by Christa Wick
Her Heart
Collin & Mia (Savage Hope Duet, Book 2)
C.M Wick
Christa Wick
Copyright © 2019 by Christa Wick
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, this book and any portion thereof may not be reproduced, scanned, reverse-engineered, decompiled, transferred, or distributed in any print or electronic form without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Participation in any aspect of piracy of copyrighted materials, inclusive of the downloading and obtainment of this book through non-retail or other unauthorized means, is in actionable violation of the author’s rights.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, media, brands, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and registered trademark owners of all branded names referenced without TM, SM, or (R) symbols due to formatting constraints, and is not claiming ownership of or collaboration with said trademark brands. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.
Published by Evergreen Books Publishing
Copy edits and line edits by GBI Author Services
Proofreading by Rosa Sharon
Cover design by Violet Duke
Previously published as Smoke & Curves, 2 & 3 by Christa Wick (c) 2013.
Contents
Book Description
1. Collin
2. Mia
3. Mia
4. Collin
5. Mia
6. Collin
7. Mia
8. Mia
9. Mia
10. Collin
11. Mia
12. Collin
13. Mia
14. Mia
15. Mia
16. Collin
17. Mia
18. Mia
19. Collin
Epilogue
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Also by C.M Wick
About the Author
Book Description
* Book 2 of 2 in the Savage Hope Duet *
I refuse to break. I can’t say that I’ve been through worse, but I still believe I’ll survive this. I’m not going to crumble at the seams. If I do, Collin’s enemies will have won. And everything we’ve both lost would have been for nothing.
I know it seems crazy to return to my old life and try to get a fresh start in a place with more bad memories than good, courtesy of my crook of a stepfather. But it’s all I have. And all I need. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
...Until Collin bursts back into my life.
* * * * *
I refuse to let Mia suffer. I may know jack about healing—vengeance seems to be all I’m capable of right now—but that doesn’t mean I can’t protect her from more pain. God knows my world has caused her enough of that to last a lifetime.
I understand her need to start a new life. Hell, I even want that for her...even though I’m sure it’ll end up killing me and decimating my hopeless heart for good. But I’ll do anything for her. Even this. At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
...Until I almost lose her all over again.
* * * * *
NOTE: While this is the Collin Stark (CEO of Stark International) mentioned throughout the Savage Trust series, the events of his story actually take place prior to Wrecked, Scarred, and Frayed. Be advised that Collin and Mia’s story is a two-part 80K word duet. This is Book 2. Book 1 takes place six months before the start of this book, and as such, the books need to be read in order.
The Savage Hope Duet
His Trust (Book 1)
Her Heart (Book 2)
Previously published as Smoke & Curves, Books 2 & 3 (c) 2013, and previously part of the Undeniably His bundled collection (c) 2013, revised throughout with freshly added content, changed/different story scenes, and a new extended ending.
1
Collin
(Prologue)
Six Weeks After the Bombing
Undisclosed Location Overseas
Standing silently in a darkened hall, I listened to the clink of ice cubes in crystal glasses from inside the room I was shadowing just as a BBC newscaster on the TV mentioned my name.
I didn’t even have to glance inside the door to know what the men were watching in there. The coverage playing in the outer suite was of a Congressional hearing half a world away, where my Chief Operating Officer, Trent Kane, was calmly assuring the Armed Services Committee that I was alive and recovering from my injuries.
Unsurprisingly, neither Trent nor the Congressman grilling him made any mention whatsoever of the trail of dead bodies that now stretched from Dubai up to the Gulf of Aqaba. Technically, there was nothing connecting one body to the next. The Middle East was full of dead bad men. What was another twenty or so, even if one was a prince?
"‘Recovering.’ Bullshit," spat one of the men in the living room as the broadcast was switched off. Russian, definitely. His voice was heavily accented in the same thick pattern as one of my most trusted employees. And just like Mikhael, the man scoffing at the TV didn’t mince words. “They are lying about his current location. I've seen the rotting corpses to prove it."
The burly Russian’s drinking companion slammed his glass down and growled, "One of those bodies was my brother.”
Hearing Crown Prince Al-Qadir speak, I inevitably flashed back to my encounter with Prince Al-Alem in the mountains east of Magna.
The man’s death was quicker than he deserved.
And not even remotely satisfying.
I’d thought hunting down these men would make me feel something—anything. Not that I looking for closure or healing, but still. It had been weeks since I’d felt anything other than quiet, unadulterated fury. Seemed no amount of vengeance could change that.
Today would likely be no different. But then again, maybe it would be. Because this would be the last one.
For now, at least.
I listened for clues indicating exactly how many men had accompanied Al-Qadir back to his suite. The guards had been ordered out into the hall and stairwells earlier. Far as I could tell, that just left the Russian, the Crown Prince, and the restless shuffling of a third body.
It was a woman, judging by the daintier sound of her movements in comparison to the other two. She spoke not one word throughout, which made me think she was there specifically to be seen and not heard.
She could be a problem. I wasn’t there for her so I wouldn’t touch her, of course. And unlike the men, she would likely scream and end up alerting the guards outside when she saw me.
That didn’t leave me a lot of time.
Beginning a mental timer, I quickly slipped into the suite's adjacent master bedroom and turned on the television, pushing the volume up as high as it could go. Removing the batteries, I tossed the device onto the bed then molded my body behind the door.
It took half a minute before Qadir burst into the room. He did a swift visual sweep for an intruder before going for the remote. I slid in behind him as he jabbed at the useless buttons. Wasting no time, I pulled out my knife and buried it between his third and fourth cervical vertebrae.
His bladder emptied as soon as my knife bottomed out, as did his bowels.
Then I proceeded to watch the Crown Prince shit himself as his body folded into an inelegant, soiled heap on the carpeted floor. His lips moved though nothing but gurgled noises resulted as he stretched and strained to try to identify his assailant.
Assisting him in this particular task
—I definitely wanted him to know who I was—I leaned in to make sure he saw my face clearly before heading back to the TV to yank the power cord from the wall.
Qadir’s Russian friend came at me as soon as I got back out to the hall.
His face was familiar from the conference but I didn't have a name to go with it. Swearing in his native tongue, the man lunged. I sidestepped, brought the blade of my knife up and buried it in his larynx.
My attack was precise—meant to wound, not kill him. Yet.
His hands closed around the gaping gash, his ice gray eyes staring at me with dread, no doubt expecting me to finish it.
In due time.
I dipped into my pocket and pulled out a toy I had taken from Al-Alem's desert tent. In effect, it wasn’t very different from those red laser pointers speakers used during presentations or cat owners entertained their pets with. Only, ten times stronger, at least.
Aiming the laser at his face, I flashed it once in each eye and held just long enough to make his lips contort with a scream he could no longer voice.
Bending over his body, I spoke quietly in the dying man's ear.
"Wait for me."
Moving into the suite's living room next, I stilled myself for the possibility that I would encounter the woman.
Instead, I found none other than Omari himself doubled over the small sink at the bar puking his brains out, which was ironic, seeing as how he was a gutless bastard.
Hearing my approach, he straightened and tried to shuffle his way toward the door. Hands up in surrender, steps unsteady, he turned to face me fully. "Forgive me, my bro—"
My fist connected with his face.
I caught him before he could crumple to the floor completely. We weren’t anywhere near done yet.
Wrapping an arm around his throat, I placed him in a chokehold and closed off his windpipe until he went limp. A second later, I made use of the zip ties I brought with me to bind his hands behind his back, then I used his own silk tie to gag him as I dragged him into the hallway where the Russian was still desperately clutching at his throat, his hands ineffective in keeping the remaining blood in his body from draining out of him.
Checking Al-Qadir in the bedroom, I ascertained that the Crown Prince had gone and died while I was dealing with these two.
Yet another whose death came way too swiftly to be at all fair.
I returned to the hall and kicked the Russian's hands away from his throat then pulled Omari upright and shook him until he regained consciousness.
As soon as my old acquaintance’s brown eyes opened, I twisted his head so he could see first the dying Russian and then the corpse of his Qadir, his oldest brother.
He tried to plead with his eyes and mumble frantically into the gag. I couldn’t make out anything he was saying, but the muffled excuses stunk of desperation. Hand gestures came next and from the looks of it, he was motioning like this was all some big mistake in which he had played no part.
Shaking my head, I reached for my knife one last time.
After this, it would be done. I’d likely be in international airspace by morning, heading back home.
…Back to a life that was no longer worth shit now that everything that meant anything to me was gone.
It was the best for Mia this way.
With that sole thought giving me the only strength I had left, I proceeded to make the man’s heart bleed out. Slowly. Painfully.
Just like mine had.
2
Mia
Six Months After the Bombing
Merritt Island
I’d had a lot of time to think about the bombing over the past six months. Or rather, what happened in the hospital afterward.
From what I could gather, about eight hours after Collin had ordered Trent to get me out of the country, I’d been put on a medivac plane bound for the states.
Over the next weeks, I was treated well, medically. And fully healed within a month.
Physically, at least.
That was four months ago. I’ve since returned to work. Sort of. I was still a Stark International employee, though it was anyone’s guess what my actual job entailed.
Every day, I sat in this very cube in northern Florida, my salary more than doubled, driving a car the company paid for between work and the trendy townhouse apartment I lived in rent-free.
In effect, I had no real job responsibilities. More insulting, or hurtful, rather, was the fact that I zero contact with the man who had placed me there.
The man whose baby I’d lost.
For the first few weeks, I told myself over and over that I had misread that look in Collin's eyes as he stood outside the room and grappled with Trent. I lied my way to sleep each night thinking that what I had interpreted as hate and loathing were just worry, or even guilt over how I’d come to lose the baby, and almost my life as well.
I’d reasoned that the likely reason he couldn’t contact me was because he had dropped out of sight the day of the attempted assassination. Out of necessity. I’d watched all the press coverage Trent had been interrogated in. Everyone wanted to know where he was; no one knew or at least, no one was saying.
That stretched on for weeks. Day after day, I worried that there could have been another attempt on his life—one that wouldn’t have met the same result given that he didn’t have any of his usual security detail with him, wherever he was in the world.
Per his dictate, they were shadowing me.
For months, I watched their faces—Trent’s especially. He no longer spoke to me, and I didn’t expect that to change anytime soon. He’d hated me before all this happened; I could imagine his joy over having to babysit me all these months.
Though Trent’s poker face was way too good for me to ascertain anything, I figured I could at least count on being able to read Reed’s expressions. If Collin was hurt, or worse, he wouldn’t be able to hide it from me.
Again, that’s what I kept telling myself, at least.
Eventually, I realized all my efforts and worries weren’t just wasted, but completely unrealistic. The truth was slow to sink in, mostly because I didn’t want to see it.
When I did finally see it, it came in the form of online photos of Collin. Or Mr. Stark, rather. Which was clearly what he was to me now.
I began with a search through the news archives a few days ago, finding photos of all the women in Collin's life before me. Each one had been far slimmer than I was, far more fitting on his arm in all the press and paparazzi photos.
It occurred to me then that I’d never once been photographed with him like that. With him posing for the camera with me at his side. Though that stung a bit, that wasn’t the big revelation. After studying photo after photo, and the timestamps of each, I figured out what I should’ve long before. What I should’ve done the math on before I’d spent four months in this ‘job’ that consisted of money without meaning.
All those women had been temporary.
Every last one.
It didn’t matter how beautiful or perfect she was, Collin never spent very long with any of them. I tracked the photos and timestamps back years before I stopped.
Still, I’d held onto one tiny bit of hope. It was clear the man cared for me—my life over the past four months was evidence of that. Sure, he’d probably do the same for any of his past women if they’d ended up losing his baby and almost dying in a bomb intended for him.
But I chose to believe there was something more between us.
Because on my part, for certain, there was.
"Deep in thought?"
I looked up from my computer monitor to find Reed Henley, my manager of sorts, watching me over the top of my cubicle wall.
It took me a bit to realize I’d been lost in thought for well over an hour. And of course, my little mental departure had absolutely zero impact on my work day.
Seriously, this job was just the worst.
Reed could have found me playing Minesweeper or shopping on eBay and it w
ouldn't have made a difference. He knew just like I did that I had no real duties at the South Florida data farm Trent Kane had dumped me at after my return from Dubai.
It became apparent very soon after I got all set up at my desk that I wasn't here to overexert myself—or exert myself at all.
Since I’d never been one to just coast through life, I’d begun creating my own duties over the past few months. I was, after all, now a data analytics specialist—the type of job I had studied for in my master's program.
So, every day I looked for something to analyze of interest to Stark International. I did good work, too. Soon, I began dumping one unsolicited report after another on Reed's desk, each study more voluminous than its predecessor.
I was almost entirely sure they all went unread.
Another thing I’d discovered during my deep dive into Collin’s life before me? More about Reed Henley and Trent Kane as well. There were pictures in Reed’s office of him as a much younger man with Collin Stark and Trent Kane, the three of them in Army combat gear. Collin had never mentioned that the two men had been his friends before he’d started his corporation. But then again, Collin had never brought up much about his past life during our time together.
