Nix. (Den of Mercenaries Book 3) by London Miller Read Free Book Online Page B

the space wasn’t completely modern, it didn’t have the heavy feel of a room from earlier centuries.
    Luna explored every inch of it, even venturing out onto the vine covered balcony. She wasn’t far from the ground, and with some careful maneuvering, she could have easily reached the ground, but the slight weight of the tracker Uilleam had strapped to her leg banished the thought for the time being.
    When there was nothing more to see, she looked back toward the door Uilleam had walked out of mere minutes before. He had said she was free to walk around, to do as she pleased really, but only to an extent.
    It may have ben pretty, the room he’d given her but it was still a prison.
    Quietly stepping out of the bedroom, her eyes scanned the lengthy hallway, taking everything in. She could hear voices coming from her right, too high to be the Kingmaker’s low timbre.
    She started down the opposite direction instead.
    There was so much to see that she hadn’t noticed the first time she’d walked these halls when Uilleam brought her in.
    Paintings in gilded frames lined the walls, portraits of sharply dressed men and women in elegant gowns depicted within their paint.
    As she neared the end of the hall where it opened into the grand foyer, she noticed that there was a portrait missing from the wall—a void from where it should have been outlining its former position. It had to have been moved recently due to the variance in the color of the wall.
    The one beside it, however, caught her attention as well. The individual depicted was decades younger than the others hanging alongside him.
    And he also looked … kinder.
    “Hello.”
    Luna nearly jumped a foot in the air as she spun to face the owner of that accented voice who was suddenly standing at her back. He moved nearly as quietly as Dominic.
    The man—boy just seemed inadequate though he didn’t seem much older than her—was tall, taller than she was expecting, and once she settled on his face, she realized she was staring at the subject of the painting to her right.
    Messy brown hair that fell nearly to his ears was shoved back out of his face, as though he ran his fingers through it incessantly. There was also enough hair covering his jaw to tell her he hadn’t shaved in weeks, if not a month or more. Blessed with strong, aristocratic features, and a slight cleft in his chin, he was by far one of the most attractive people—outside of Uilleam—she had ever seen in her life, not that she gazed upon people like them everyday.
    Eyes the palest shade of blue they were almost gray, watched her unblinking. They were cold, unforgiving, but the way dark brows arched over them, almost making him look perpetually curious, softened them.
    Whoever he was, while he radiated a dangerous aura, he didn’t appear threatening.
    Muscular arms folded across his chest as he leaned a shoulder against the wall, the expensive fabric of his shirt pulling taut.
    “Who are you?” he asked, though not unkindly. “You’re not one of his projects. You’re too … young.”
    And that fact seemed to trouble him.
    “Luna,” she said, not really sure why she was answering him. “My name is Luna.”
    Maybe because she wanted to be seen as a person, for however long that lasted before Uilleam told him exactly who and what she was.
    Men … their faces always changed. Where there had once been indifference at the sight of her, it was replaced quickly with a disgusting lust—as though the thought of getting their hands on a girl they thought couldn’t say, ‘no’ was all the more appealing.
    She just wanted to be human for a little while longer.
    To her surprise, he uncrossed his arms, extending a hand between them. He held it there wordlessly, never looking away from her. Realizing he was waiting for her, she hesitantly extended her own, her skin coming alive as his much larger one closed around hers.
    His hand was rough, not like the pudgy, sweaty fingers of men that Lawrence used