Morning Star (Broken Mercenaries Book 3)

by S. Massery

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  He glances back at me. “You shot her and you think that’s okay? You’re one fucked-up dude, my friend.”

  “She shot back,” I mutter. I fail to mention that it was after I’d already injured her. I also fail to mention that she was shaking so bad, there was no hope of her hitting me.

  “You two are a mess,” Colin says. “Honestly. What’s the game plan, here?”

  “Do you ask all of your Safe Haven people that?”

  “Yes,” he snaps. “I encourage everyone to have a plan, whether it be figuring out where they want to go next or how to end their fear.”

  I heave a sigh, and Colin turns back to Grace. All of the negative energy I expelled on the shooting range comes roaring back, and I stalk down the stairs. I grab my rifle and leave the house, heading back to his office. At least it’s quiet.

  I set up my rifle on his desk, moving papers and shit to the floor. He keeps cleaning products in a side cabinet—with a combination lock on it, of course. After a quick second of fiddling with it, the lock clicks. I’ll say this: it pays to know your friend’s late wife’s birthday.

  I get through my firearm and two of Colin’s handguns before someone finds me.

  A bell dings. The front door opens, and a small voice calls out, “Hello?”

  I stand, sliding a cartridge in the chamber of Colin’s pistol and tucking it into the back of my pants. Closing the office door behind me, I walk into the main area to find a woman and a child hovering near the door.

  “Are you Colin?” she asks, pushing the boy behind her.

  “I’m not,” I say. Something in me automatically makes me talk in a softer voice. “Are you in trouble?”

  “We were told to come here,” she says.

  I take a closer look at her: clothes two sizes too big, a fading bruise on her cheek.

  “I’m sorry. I think we’re in the wrong—”

  “You’re not,” I say. “Colin is up the hill. Let me give him a call, and he’ll come down and help you.”

  She nods, and the boy peeks out from behind her. He couldn’t be more than four years old. “Are you hungry?”

  I lead them toward the small kitchen around the corner, pulling out my cell phone. I shoot Colin a quick text, then turn my attention back to the visitors.

  I’ve never, in my life, dealt with children.

  “Uh, we have…” I open the fridge door, shooting them a quick glance. “Juice?” I wave a juice box in my hand.

  The kid’s eyes fucking light up. He bounds forward, skidding to a stop just out of my reach, then looks back at his mother.

  “It’s okay,” she says.

  He practically leaps the rest of the way toward me, tearing the juice from my grasp. He grins at me like a fool before he rushes back to his mother.

  “Thank you,” she murmurs. “Right, Antoni?”

  “Thanks,” he repeats.

  It’s painful to watch him try to open the thing, and my face is like a corkscrew by the time he shoves the straw through the foil-covered hole.

  Colin comes in, and I swear to God the whole atmosphere lightens.

  “Hey there,” he says. “Welcome to Safe Haven.”

  I edge out of the room. Colin approaches the woman and her son. The last thing I see is his hand on her shoulder.

  Grace sits in Colin’s chair in his office. She’s pale, and she wears a zip-up sweatshirt that must belong to Colin. She frowns when she sees me. “You’re a real ass, you know?”

  I sigh, sinking down into the chair opposite her. “Yeah, you’re definitely not the first person to tell me that.”

  She scowls.

  “What? You think I don’t know I’m a dick?” I lean back, putting my hands behind my head. “I am. Grade A, top of the class, biggest douchebag you’ll find. I don’t give a shit about anyone or anything—”

  “Except me,” she says.

  I flinch. “I do not.”

  “Then why rescue me from Marco?” She puts rescue in air quotes. “You did more harm than good, by the way. My dad only ever called you the devil—said anything could’ve happened to me on the back of your bike.”

  I scoff. “I care about my friends, too. But with you, I felt compelled to…” Ugh, feelings. “Save you. They were going to ship you off.”

  “Except you don’t know that. You don’t think I could’ve got myself out of trouble?”

  “I walked into the hallway, and he had his hand wrapped around your throat,” I growl. “Excuse me if I didn’t quite believe in your capabilities in that moment.”

  She shakes her head. “Yeah, but then it wasn’t enough to just bring me home—you had to drag me up to Javier’s office—”

  “He was the one who hired me,” I say. “And I was very clear—I’m fine with illegal shit, but don’t involve innocent girls. Guns? Drugs? Whatever, don’t fucking care. You drug girls and put them in a truck to ship them off to who knows where and ask me to protect you against people who would put a stop to that?” I take a deep breath. “I wanted to look him in the face and tell him I knew.”

  She leans forward, putting her elbows on the desk. “It won’t stop,” she says. “And now that you know? Now what?”

  I shrug. “I guess I’ll bring them down.”

  She nods, biting her lip. “Finally, we agree.”

  Something in my chest tightens. “We do?”

  “Surprising, isn’t it?”

  I drop my hands back into my lap. “I’m going to need you to give me a little more background,” I admit.

  “They like their women docile and silent. I’m… not that.” She leans back again. “I wanted to get a job. I wanted to not get married to a monster. I wanted…”

  “Don’t stop now,” I say.

  “Freedom.” She blinks at me. Her eyes are amber-gold, flecked with darker brown, and I’m surprised I haven’t noticed before now. “Happy?”

  I smirk. “Not by a long shot.”

  “I guess I should tell you…”

  Colin knocks on the door, pushing it open before either of us can respond. “Want the bad news or the good news?”

  She winces. “Bad news first.”

  “Isabella and Antoni are staying with us, which means I need all available bedrooms.” His eyebrow jumps.

  I start to groan before he even finishes.

  “Means you two cuties need to bunk together,” he finishes.

  Grace’s eyes widen. “Seriously?”

  “I only have two guest rooms,” Colin says. “What do you expect me to do? Ask someone to sleep on the couch?”

  I’m about to volunteer for that, but Colin glares at me. I close my mouth.

  “Great,” he says.

  “Now the good news,” Grace says.

  He grins. “We’re going to the shooting range.”

  She perks up, standing and sliding past Colin. He sends me a look.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he says. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile so much, is all.”

  “Oh, fuck off.” I’m definitely not softening toward Grace. Nope. So what if her smile is beautiful, and her eyes are enchanting, and her personality is getting to me?

  I’ve never been in love. I’ve never been in like, for that matter. And it ain’t gonna change now.

  Famous last fucking words.

  11

  GRACE

  Dalton and I watched Colin teach our new guests how to shoot. I tried one of the shotguns, but before I even pulled the trigger, I knew my shoulder and arm wouldn’t be able to take the pain. I was about to try it anyway, because part of me was desperate to feel how a larger gun would feel, when Dalton put his hand on my shoulder.

  He shook his head, and I set the damn thing back down. Being left-handed and getting injured in my left arm? Sucks.

  Now, we stand in his room—apparently it’s his room whenever he stays here, non-negotiable—and I’m kind of concerned about how we’re supposed to do
this. He keeps avoiding my gaze. It’s almost five o’clock, which seems impossible. We had arrived in the early morning, got settled, and I slept away most of the morning. Colin made lunch while Dalton was MIA—cleaning weapons, Colin had guessed—and then he got the call that we had some new visitors to Safe Haven.

  Colin had tossed me a sweatshirt and said, “This is my favorite part.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Changing people’s lives.”

  I couldn’t help but smile at that. We rode down on his four-wheeler, and he left me in his office so he could, as he put it, ‘do damage control.’ Then there was the talk with Dalton, which was surprisingly good. And after the shooting range, Dalton and I excused ourselves.

  So now we stand in his room, a bag of sliced bread and a knife in his hands, and a jar of peanut butter and jam in mine. Unceremoniously, we take a seat on the floor. We make our sandwiches in silence, but for once it isn’t awkward. It’s just… quiet.

  And nice.

  “You like me,” Dalton says.

  I raise my eyebrow. “Do I?”

  “Well, you don’t hate me. You can stand to sit in the same room as me, looking devious and pretty as hell.” He frowns, like he’s surprised at his own words.

  Hell, no one is more surprised than me.

  I open my mouth to answer, but I don’t even know what I would say. Yeah, you’re growing on me? He is, but hell, I don’t want him to know that.

  “Milk,” Dalton says suddenly.

  I jump. “What?”

  “We need milk. I’ll be right back.”

  He disappears, leaving the door open. I look down at my half-eaten sandwich.

  When I was younger, Mom and I used to ‘camp’ in the living room. It was always timed to be a distraction—Dad pointed that out to me after Mom left us. Thunderstorms or hurricanes, or when Dad was working late with Javier.

  Working late always meant he came back with bruised knuckles. Sometimes worse.

  Always stinking of whiskey or vodka, depending on how the night went. Vodka if it went well. Whiskey when it didn’t.

  Isabella comes up the stairs and pokes her head into the room. “Colin mentioned that you offered to change rooms,” she says in a quiet voice. “We appreciate it.”

  “We’ll be out of your hair soon, and Antoni can have his own room once we’re gone.” I hesitate. “Can I ask what happened? I know we’re not supposed to ask questions, so don’t feel like you have to answer.”

  Isabella gives me a small smile. “My husband was injured in a car accident. Because of that, he lost his job and got addicted to painkillers. They made him angry all the time.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “The abuse started as just verbal. It was a way to make him feel better. I wasn’t even surprised when he backhanded me one day. But then… after some time, he went after Antoni for breaking a water glass.”

  I wince. “I’m so sorry.”

  “He’s a police officer. I went to a shelter, but he pulled some strings and had them kick me out. A friend told me about this place… that it was not only run by an ex-Marine, but it was remote enough that Billy probably wouldn’t come after us.”

  Probably. I wonder that about Marco, too. If he’s still alive, will he come after me?

  I eye my shoes, left by the door. The simple answer is this: Yes. He will come after me once he learns what I stole. And I don’t think anything can stand in his way.

  Dalton reappears with two glasses of milk, and Isabella takes a step backward.

  “Hi,” she says.

  He does a double take. His eyebrows go up. “Hi. How’s the kid?”

  She blushes, and I try very, very hard not to roll my eyes. He’s hot. I can recognize that on a superficial level. But he’s also…

  “He’s good. Thank you for being so good to us,” she says.

  I stand, taking one of the glasses from his hand. “He’s nice like that,” I tell her. I raise the glass to my lips and drain it, then lift it. “Oops. Gonna go refill that.”

  I slip between them and trot down the stairs, smacking myself in the forehead as I go.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid. An uncontrollable jealousy almost made me lose it on Isabella, watching her blush around him. I’m not the possessive type…

  “You okay?”

  I spin around, shocked that Dalton followed me and got so close without me noticing.

  He stalks forward, and I can’t help my urge to walk backward until I can’t anymore. He leans forward, putting his hands on the counter on either side of me.

  My heart is suddenly banging.

  He meets my eyes. “You jealous, Jones?”

  I look from his eyes to his lips. “Not one bit.”

  He laughs under his breath, but his eyes see through me. “Liar, liar,” he says. “You want to know a secret?”

  I nod, and he gets closer. I want to grab his face and kiss him, and that freaks me out worse than anything that’s happened in the last two months. I’ve villainized him for months. Blamed him for everything that’s happened.

  And I mean, he’s not a good guy. But he’s far better than most of the men I grew up around.

  “I’d be jealous, too.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “I was jealous,” he corrects. “When I saw the ring on your finger. But that seems to have disappeared…”

  There must be a breaking point. Push us too far and we’ll snap.

  But… maybe that day isn’t today.

  I push up on my tiptoes and press my lips to his, ready to run if he doesn’t react. But I get an immediate reaction: his arms wind around my waist, palms hovering over my lower back. He pulls me flush against him while our lips touch.

  He nips my lower lip, teasing my mouth open, and sparks rush through me. We’re a mess of lips and teeth, but heat spreads throughout my body. It thaws pieces I hadn’t even realized were frozen.

  I grab his shirt in fistfuls, keeping him against me. I bite his lip, eliciting a growl from deep in his chest. His hands slide lower, grabbing my ass and lifting me up. I wrap my legs around his hips, hooking my ankles together.

  I can’t tell if this is war or something else entirely.

  Reality comes crashing down in the form of a four-year-old boy. He runs into the kitchen with a clatter, and we fly apart.

  I turn toward the sink, covering my mouth.

  Can’t believe we just did that.

  “What’s up, buddy?” Dalton asks.

  “I’m thirsty,” Antoni says.

  “What do you want? A nightcap?”

  I turn around, glaring at Dalton just as Isabella comes into the kitchen.

  She puts her hand on her son’s head, pulling him to her. “Did we interrupt something?” she asks.

  “No,” I say. “I’m going to bed.”

  I brush past them, hoping Isabella didn’t notice my burning cheeks. My whole body aches like I just ran a marathon.

  “Oh, Grace?”

  I pause and look back at Isabella.

  She gives me a nightmare’s smile. “I think you forgot this in our room.”

  I reach my hand out automatically. I don’t cringe when the ring hits my palm. That reaction—wincing, yelling, dropping it dramatically—would give Isabella too much satisfaction. She might not be that catty, but I can’t take the chance.

  I curl my fingers around the cool metal and smile at her. “Thanks so much.”

  Dalton stares at my hand.

  I ignore him and retreat.

  In the room, I go to my small bag and drop the ring into a sock, rolling it with its pair. Best-case scenario? It can be dumped in the trash on our way out of Safe Haven.

  Instead of waiting for Dalton to come up the stairs and deal with whatever just happened downstairs—because honestly, I feel sort of like screaming—I climb into the bed and shut off the light.

  In the darkness, doubt creeps back in. I left everything I’ve ever known when I climbed onto the back of Morning Star’s bike.
He came after me time and time again, and I can’t figure out why. It isn’t because he’s a good person. Javier would’ve sentenced me to a life with Marco—broken wings and chains—but at least I would’ve been alive. Any chance of forgiveness ended as soon as I slid the ring off my finger and kissed Dalton.

  And now I’ve climbed into bed with the devil.

  I wait for him to return, an odd mix of terrified and eager. But my eyelids grow heavy, and the bedroom door doesn’t open.

  The last feeling I have, echoing through me as clear as a bell, is…

  Disappointment.

  12

  DALTON

  Isabella is attracted to me… and that makes me want to stab a needle into my eye. Her hand on my arm is too much, especially when the girl I really want touching me is upstairs in my bed.

  I definitely can’t tell Grace that, though. I think she’d stab a needle in my eye if I admitted that to her. I pull away from Isabella, frowning at her. Colin had warned me that Safe Haven guests might be fragile about physical contact. They either want someone to be a balm, erasing the evil lingering on their skin, or they want nothing to do with men.

  In the storage bags on my bike, I dig out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. I fumble one out, putting it to my lips and lighting it.

  The first hit of nicotine is like lukewarm water spreading through my veins.

  I exhale the smoke and put the pack in my pocket, wandering down the trail. The moon is out, so it’s easy to pick past the rocks. I don’t even know where I’m going—just that I can’t stay there. By the time I make it down to the shooting range, the cigarette is down to the butt. I stub it out and toss it in the trash, then open the office door.

  My phone rings, the noise bouncing around the open space.

  Mason.

  “Hey,” I greet him. “You’re up late.”

  “There’s a three-hour time difference,” he says. “And it’s not even eight o’clock where you are.”

  I lift one shoulder, even though he can’t see me. “Yeah, but it’s dark out.”

  “Right.”

  I unlock Colin’s office. My Tikka T3X—the best long-range rifle to exist—is still here, laid out on the desk as I left it. I start to put it back in its case, checking the three magazines I keep loaded, along with an extra box of ammunition. It’s always good to be prepared—that’s what the Boy Scouts say, anyway. Better too much than too little.