The Mad Heiress's Dangerous Mercenary Lover

The screw slipped.

Cilla Clark's hand shot out, her fingers pinching the cold metal threads before the screw could hit the ceramic tiles below. The sharp edge bit into her palm. Blood welled up, warm and sticky against her skin. She didn't flinch. She didn't even blink. She just held the screw in a death grip until her knuckles turned white.

Ten years in this place had taught her that a single sound could kill you.

She pulled her hand back into the narrow ventilation shaft and let the screw drop into her pocket. The final bolt was gone. She pushed the grate open, the metal scraping softly against the wall. Her legs trembled, the muscles spasming from the years of sedatives pumped into her system. It felt like trying to walk on wet noodles. She dragged herself forward, her elbows scraping against the dusty aluminum.

The air in here was thick. It smelled like formaldehyde and old dust. It tickled the back of her throat, making her chest tight. She bit down hard on her lower lip, forcing the cough down. She tasted copper. Good. Pain kept her focused.

She turned the corner and stopped. Red light crisscrossed the darkness ahead. Infrared. A web of invisible lasers waiting to slice her open or trigger an alarm. She reached into the pocket of her thin hospital gown and pulled out a handful of baby powder she had stolen from the nursery.

She blew it lightly. The powder hung in the air, illuminating the red beams. They were tight, spaced irregularly. She mapped the path in her head in a millisecond. She took a breath and moved.

She twisted her body, contorting her spine in a way that defied normal human anatomy. She slid through the gaps, slow and precise. Halfway through, her right shoulder gave out. The old injury tore, a hot, sickening pain ripping through the joint. Sweat broke out across her forehead, soaking the thin cotton. She clenched her jaw and kept moving.

She made it to the exit vent. Through the slats, she saw the storm. Rain was coming down in sheets, hammering the mud below. Lightning flashed, illuminating the dark grounds of the psychiatric facility.

She kicked the louvers open. She didn't hesitate. She fell.

The two-story drop felt like flying. She hit the muddy grass and instinctively tucked her shoulder, rolling to absorb the impact. But her legs gave out. She crashed into a puddle, mud splashing up into her eyes and mouth. She gasped, struggling to push herself up on her shaking arms.

A pair of black tactical boots stepped into her line of sight. Mud caked the heavy soles.

She froze. Her eyes tracked up the boots, over the tailored black slacks, to the long black trench coat soaked by the rain. Lightning cracked again, highlighting the man's face. Hard angles. A sharp jaw. Cold eyes that looked like they had seen a hundred wars.

Her pupils contracted. The analytical engine in her brain roared to life.

Six-two. Low center of gravity. Left hand hanging close to his waist. He's armed. Ex-military. No, private contractor. Top-tier mercenary. High threat level.

The man's body went rigid. It was barely perceptible, a sudden tension in his shoulders, a slight widening of his stance. His eyes flickered with a split-second of pure shock before the cold mask slammed back down.

He looked down at her, his face unreadable. "Cilla Clark." His voice was a low rumble, like a cello playing in a dark room. "Your father sent me to get you."

Cilla switched gears. It was like flipping a switch in her brain. The sharp, calculating light in her eyes vanished, replaced by a hollow, terrified stare. Her body started to shake, violent tremors that rattled her teeth. She scrambled back in the mud, wrapping her arms around her head.

A broken whine tore from her throat. She sounded like a wounded animal.

The man frowned slightly. His gaze dropped to her wrists, tracking the dark bruises from the restraints, and then to her bloody fingertips.

What a poser, Cilla thought, her inner voice cold and mocking while her outer body cowered. With that face and those muscles, he's wasting his time playing bodyguard. He should be charging by the hour in Manhattan. Rich divorcées would eat him alive.

The man's jaw twitched. The muscle beneath his stubble jumped. A storm of complex emotions churned in his eyes before he looked away.

The voice in his head was unmistakable. He had heard something like it once before, years ago, in a place he didn't like to remember. He pushed the thought away.

He didn't say another word. He stepped forward, bent down, and scooped her up off the ground. He threw her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. His grip was hard, bruising, but he deliberately avoided the deep cuts on her hands.

Cilla pounded her fists against his broad back. She screamed, a raw, guttural sound that pierced the noise of the storm.

Good, she thought, going limp against him. Saves me the walk to the highway.

He carried her to the edge of the tree line where a black, armored SUV waited in the shadows. He opened the back door and dumped her onto the leather seat. The door slammed shut with a heavy, final thud, cutting off the sound of the rain.

The heavy oak double doors of the Holden estate flew open.

Cold wind and rain whipped into the grand hall, making the massive crystal chandelier sway. Hale stepped inside, his boots tracking mud onto the priceless Persian rug. He held Cilla by the back of her soaked hospital gown, dragging her like a rag doll.

The shouting in the hall stopped instantly.

Gideon Holden stood by the marble fireplace, his face red with rage. His wife, Meredith, stood beside him, holding a champagne flute. They both stared at the dripping wet mess that had just invaded their pristine territory.

Hale walked to the center of the hall and let go. Cilla crumpled to the floor. She collapsed into a shivering ball, tucking her knees to her chest and burying her face in her arms.

Gideon took a step back, his lip curling in disgust. "What the hell is this? Why is that thing in the main house?"

Meredith pinched her nose between two fingers. "The smell. Reginald, call security. She belongs in a facility, not on my rug."

Cilla shook harder, her shoulders heaving with silent sobs. But behind her arms, her eyes were open. Sharp. Calculating.

Gideon's suit cuff is frayed. He's cash poor again. And Meredith's necklace is last season's Cartier. The second branch is bleeding cash. They're desperate.

How do I know that? a small, detached part of her wondered. Ten years of reading old fashion magazines in the sanitarium's library. The nurses thought I was just drooling on the pages. They never noticed my eyes moving.

Hale stood a few feet away. He heard the voice in his head as clear as a bell. It was a cold, analytical broadcast, completely at odds with the sobbing mess on the floor. His eyes narrowed slightly.

Under New York trust law, the voice continued, as long as I'm breathing, my fifteen percent is untouchable. You vultures can't get a single cent.

Hale's breath hitched. He stared at the shivering girl on the floor, a sense of profound wrongness washing over him. It was as if two different signals were broadcasting from the same source. He had to fight the urge to check her for a hidden earpiece or signs of advanced dissociative identity disorder.

Gideon stomped forward, pointing a shaking finger at Cilla. "She's a disgrace! A stain on the Holden name! Send her back to Oakridge tonight!"

Cilla threw her head back and let out a piercing scream. It echoed off the high ceilings. Before anyone could react, she scrambled to her feet and lunged at Gideon.

She didn't punch him. She just threw her filthy, mud-caked body directly at him.

A sharp, undignified cry escaped Gideon's lips. He stumbled backward, tripping over his own feet, and crashed into the antique sofa. His arm hit the coffee table, sending a silver tray flying. Hot coffee splashed all over his custom shirt.

Chaos erupted. Meredith shrieked, dropping her champagne flute. The crystal shattered on the marble.

Cilla scurried back into her corner. She pressed her hands over her ears, rocking back and forth, staring blankly at the wall. But the corner of her mouth twitched. Just a fraction of an inch.

That's right, you old bastard. That's just the appetizer.

Hale watched her. A flicker of something akin to amusement registered deep in his cold eyes. He subtly adjusted his collar, a barely perceptible motion to mask the slight upward twitch of his lips.

The butler, Reginald, rushed in with two security guards. "Sir, ma'am, please step back!"

Hale pulled a clipboard from inside his coat. He walked over to the sputtering, coffee-soaked Gideon and held it out.

"Sign here," Hale said, his voice flat. "Delivery complete."

Gideon snatched the pen and scribbled his name. "Get out! All of you!"

Hale didn't argue. He turned on his heel and headed for the front doors.

Just as his foot crossed the threshold, a sound stopped him cold.

Thwack.

A heavy cane striking the marble floor. The sound rang out from the top of the curved staircase, silencing the entire room in an instant.

Horace Holden descended the stairs.

The seventy-year-old patriarch moved slowly, his black cane striking each step with authority. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, swept over the chaos in the hall. Gideon, dripping with coffee. Meredith, standing on her tiptoes to avoid the glass. And the mud-covered creature huddled in the corner.

Gideon immediately straightened his spine, ignoring the wet stain on his shirt. "Father. We were just dealing with a situation."

Horace ignored him. He walked straight past his son and stopped in front of Cilla. He looked down at her with pure disdain.

"Pathetic," Horace spat. He tapped the tip of his cane on the rug, right next to a clump of mud that had fallen from Cilla's hair. "The main line produces a vegetable."

Cilla flinched. She scrambled backward on her hands and knees, desperate to get away from the cane. Her back hit a glass pane, pushing it open. She tumbled backward into the adjoining conservatory.

She landed hard on the stone floor, right between rows of lush, exotic plants. Mud smeared across the white petals of a nearby flower.

Horace's face turned purple. "Get her out of there! Those are my Amazonian orchids!"

Cilla lay on the floor, her cheek pressed against the cool stone. Her eyes locked onto the plant she had just dirtied. The white petals. The pink spots on the stamen. The purple-red veins on the leaves.

Her brain shifted gears. The fog of madness vanished, replaced by crystal-clear data.

That's not an orchid. That's an Amazonian Ghost Lily variant. And it's blooming in a heated room.

Horace took a step toward the conservatory, his mouth open to yell again. But his foot suddenly froze in mid-air. His entire body locked up.

The pollen is highly volatile at room temperature, the voice in his head echoed, calm and clinical. It's releasing a neurotoxin. Chronic inhalation causes irreversible myocardial failure.

Horace's eyes went wide. He looked around wildly, searching for the person who had just spoken. But there was no one near him. Just Gideon and Meredith by the door, and the crazy girl on the floor.

At the rate he spends two hours a day in this room, he has maybe a year left. He'll drop dead of a very natural-looking heart attack.

The world tilted. Horace felt a hammer blow to his chest, but it wasn't his heart. It was the sheer, terrifying realization of the truth.

He stared at Cilla. Her lips were sealed. Her eyes were vacant. But the voice... the voice had come from inside his own head. And it had just saved his life.

Decades of survival instincts kicked in. He didn't have time to question how. He only had time to act.

Horace gasped, his hand flying to his chest. "My heart!" he wheezed. He made his face turn red, his breathing ragged and shallow. He let his knees buckle.

Reginald the butler screamed, "Mr. Holden!" He lunged forward, catching the old man before he hit the floor.

The hall exploded into panic. Gideon yelled for a doctor. Meredith started crying.

Cilla stayed curled up by the flowers, her body trembling. But inside, she felt a cold sense of satisfaction.

Not bad, old man. Good timing.

Horace, lying limp in the butler's arms, felt his eyelid twitch. He almost broke character.

I'm being poisoned, he thought, panic and rage swirling in his gut. And I can hear my granddaughter's thoughts.

The side door burst open. Dr. Cromwell, the family physician, ran in with his medical bag. He knelt beside Horace, pulling out a stethoscope.

Horace grabbed the doctor's wrist with a surprisingly strong grip. He pulled the man close.

"Lock down the conservatory," Horace whispered, his voice deadly serious despite his "weakness." "Take that plant. Root, stem, soil. Take it to the private lab for a full toxicology screen. Now."

Gideon tried to step forward. "Father, what-"

Security guards stepped in his path, blocking him.

The medical team lifted Horace onto a stretcher. As they wheeled him toward the medical wing, Horace turned his head. He looked directly at Cilla, still cowering on the floor. His eyes were cold, calculating, and utterly terrified.