Angel of Death (Broken Mercenaries, #2)
ANGEL OF DEATH
Broken Mercenaries Book 2
$3.99 USD or FREE on Kindle Unlimited
🖤One-click here: mybook.to/brokenmerc2 🖤
“S. Massery has completely outdone herself with Angel of Death! She has delivered a beyond 5 star read!”
"NEVER SLOW and NEVER BORING! This was such a great story from page one to the last."
This second-chance romantic suspense has:
☑️ Tons of action & heaps of suspense
☑️ Travel across Europe
☑️ A slow burn romance 🔥
READ THE FIRST CHAPTER:
My front door is unlocked, which should’ve been an indication that something might be wrong. I push open the door anyway, letting the screen bang behind me, and drop my purse on the counter.
I walk through the dark apartment, my fingers trailing on the walls, until I get to my bedroom. At this time of night, it’s easier to just let the moonlight guide me. I’m exhausted enough that I could fall straight into bed. After the day I’ve had, no one would blame me for passing out in my clothes.
Not that anyone would see, since I’ve been living alone since I was eighteen.
The first thing my eyes catch on in my dimly lit room is the feather, perfectly placed on my pillow. The second is the shadow that flies toward me, slamming me against a wall. My whole body rattles with the impact. A large hand covers my mouth, and I inhale the smell of nicotine and whiskey.
The man leans in close to me. I turn my head to the side to avoid looking at him. That’s what you’re supposed to do, right? Not look at intruders, attackers—better chance of survival. My eyes catch on the lamp knocked off my desk. There’s paper scattered across my rug.
I’m too scared to move as he inspects me, his breath hitting my cheek. The terror is paralyzing.
My eyes go back to the feather, and hope floods through me. I start laughing. This man towers over me. If I were to look at him, his face would probably be grizzled. Scarred. Wrinkled. All the things that bad guys are intrinsically wired with to warn the general public away from them. And yet—nope—the fear drains out of me.
“Stop laughing,” the man says, using his hand on my mouth to bump my head against the wall.
I finally look at him, and he drops his hand away from my mouth. I say, “You’re so fucking screwed.”
His eyes widen. I can focus on them now, focus on the way they glare at me like I’ve done something wrong.
“Best to leave before…” I raise my eyebrow. “Well, it doesn’t matter. You’re going to find out anyway.”
I successfully spook my robber. I don’t even know where this bravado has come from.
He backs away from me, his shoes crunching over whatever he broke, and shakes his head. “We’ll be back,” he promises. “This isn’t over.”
It’s almost miraculous that he leaves. He walks straight out of my room, down the hall, and through the front door. I contemplate following him and locking it, then decide against it. He broke in when it was locked. What good would relocking it do?
I pick my way across the room, sweep my hand across the bedspread, then yank it down. A shiver runs through me, but I suppress it. I sit and yank off my shoes, unwilling to turn on a light and survey the damage.
I should clean before I go to sleep. I should sweep the rug free of debris and right the lamp and check to make sure that nothing else is broken or stolen. The fact that someone was in my house should unnerve me, but it doesn’t. I’m just so damn tired.
I lift the feather from my pillow and contemplate the gravity of my situation.
When I was younger, I had a guardian angel. He watched over me, and I… I tried not to fall in love with him. There were countless times he came to my rescue, and even when he moved away, he always came back for me—until he stopped.
Time makes memories rougher. The feather is his signal—he’s coming to see me tonight. Part of me wants to bar the doors, and another sick piece of me is eager. A ball of nerves spins in my stomach.
I stare at the window until exhaustion drags me down, and I set the feather on the edge of my desk. It’s inky black, long and soft, and I look at it until I can’t keep my eyes open anymore.
It feels like only minutes later that a hand sweeps the hair away from my face. Griffin Anders, my guardian angel, kneels next to my bed. His face is level with mine. I slip my hand out of the covers and cup his jaw, just to make sure I’m not asleep. He’s smooth shaven and completely solid beneath my fingers. Over the last five or so years, I’ve dreamt of this. Of him coming back. Each time I woke up, it broke my heart a little more.
“Hi,” I whisper. It hurts to look at him and see the changes in his face. His eyes are dark—not just the color, a deep brown I always thought I could fall into—but the way they smolder at me… it’s too familiar after so much time apart.
I pull my hand away from his face, retracting it back against my chest.
“Hi.” He offers me a sad smile.
I scoot backward in the bed until my back touches the wall, and he takes the invitation. He kicks off his shoes and crawls in beside me, pulling me closer. His arm sneaks under my pillow. His legs intertwine with mine. His hand traces an invisible pattern up and down my arm.
He sighs, and I close my eyes again. My heart threatens to burst when his lips touch my forehead.
Over the years, his lips have touched almost every inch of me. My forehead, my cheeks, my nose. My shoulder. My knuckles. My ankle, once, when I sprained it playing soccer. But he’s never kissed my lips, my throat, my breasts. I would have burned up inside if he touched me how I wanted him to.
“You had a rough night?” he asks, half-mumbled against my skin.
“I scared him off,” I answer. I can’t help myself and wriggle closer, my chest brushing his. My nose touches the column of his throat, and I feel him swallow. “I figured you might catch him.”
He always knew how to scare off the bad guys.
“I did,” he says. Any remaining nerves fly away like birds rushing into the night. I can see them go.
“How long are you back?” That’s always the question, balanced on a razor-wire of hope and caution.
Over the years, Griffin has danced in and out of my life. He lived with my family when we were children, and then he moved one town over, onto a new family. Our house was a safe house for new foster children on my mother’s docket, and once they were ready—and once proper arrangements were made—they went to real foster homes.
Most of the kids that passed through our house were eager to leave us behind. But Griffin didn’t let me forget him.
“So many questions,” he says, his fingers flexing on my skin. I never knew a way to be closer to someone. I never knew there was so much electricity in a single touch. I try not to think about that as a shiver coasts up my spine. He says, “Sleep, Hadley.”
As hard as it is to resist—staying awake with Griffin would be so much more satisfying—sleep drags me under once again.
When I wake up, he’s gone. I stare at the black feather on my desk, next to the righted lamp. The sun streams in through the window, showing me an echo of the wreckage of last night. Slowly, I pick myself up and put my feet on the floor. The rug that normally covers most of the hardwood floors has been rolled up and leaned against my closet door. The lamp I was sure was smashed is on the dresser. The papers that were scattered around the floor are in a haphazard pile on my desk chair.
It brings a smile to my lips. A twisted, sick smile, because it means he cares.
I touch the feather, careful not to damage it, and my heart beats harder.
Foolish, I tell myself, as I always do. It’s one thing to let Griffin into my home. Into my bed. It’s another entirely to let him into my heart. It’s a shame that he’s been there all along, and there’s no erasing that.
I pull my door open and am greeted with the smell of breakfast. Curiosity officially piqued—along with worry—I tiptoe into the kitchen. The sight of Griffin at the stove, flipping an omelet, makes me happier than I care to admit.
Happy and queasy.
I back away and rush toward the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before I lose the contents of my stomach into the bowl.
Hands pull my hair back, and I groan. “You weren’t supposed to see that,” I mumble. Once my stomach stops rolling, I straighten and move to the sink. Griffin just watches me.
He’s different in the day. When’s the last time I saw him in the light? His dark eyes threaten to pin me against a wall. He’s muscular. He looks… worried.
“I’m okay,” I say after I rinse out my mouth and brush my teeth.
“Okay,” he says.
“You weren’t drinking last night.”
I raise my eyebrow. I should be used to it by now—the way he sees the things I don’t want him to see. I’ve been transparent to him since we were kids, and I hate it as much as I love it. That’s all kids want, after all: to be seen. And to have someone who fully understands you? Who knows your soul? It’s magical—until they crush you. And then it’s just pain.
I move past him, back toward the kitchen.
“You moved,” he says as I pull a mug from the cabinet. He made coffee, a full pot of it, and I help myself. “Why?”
“You’re full of questions,” I murmur, more accusatory than the same words he told me last night. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you—”
I promised a long time ago not to ask questions. It was silly of me—just one of many, many foolish choices—because the questions haven’t stopped sprouting in my mind. Questions that Griffin refuses to answer.
It’s almost like a game, at this point. How many questions can Hadley get away with before Griffin shuts her down?
Today, though, he just exhales. “Europe,” he says. “Then Seattle, then Salt Lake City, then Las Vegas. Now, New York. After this? Back to Europe.”
I whistle. It’s a soft sound. Full of sarcasm. And maybe a little bit of hurt. He left me behind. When we were younger, we dreamed of faraway places. He moved away, but I took him coming back for me as a positive sign. A fucked up part of me thought he would steal me away from this dreary town. When we were adults, we would start our life together.
And then he disappeared, and he didn’t come back. I can barely recall the last time I saw him, the last time he snuck into my bed and held me close.
“Aren’t you the world traveler?” I ask. Five years ago, you left me to my own personal hell.
That’s a lifetime.
That’s an eternity.
That’s enough time for a girl to fall out of love with a guy, no matter how many forehead kisses he bestows upon her when he returns.
I, Hadley Quinn Weatherly, have fallen out of love with Griffin Anders.
I can tell you why, too.
Because no matter how long he stays…
He always leaves.
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