I knew I had blown my best chance at escape.

I’d known it was loaded from the weight of it in my hand. My head was so messed up, his simple statement caused me to question my own judgment.

And now I would suffer for it.

I waited, wondering what new level of hell I was about to enter. I was shocked when the man who called himself Marcus sat back down and crossed his legs.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” he inquired, not at all concerned about the fact that I had pulled a gun on him.

I didn’t respond, unable to wrap my head around what was happening.

“Do you need more pain pills? I would rather you ate something if you could first.”

“I don’t understand,” I managed to get out, my throat sore, my voice raspy.

“I’m not surprised. You’ve been through a lot of shit, I think.” He leaned forward, handing me a glass. “Have some juice. It’ll make your throat feel better.”

I eyed it with suspicion. He took a sip, then offered it to me. “Nothing’s been added.”

I accepted the glass and drank it. The dark liquid was sweet and tart and tasted like heaven. Even only semi-cool, it felt good on my throat. I drained the glass, disappointed when it was empty.

“Cran-grape,” he informed me. “My favorite. I’ll get you more.”

I fingered the soft sheets, looking around the room.

“How did I get here?”

“You don’t remember?”

I frowned as I struggled to recall much of the past while. Flashes, images, the feeling of pain drifted through my brain. The sensation of being held, a low, rich voice telling me I was safe. Feeling something around me I disliked. Struggling. Then the awareness of warmth, security, and relief. Of being saved. Memories of intense, dark eyes that watched and strong arms that cradled joined other fractured memories in my head.

“You were there.”

He grimaced. “I was.”

Tremors began in my feet, moving up through my body. “You took me out of that—” the juice I had just drunk threatened to come back up, and I swallowed repeatedly “—that cage.”

“Yes.”

My voice became thick, and the image of him in front of me became blurry and distorted. “You held me.”

Suddenly, I was in his arms again. He sat on the edge of the bed, gently tugging me to his chest. “You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re safe now, and we’re going to figure everything out.”