Guts & Glory: Mercy (In the Shadows Security Book 1)

by Jeanne St. James

  He needed to shower, get the face paint off, wash the sweat from his balls. Forget the beautiful face with the striking sky-blue eyes he saw every time he closed his own.

  As he stepped into the upstairs bathroom, he hit the light and moved in front of the sink.

  After a few seconds, a few breaths...

  In. Out. In. Out.

  In...

  Out...

  He lifted his eyes and some of the shit he’d fought so hard to keep at bay unexpectedly pulled him back.

  Back...

  Way back to a day he was sweating his ass off in civvies. His team had to blend in with the environment, with the culture, so they never wore anything that identified who they were, why they were there. Because they weren’t. They didn’t exist. They had no recorded location. Very few people even knew what their mission was.

  They were ghosts moving through a foreign land pretending to be natives.

  He was in Afghanistan to retrieve a hostage. Supposedly a political figure who had been taken by force for information. Their mission was to overtake the captors and get the hostage out in one piece. Of course, all done quietly, without drawing attention to themselves.

  He had a Sig holstered at his waist and a knife tucked into his boot. The dishdasha he wore over his clothes kept his weapons concealed, but he hated wearing the long garment. The robe-like cover was supposed to keep men cooler in the desert heat, but it didn’t help when he wore his normal clothes underneath. And worse, he hated that it restricted access to his weapons.

  As they cautiously moved single file through the mud home, the interior was dark. He heard nothing, saw nothing. It was too quiet. Too easy.

  The whole operation didn’t feel right. His gut was in knots because something was off. He felt it. His fellow SO, Rendell, was tense as well. They had done this type of maneuver many times. Gone in, disabled the captors, rescued the hostage.

  For the most part, routine.

  That day would be different due to bad intel.

  The captors knew they were coming. The “hostage” was part of the ambush, not who they were told he would be. However, Mercy didn’t know that until afterward.

  The fake hostage attacked them from the front. Two others attacked them from behind.

  Even with Rendell having his back, they were quickly overpowered and went into hand-to-hand combat. Before he could free his weapons, his face had been slashed open by an unseen knife.

  He’d been blinded by the blood running into his eyes and was knocked forward to the ground, and as he scrambled to draw his gun, was stabbed multiple times in the back. During the struggle to stop the man from killing him, his Sig dropped onto the dirt.

  His partner shot Mercy’s attacker, but only ended up wounding him. Luckily, the shot made the enemy drop his knife. Mercy crawled through the dirt searching for either his weapon or the knife. He came across the knife first. After wiping some of the blood from his face, he could only see out of his left eye but found his attacker writhing on the ground with a single gunshot wound to his gut.

  After quickly dispatching him, Mercy crawled along the dirt passageway to find the so-called “hostage” who had shot Rendell, killing him instantly. Once he did, Mercy dug deep to take him down and out. Whether Mercy lived or died that day, he was going to make sure none of their attackers survived.

  Once all threats were disabled, he had crawled to a hiding spot, keeping a wall at his back. He somehow staunched some of his bleeding back wounds with cloth torn from his attacker’s shirt. Then he’d dug out the tiny sewing kit he kept in the pack on his belt so he could sew his own face closed. But without being able to actually see the damage, he could only do his best to close the skin flaps temporarily.

  The time between making the last stitch through his own flesh and waking up in the hospital at Bagram Airfield was nothing but a blur.

  Finally, the blur cleared, and he saw his own face in that mirror. Still covered with camo face paint. Still scarred.

  He should have trusted his gut that day. He thought he learned a lesson from an encounter that changed the rest of his life.

  Now he normally trusted his gut instinct. Except he’d slipped again. He didn’t listen when it was screaming at him.

  He never should’ve touched Rissa. He knew better. He fucked up and now he was paying the price.

  He had rules in place for a reason. And he’d broken not just one...

  But one that made him feel something. Something he didn’t want to recognize and had avoided for a very long time. A couple decades, at least.

  It was the fault of the man behind the face paint, staring at himself in a bathroom mirror outside of Shadow Valley. A man who should’ve known better.

  He learned a long time ago to follow his gut. It had kept him alive on more than one occasion. He ignored it that day in Afghanistan. And once again when he fucked Rissa on the counter in Nash’s kitchen. Continually ignoring it put him in a position he currently didn’t want to be in.

  One where he might have to fight for his life all over again...

  “You stupid motherfucker,” he snarled at the man in the mirror.

  And just like when he couldn’t stop his reaction when he punched that asshole yesterday, he couldn’t stop his fist as it shot forward and met the mirror. His nostrils flared as he pulled his hand back and studied the blood welling on his knuckles. Looking up again, he noticed the glass had spidered out from the point of impact. He studied his splintered reflection.

  Now he couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t when it came to the lines across his face.

  What a motherfucking mess he made.

  Parris pounded on the door again. He had to be home. She saw a glow from the kitchen through the narrow pane of glass that ran alongside the front door. She hadn’t left any lights on when Diesel escorted her out of the house with her bags earlier.

  Mercy had to have returned after she’d left.

  Did he do it on purpose? Time it just right so he could avoid her? If so, it wouldn’t surprise her.

  He was not the kind of man to say goodbyes. He probably liked clean breaks. Quick. Painless. Emotionless.

  Because that was the kind of man he was. A simple handshake (if you’re lucky) and a hand on your shoulder, not to squeeze it reassuringly, but so he can shove you out the door.

  She shook her head and blew out a breath. What kind of fool was she to insist Diesel turn the car around and drop her back off?

  Surprisingly, the big man had listened. In fact, besides a low grunt, he had barked out a single laugh. Or what sounded sort of like a laugh. She couldn’t be sure.

  He might have even called her a “crazy bitch” under his breath.

  Well, fuck him. Maybe she was.

  No matter what, she was not leaving things the way they were. She didn’t care what Mercy’s boss thought. Hell, she didn’t care what Mercy thought. He was going to listen to her for once.

  Yes, he was, damn it.

  She pounded on the door one more time with the heel of her hand and was about to start shouting his name when, through that dirty window, she saw feet, then bare calves, knees, a towel, a bare chest, then a face wearing a stony expression.

  Great.

  The door flung open and, yep, he was only wearing a towel that clung to things that she’d seen without one. His hair and skin were damp, so it didn’t take a genius to figure out what he’d just finished doing.

  After letting her gaze rake him head to toe, she realized now was not the time to appreciate the delicious package standing before her almost naked. Stay focused! She went to push past him, but he stepped between the door and the frame, blocking her entry with his broad, impenetrable body. His silver eyes rose above her head as his gaze swept the driveway.

  If he was looking for his boss, the man was long gone. She made sure of it before she started knocking.

  “You gotta go to the airport.” No emotion colored those words. No anger. No surprise. No relief. Nothing.


  Parris waved a hand over her shoulder, indicating the obvious. “My ride left.”

  His frosty eyes narrowed as they met hers. “I’ll take you back.”

  “I needed to see you once more before I left.” The “once more” was a bit of a fib but she was taking baby steps. She didn’t want him shutting down and shutting her out before she even had a chance to talk to him.

  “Why?”

  That was a perfectly good question. Why indeed? Any woman in her right mind would have raced as if her heels had been on fire to board that private jet to go home. Back to her life. Back to normalcy.

  Any woman in her right mind wouldn’t want to deal with the type of man that stood blocking her way into his home.

  Blocking her way into his heart.

  But maybe she wasn’t in her right mind. Maybe the certified sex therapist needed a therapist of her own, because what freaking woman would want to spend time with a man like Mercy? A man who locked people out for fear they may get in.

  “Because I—”

  Because I care wasn’t going to cut it with him.

  Because I need to figure out what’s going on between the two of us wasn’t going to work, either.

  Because I can’t walk away from you, you big asshole.

  Because while you were fighting to shut me out, I foolishly didn’t do the same with you.

  Because everyone deserves to be loved. You deserve it, too, whether you realize it or not.

  Because...

  Because there are too many complex reasons why I ended back up on your doorstep. And every single one of them will freak you out.

  Every single one of them will remind you how human you really are.

  Every single one of them has the potential to make you vulnerable to feeling hurt, anger, fear and maybe even...

  Love.

  “What you want, Rissa, I don’t have it to fucking give to you. It’s better for this to end with you only being disappointed rather than being hurt and hating me in the end.”

  “I could never hate you.”

  “You can’t guarantee that.”

  “No,” she answered softly. “There’s no guarantee of anything in life. You could end up hating me, instead.”

  He repeated her words back to her. “I could never hate you.”

  “You can’t guarantee that,” she echoed back.

  Something moved behind his gray eyes. She saw it. She was sure of it. A flicker. Something. It gave her some hope.

  “This isn’t meant to be, Rissa.”

  “You don’t know that if you aren’t even willing to try.” She tried desperately to keep the whine from her voice. She really wanted to stomp her foot, too, in frustration.

  “You’re right, I’m not. Because of that, I need to take you to the airport and you need to go home.”

  She wasn’t giving up that easily. She wasn’t. Everything she’d reached for in life, she’d achieved. It might have taken hard work, determination, a few knockdowns and a whole bunch of tears, but those struggles only made reaching those achievements even more worthwhile.

  She stepped forward and let her fingers trace the chain that held his dog tags from the curve of his neck down. When she reached the metal tags, she lifted them and read, “Mercer, Ryan C.,” before gripping them tightly in her palm. “While these identify you, they do not define you.” She gently placed them back on his chest, which was rising and falling a little quicker now, though his face still showed nothing. She lifted her hand to his forehead and starting at the top, traced his scar slowly, while whispering, “While this identifies your journey, it does not define your future.”

  She started when he snagged her wrist tightly and jerked her inside the door, slamming it shut behind her and pinning her against it.

  Before she could catch her breath, his mouth was over hers, stealing her gasp from her. He kissed her like it was the last time.

  Because for him, it probably was.

  His fingers dug painfully into her hair, holding her head still as he plundered her mouth and pressed himself against her, trapping her against the door.

  She encouraged him to continue taking what he wanted by pressing her palms against his bare chest. His heartbeat thumped strong and rapidly under her hand.

  He wanted to show the world nothing affected him. But it was a false front.

  She affected him.

  He ripped his lips from hers. “You came back here to fuck one more time? Then you’re going to get fucked.”

  He wanted to believe the reason she returned was only about sex. It was more than that. So much more.

  But if he needed to tell himself that was the only reason she returned, then fine, she’d let him believe it. At least it got her in the door.

  She caught his gaze as she reached for the knot on his towel, but he stopped her again with strong fingers circling her wrist. He tugged her away from the door and pointed up the steps. “Upstairs. Now.”

  She reached for his hand when she noticed his knuckles had shallow slices and some deeper cuts on them. He’d been injured somehow dealing with Nicco? “Ryan...”

  He jerked his hand away and repeated, “Upstairs. Now. You’re going to get what you came here for.”

  No, she probably wasn’t. But if he wanted to play that game? Fine.

  As she started up the steps, she threw over her shoulder, “By the time you reach the top, that towel better be gone,” then she jogged (okay, that might’ve been a bit of an exaggeration) up the rest of the way.

  He wasn’t his normal stealth self as he followed her up. She started to move faster as she heard his heavy steps quicken.

  By the time she hit his bedroom door, he was on her, pushing her inside, pulling off her glasses and tossing them onto the nearby dresser, yanking her blouse over her head, unclipping her bra and letting it fall to the floor between them.

  His mouth found her aching nipple and he sucked it roughly as he wrapped his arms around her to unbutton and slide down the zipper at the back of her skirt. He switched nipples, scraping his teeth over the hard tip as the skirt dropped to her feet.

  She mourned his mouth when he released her to shove her panties down to her ankles. He dropped to his knees and lifted one foot, then the other out of the pile of clothing at her feet as he nuzzled her mound with his nose. His hot breath against her sensitive skin there made her shudder.

  His long fingers curled around her ankles and then moved lower to slip her heels from her. When he pushed to his feet, she once again mourned his mouth.

  Now she was as naked as him. Though, honestly, he was much more magnificent with his broad shoulders, his veiny, bulging muscles, his narrow hips, his thick cock jutting out from between even thicker thighs.

  She had experienced the power behind those impressive thighs. She couldn’t wait to feel it again.

  “On the bed. Back against the headboard. Knees cocked and open. Want to see how wet you are.”

  Those rough demands made her even wetter, so it wasn’t going to be difficult for him to see how he affected her.

  She didn’t hesitate to do what he instructed. Heat swirled through her and landed in her core in anticipation of what was about to come.

  Which was her.

  And him.

  But she would be first, she thought, as she watched him prowl toward the bed, his expressions, his emotions still restrained as he pinned her to the headboard with his silver-gray eyes.

  No matter how much he hid his thoughts, he still made her always feel beautiful when she was naked and exposed to him. She had no desire to hide herself from him as she had with some other men she’d been with. He accepted her just the way she was.

  He was the most physically fit man she’d ever been with, but not once had he ever told her how she should eat, or exercise. Or tell her she had a pretty face, but if she lost a few pounds she’d be beautiful.

  He never once made her feel self-conscious of the way her belly rolled when she sat or the way her thig
hs jiggled, or how her breasts hung heavily. Because even though he hid a lot of things, he never hid the fact that he appreciated every curve of her body.

  So, when he climbed on the bed and moved between her legs, she didn’t hesitate to widen her thighs to make room for him, to open herself up like he demanded so he could see how eager he made her.

  His dark head dipped, and he settled into place, pushing her fingers out of the way so he could take charge. Right now, her pussy didn’t belong to her. It belonged to him. His actions proved that.

  His mouth on her was incredible. It amazed her that a man like him, who could be so shut off emotionally, could be so in tune with her body. He knew how to make her float, to make her fly, to make her want him so much it was almost painful.

  She wanted him.

  And she wanted more.

  He said he had nothing to give her.

  He was so wrong.

  He had plenty to give her. He just needed to see that, to open himself up to the possibilities. But again, he would never willingly do so because that would put him at risk.

  His tongue, his lips, his fingers touched her in ways that made her thoughts swirl away and warmth rush through her. This man was so intense with everything he did, including what he was doing to her at that very moment.

  That intensity also made her orgasms explosive. She’d never been with such a selfless lover, where her needs came first. Like everything else in his life, he considered sex as a mission to complete. And it would only be successful if she turned into a quivering pile of flesh and bones when it was over.

  She was okay with that. More than okay. Because that usually meant not one orgasm, but multiple. A few times it had gotten to the point where she thought about crying for mercy, and not his nickname, either.

  She tilted her head back against the headboard, closed her eyes and just let the sensations wash through her. She blindly reached for him, her fingers brushing against his bristly, military-style hair, then curling around the back of his head, finding purchase. Until her fingertips brushed against his stitches.

  She had almost forgotten about that wound. The one that could have killed him.