Page 23 of Kings Have No Mercy

“You sure flirt like nobody’s business for a battered woman who was supposedly married not too long ago.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

“We’ll talk about whatever the fuck I want to talk about—and you’ll do whatever the fuck I ask. I’m your boss. You work for me. Got it?”

I can see the hatred bursting at the seams. The deep and intense dislike she has for me as she folds her arms across her chest and looks at me like I disgust her.

I don’t give a fuck. She can hate me all she wants. I’m not too fond of her either. I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt this strongly about a woman—good or bad—and that’s because I usually keep them at arm’s length. The women in Pulsboro are bland, boring, and all the same. None of them pique my interest beyond what’s between their thighs.

We’re a day into knowing each other, and Sydney holds my attention more than any other woman I’ve ever met.

But it’s not something that’s a good thing. It’s a very bad, very dangerous thing, because she’s not supposed to be here. She’s nothing but trouble.

Life would be a lot easier if she got lost and never came back.

I intend on making things so miserable for her here, she’ll leave.

“What do you want?” she asks through clenched teeth.

“See these cases of beer? Arrange ’em by brand. Pike with Pike and Texan Brew with Texan Brew. Then I want you to restock the bar. Then you’re to mop and dust the room. It’s filthy.”

I leave her speechless, stewing in the hatred she’s got for me, and slam the door.

It’ll take her hours to finish. The cases are too heavy for our barmaids. Cleaning up what’s probably years’ worth of dust and dirt will be enough to lose an appetite.

I’d feel guilty if I wasn’t convinced she’s up to no good. If I wasn’t sure she’s here with bad intentions.

Any guilt that pings me on my walk out of the backroom disappears the second I remember how she’d flirted. A day and a half in, and she’s already got the guys wrapped around her little finger.

I clench my fists. “Not on my fucking watch.”

8

SYDNEY

My body achesby the time my shift ends. I return to the King’s house behind the saloon in desperate need of a long soak in the tub. Mason will be pissed if he finds out I’m about to use his bathroom to relax in a pool of warm water and Epsom salt, but I don’t give a shit.

It’s his fault I’m this sore and exhausted in the first place.

The asshole intentionally pulled me off the floor and gave me grunt work. I had half a mind to refuse, and would’ve, if it hadn’t been clear he was trying to get under my skin. If I complained and refused to do the work, it’d only prove his point.

I didn’t belong. I couldn’t hang. I was too weak.

I am not weak.

For the next few hours, I embarked on the painstaking task of rearranging a roomful of beer and alcohol by brand. The beer cases were the worst—the first couple weren’t so heavy, but by the twentieth case, my arms were shaking.

Mick happened by for a bottle of Absinthe and then lost his mind when he saw what I was doing.

“That’s not like him with our barmaids. He put you up to this?Macedid?!”

He cleared me off and sent in several of the bikers to finish the work, but the damage was done.

I worked the rest of my shift, taking orders with a back that was aching and fingers that felt weak.

I snap shut the bathroom door and release a deep sigh. Most people take moments like this for granted. I couldn’t feel more differently. This bath feels like the first real moment of relaxation and peace I’ve had in forty-eight hours.

Ever since setting foot in Pulsboro.