Scorpion

I always thought a trip down memory lane was an idiom that could never take physical form. But the Halenbeek manor hasn’t changed one bit since I last saw it.

I can only half-appreciate the sight of the place when the skin around my eye is a swollen patchwork of black and blue. The mahogany beams are still warm against the gray stones of the manor. The fountains are blinding white. The hedges surrounding the property are cut to precision. The gardens Mathijs’s mother used to spend her days in are bright with color—even the greenhouse is still bursting with life.

The only difference is the extra security and the number of animals. I almost ran over a chicken coming down the driveway, and a cat hissed at me when I parked inside the garage—another thing that’s changed. It seems Mathijs developed a love for fast cars.

Tucking my helmet beneath my arm, I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans as I glance at the cameras stationed all over the property. The guard at the gate told me I’d been set up at the pool house, even though I know for a fact that there are designated rooms for security on the main property.

The second he told me where I’d be staying, my muscles uncoiled. I couldn’t think of anything worse than playing roommates with a bunch of random men again and intruding into Mathijs’s direct space.

I scrunch my nose and wince from the movement as I round the main building and walk the long way to get to the pool house. That’s a new smell. As I close in on the “security wing,” I spot the next proof of change. A new barn has been erected against the side of the main house, leaving a faint smell of hay and manure in the crisp late afternoon air.

Climbing the few steps onto the porch, I help myself inside the pool house—actually, to call it that is a stretch. It’s a sleep out within ten yards of the pool.

The few boxes of things I own are neatly tucked against one of the walls, next to the mini kitchen. This afternoon, some guy showed up at my doorstep and balked when he saw the state of my face. Apparently, Mathijs told me last night that he’d send a moving van over to get all my things. Honestly, that was news to me.

Numbness replaces the pain in my foot, lessening the amount of strength I have as I subtly limp. It doesn’t take long to peek into the bedroom and bathroom.

Returning to the main room, I hoist the first box up onto the dining table. It has all the food and drinks I own in it. Then I still when I open the fridge. The fully stocked fridge. I slam it shut and move to each and every cupboard. All filled to the brim with every food item I could possibly want.

I didn’t agree to any of this.

I walk into the bathroom stocked with shampoos, conditioners, and soaps in the vanity. I fist the packet of hair accessories, and rummage through the drawers, eyeing all the sanitary products.

Was this all planned? Has he been patiently biding his time, waiting for me to hit rock bottom so he can swoop in and save me?

Well, fuck him. I don’t need a goddamn hero. I’ve made it this far myself.

Storming to the bedroom, I whip open the wardrobe doors and—

Oh. Oh God.

Slowly, I reach for the blue jersey hanging on the rack. I run my fingers over the embroidery. Tears sting my eyes as the memory pushes up my throat to choke me. Gaya, Amy, Mathijs and I all have the same matching jersey from the time we snuck away to visit the Rocky Mountains together.

I never thought I’d see it again.

Placing it back on the rack, I grab the Ferrari leather jacket that Mathijs brought back for me after his trip to Monaco. Then the next item—my homecoming dress. Then a hoodie Gaya and I tried to bleach dye. Then the blouse I bought with Gaya during a family trip to Paris.

One right after another, memories slam into me as I sift through each article of clothing.

I never thought I’d see any of them again. Gaya told me that within a week of moving out, Mom got a maid to put all of my things into boxes to donate.

While I moved on with my life, he lived in the house owned by his dead parents, running his father’s business, and holding on to my clothes. Ten years after I left him and everything I owned behind, they’re back.

I squeeze my eyes shut, relishing in the ache. A sharp pain radiates through my foot, and I stagger back onto the bed. The softness of the duvet momentarily snaps me out of my misery. I forgot what expensive bedding feels like. From riches to rags and back to riches. It’s not the circle of life I envisioned for myself.

I finish putting my meager belongings away, then meet with Sergei, the head of security, for a brief rundown of the compound. Once I’m back at the pool house, I slump down on the couch in front of the TV, holding a bag of frozen vegetables to my eyes.

Time ticks by, and the sun sets, changing the sky from orange to indigo. Despite the ache in my empty stomach, I can’t bring myself to get up from the couch other than to refill my drink. Beyond a couple packets of ramen, the only food here belongs to Mathijs—and I won’t accept his handouts.

I’ve done nothing to earn any of this. I shouldn’t have agreed to move in early. I could’ve lasted two weeks in a tent until I started working somewhere.

Pushing myself onto my feet, I hesitate before deciding to track Sergei down. I’ll ask him to pass a message to Mathijs: Thank you, but I’ll be on my way. See you in two weeks.

Just as I reach for my shoes, a knock rattles the front door, jolting me into motion. Instinctively, I reach for the gun in the top drawer next to the door. Only when I flick off the safety and hold the weapon behind the door, out of sight, do I become mindful of my actions.

My heart stutters as I blink, transported away from a place where I could be attacked at any second.

What the fuck am I doing? There’s no threat.

The silent alarms would be going off if there’s anything wrong. Who the hell do I think is coming for me? The other security guards? The fucking maid? Jesus Christ, I need to get my shit together.

Tucking the gun into the waistband of my workout tights, I right my hoodie to cover the bulge. I look through the peephole then turn the handle, inching the door just wide enough for me to stick my head through.

Speak of the devil.

My chest aches at the sight of him. I’ve seen Mathijs in a suit countless times, but it’s nothing compared to seeing him in one when he fills out the expensive fabric that shapes to his muscles. His platinum hair is impeccably styled, and there isn’t a single speck of dust on his jacket.

“Good evening, Lieverd.”

He can’t call me darling anymore.

“They said you’d be gone for the next week,” I say.

Sergei was the perfect intermediary because Mathijs wouldn’t have been there to convince me to stay. Now he’s here to weaken my resolve.

His lips quirk to the side, showing me a hint of the boy I used to know. “Isn’t it dangerous to have a set schedule?”

I narrow my eyes. “Is this a test?”

“No, but I can get someone to make you one.” Paying no mind to my personal space, he forces me to back up as he leans against the doorframe and tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks. The pose is casual, but it only makes me painfully aware of how much of a man he’s become. “I remember how much you loved subtly dropping your good grades into conversation.”

“People change.” I bite the inside of my cheek, unsure how to navigate having a conversation, let alone how to process the spark of familiarity he brings.

“They do,” he sighs. “But I fear there are certain areas of my personality that continue to pose as a plague to the people around me. There’s no cure for it.”

“Let me guess. You’re still an obnoxious winner and a sore loser.” I can’t help but feel like I’m back in high school, hanging out with Mathijs when my biggest worries were my SATs and my overbearing parents.

“Ever the genius, Zal.” His smile strikes me straight through the heart.

Zal.

TJ would always call me ZB. The last person to call me Zal was Gaya.

The single syllable wedges itself into my heart and threatens to tear me in two. I curl my fingers into a tight fist like it might fight off the memories of the people I’ve lost.

“Are you going to let me in, or would you prefer I help myself?” Mathijs wears a coy grin. If he’s aware of my inner turmoil, he doesn’t let on. Without waiting for my response, he grabs a brown paper bag off the floor and lets himself inside, ignoring my huff of protest.

His shoulder brushes mine as he passes, and a shudder goes down my spine as I remember all the times we’ve held each other. God, I forgot how much I’ve missed any kind of touch.

The bag crinkles as he sets it on the bench, then rummages through the cabinets pantry.

Crossing my arms, I glare at his profile and try to ignore the way he fills out his suit. The fabric stretches against his shoulders as he moves, and when he deposits his jacket on the bench, loosens his tie and rolls up his sleeve, it’s like all semblance of decorum evaporates.

I’m transfixed on the ripple of his tendons and veins. It’s screwing with my head.

Catching myself, I clear my throat. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m safely assuming that you haven’t eaten dinner, so I’m remedying the issue.”

“Mathijs, stop.”

He listens, complying only after pulling out the cutlery and tipping the bakmi goreng onto the plate.

“Mathijs,” I growl.

He holds his hands up in surrender after stationing the container of soy sauce beside the plate.

“I can’t accept this. Any of this,” I say, exasperated, waving around the room.

“Be more specific, darling.”

Prick. He knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“The pool house. The job. The food. The clothes.” I point toward the bedroom. “All of it, Mathijs. It’s too much and too far. I’ll take my stuff, and I’ll be back in two weeks and I’ll move into the actual security wing like I’m supposed to. I can earn my way to a private residence.” I run my hands through my hair, forgetting that I’ve braided it. “Thank you, but I can’t take it, and I won’t.”

The silence stretches, thick and cloying, as he watches me with the intensity of a lion on the hunt. His eyes darkens as he peruses me. The light illuminates his sharp features, casting harsh lines beneath his jaw. I can hear the insects outside, the soft hum of the fridge, and the thunder of my heart.

Maybe he’s disappointed in me. Maybe he’s waiting for me to tell him to leave. Maybe—

“Did the military house you?”

“Yes.”

“Feed you?”

I nod.

“Clothe you?”

“That’s different,” I argue.

“How?” He pushes off the bench and slowly makes his way toward me, one hand in his pocket. “You’ve been employed as my private security, and I think you are well aware that the extent of your job description isn’t protecting me from pickpockets, or holding my hand as I cross the street.” Tilting his head, he purses his lips, looking like he’s trying to navigate a minefield. “You might not know the full extent of the work my parents did, but I know that back in high school you were smart enough to figure out that my father was shot, and he didn’t come home bloody because of a car accident.”

I swallow. I was walking across the foyer just as his dad stumbled inside, clutching his shoulder and leaving a trail of blood on the floor. His mom yelled to call a doctor, and they looked at me with pity when I said he needed to go to the hospital.

The gunshot wasn’t the first sign that Mathijs’s family wasn’t just into finance. Their guards always wore guns—the proper kind. Not a stun gun. There was security wherever they went, and bulletproof windows. Mathijs doesn’t know this, but I saw crates of cash hidden in one of their ranches. Their vineyard had far more muscle than what was appropriate for that industry. The signs were all there.

Maybe I’ve bitten off more than I can chew by accepting this job. Who knows what kind of shit I’ll be exposing myself to?

Really, I’m just making excuses. The prospect of danger has never stopped me from doing anything. I’ve been in war zones and full-blown shootouts more times than I can count. I’ve broken into heavily guarded places, played assassin, killed with my bare hands, and faced down men in underground fight clubs. Being muscle for a grinning mobster might be the least dangerous thing I’ve done.

The most difficult thing about this will be spending days around Mathijs without being sucked into a dark hole that I can’t get out of. Because every time I’m with him, I’ll be haunted by things I’ll never be able to change.

I clear my throat and square my shoulders, hoping it’ll instill some level of confidence in me. “Then what exactly am I doing for you?”

He shrugs. “Standard security work. Escort, lookout, raids.”

“Raids?”

“Oh yes. They’re a lot of fun. Gangsters, mafia, gunrunners. You name it.”

“That’s not the term I’d use.”

I narrow my eyes as he circles me, his husky voice holding the slightest purr. “Darling, you’ve entered the land of mayhem. Surely you realized that when you accepted my offer.”

“My head had been pounded into the concrete. I was potentially concussed. Bleeding from my forehead. Dehydrated. Stressed. And exhausted. I wouldn’t call that clear, concise thinking. Raids are illegal.” I cross my arms.

Leaning against the counter barely an arm’s length away, copying my pose, he says, “Don’t tell me you’re a law-abiding citizen now. That would be rather boring.”

“I made money from illegal fighting rings. I think my fear of the law is long gone.” Really, the only thing I was scared of was my mother’s wrath.

“Good. You were always too much of a good girl.”

I cock a brow at him. It’s hard to ignore the thrum of excitement in my veins. No more monotonous days. No more staring at a TV for countless hours, waiting for night to fall so I can go back to bed and attempt to sleep.

“I have arranged for a physiotherapist to come around tomorrow morning to help you with your nerve damage. She will be able to get you any medication and further treatment you might need.”

My excitement comes to a screeching halt at the reminder that I’ve turned into his pity project. “You said I get medical insurance. I never agreed to physical therapy.”

He gives me a knowing look. “Would you have gotten proper treatment to permanently fix it, or medicated just enough to function?”

Screw him for being right.

“Consider this a requirement of your employment.”

Shaking my head, I say, “I can accept the job, the accommodation, and its perks. But the rest of it is too much. I don’t know if you’re doing this out of guilt or whatever it is you’re planning.” As if I need to prove something, I add, “I’m the one who fought and bled to get into Special Ops. I’m the one who killed to get those records.”

Me.

Not my mother forcing me to do it. Not my father’s—or any man’s money. I did it. Mathijs helped get me into shooting and getting my hands dirty outdoors. But the rest was on me. I earned everything I have.

“Say what you like, but you’re treating me like a charity case,” I say.

The tension in the air is thick enough to slice through. Any semblance of playfulness is wiped completely off his face, replaced by a mask solely for business.

“If you don’t want to accept what I’m offering out of genuine hospitality or kindness, then that’s your prerogative. Not every deed is a business transaction. If you’d like, I can turn it into one so you can justify to yourself why you’re allowed to accept it.” Mathijs straightens and angles his body so we are perfectly parallel to each other. “So let me explain it another way: People want me dead. I need you sharp and functioning to ensure that doesn’t happen. That means I need you fully recovered or on a quick road that way. I need someone who won’t faint because they haven’t eaten. I need someone whose head is clear because they aren’t worried about making rent or when they can organize for an electrician to come in to fix the light. I need someone who can run when they get the order to run.”

My body stiffens with each point he makes. They’re all valid and completely faultless. Sleeping in a tent and waiting weeks to get an appointment with the doctor means that I can’t do my job properly. And if I can’t do my job, people die. And…

Fuck.

What was I even thinking? I can’t do this job. My foot is screwed up. My brain is scrambled to shit. I can’t bring myself to step foot inside a car. I have to stave off a panic attack every time I hear metal scrape against metal. Hell, my observation skills have become nearly nonexistent. How am I meant to protect him?

I shake my head. “If you want a soldier, that isn’t me. I’ve been…” I search for the words that don’t translate to I’ve been rotting away for the past two years and I’m broken beyond repair. “I’ve been off duty for two years, and my senses aren’t as sharp.”

“How many guards did you count between entering the gate and stepping inside this house?”

“Eight. Seven on duty. One coming off. Two gardeners and a maid.”

“Of those eight, how many of them were women?”

“None.”

“How many of them can blend into a crowd?”

“Zero.”

“I have fifty-nine men on my roster. Over half of them have a military background—marines, special ops, rangers. All men. All with the subtlety of a neon sign. If anyone were to be taken out first, it’d be the men in suits. They’re the first and only line of defense I’d have. Then there’s you.” His lips twist into a grin. “You could be on my arm, in a twenty-thousand-dollar dress, and no one would know that you could take them out in seconds. Beautiful. Violent. Deadly.”

I don’t deserve to be called beautiful. I most definitely haven’t felt that way for years. Gaya, Amy, and I would go out whenever I was back, and we’d all get dolled up before dinner or hitting the town. But come morning, I was back to dressing like a woman my mother would never approve of.

These past two years I’ve been avoiding looking in the mirror because I don’t want to see a ghost stare back at me—whether it’s Gaya’s, TJ’s, or my own.

Mathijs inches closer until we’re a foot apart, and I have to crane my neck to look up at him. There’s too much reverence in his voice when he speaks. It curls around my stomach and makes me feel weaker than I’ve ever felt.

I want to lean in and place my head against his chest to absorb his warmth. I want to breathe in his scent, and believe his words, and feel less alone.

“I don’t want a soldier. I want you. Anyone can pick up a gun. You? You don’t need a weapon to become one.” A soft smile curves his lips. “Although, I hear you’re exceptional with one.” He winks. “I take credit for it, of course.”

My breath hitches when he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. My eyes shut for the briefest moment, relishing in the slightest brush of his fingers against my skin. It sparks electricity through my veins and dies when it hits the shadows inside my soul.

The way he looks at me… like he’s seen every part of me and I really am exactly what he said. Beautiful. With my busted lip, swollen eyes, and broken soul.

“My little Lieverd.” He appraises me with a beaming smile. “The best female sniper the world has ever seen.”

His proximity makes me hyperaware of every inch of our skin and how easy it would be for him to touch me. I’m reminded that human touch can come without pain.

I shift my weight as I look over his shoulder. Anywhere but at him. “Not the best. She died a while back.”

Mathijs’s chuckle skitters down my spine and flushes my body with a warmth that I forgot existed. “So it’s settled then. You’ll stay,” he says, backing away toward the exit.

Cockiness oozes from his pores as I glare at him. “I never—”

“The physio will stop by at ten a.m. Enjoy your dinner, Zal.”

He shuts the door behind him before I get the chance to say another word.

Prick.