Knightshade

Paladin was used to how women reacted to him. He’d even turned the heads of a few men. He watched Miss Wells take him in — how she flushed and then went pale, her jaw tightening. The latter wasn’t standard. Then again, neither was getting surprised and then kidnapped.

First time for everything, he supposed.

He focused on Miss Wells. The tweed skirt suit that she’d worn at Vermain’s office had hidden a lot, whereas her bike leathers clung to curves he’d missed before. On a normal day, he’d appreciate that. This was far from a normal day, though.

“So,” he drawled, “I’m still waitin’ on the explanation.”

Her lips pursed and she folded her arms. She was still pale, but now seemed uncertain. Then she nodded, more to herself he thought, and opened a second door.

“Come in properly. I need a bloody drink.”

Paladin followed her into a living space that had a couch and TV at one end and a computer desk at the other. A large cork board decorated the wall behind the desk, pinned with news articles. He glanced at her. She shrugged.

He went over. Snippet after snippet about Vermain, laid out in date order. A timeline, he realised. Evidence. He just wasn’t sure what of.

Miss Wells stood at an open cabinet, the shelves full of coloured bottles. Spirits and syrups. There was a silver cocktail shaker to one side. She’d had a life before the obsession with Vermain had set in.

“You want a drink?” Her voice was flat, as if she was only going through the motions of being a hostess. Or if she was drained. Paladin looked back at the cork board. The amount of information must have taken some effort.

“I’m all right, thanks,” he murmured.

“Makes one of us.” She sloshed way more than one measure of a clear liquid into a tumbler, then threw it back in a single swallow. Grimaced. “There’s a folder in the top desk drawer.”

He opened the drawer. Took out the blue plastic folder and flipped the cover. More articles inside clear sleeves stared out at him, but this time there were notes written in symbols that he didn’t recognise.

“Code?” he asked.

“Shorthand.” Her smile was thin. “I am a secretary, Paladin.”

“You’re gonna have to translate for me.”

“I think you’re more intelligent than you let on. Let’s see if you can connect the dots.”

He sat down on her chair with the file open on the desk. Leafing through, the articles seemed unrelated to each other. Many of them didn’t even name Vermain. There were delivery slips, with times and dates, detailing items he couldn’t read never mind guess at the use for. Deeper in there was a report, heavily redacted, that seemed to be about a drug trial.

He read what he could and ice slid down his spice. How the hell had this been sanctioned? He flipped back a few pages and saw one of the drugs mentioned again, this time on a shipping note. Sourness curdled in his gut as he put together a really fucking ugly picture.

Still… “I see where this is going, but there’s no direct proof.”

Of course a man like Vermain would be careful. Paladin was pretty sure that the records were supposed to have been destroyed. By Miss Wells.

The hand on his shoulder made him jump, which was annoying, but when he looked up his snarky remark died on his tongue.

Miss Wells stood over him and held his gaze with eyes that were an unnatural shade of white gold. All the breath left his lungs as they glowed as if lit from inside.

“No?” she said archly.

Paladin swallowed hard, then cursed. “What the hell did he do?”

“It was a drug trial.” She shrugged, but he could see the tension in her shoulders. The anger in her pinched expression. “Just not drugs intended to cure cancer.”

“Then what?”

“Honestly? I’m not sure. I’ve researched some of the elements, but there’s nothing online about how they work together.” Her eyes closed and pain flickered across her face. “Or how they don’t.”

“He hurt you?” Paladin felt an immediate, incandescent rage. And a sharp, bitter guilt. He’d accepted the man’s assignment. His money.

Vindicta. It meant revenge. Or, he remembered with a sick swallow, vengeance.

He glanced down at the medical report. There were more pages behind it, but he was loath to turn it and see the extent of vengeance Miss Wells wanted to exact.

“How many others?”

“Nine, but…” She took a breath and shot him a pained look. “But only two survivors. I’m one. I don’t know what happened to Simeon. This is why I have to stop him, Paladin. He can’t get away with playing with people’s lives. You have to see that.”

He rose to his feet. She backed up a step with a wary glance up. It wasn’t any wonder, given what she’d gone through, and that was with him knowing the bare bones. While his choices had left him with scars, he’d known what he was getting into. Her? There had been no choice and he half wanted to go back to the mansion and tear Vermain a new hole.

More than half, if he was honest.

That was who he was. Who he’d been for so long that he barely remembered the person he’d been beforehand. He could not let Miss Wells take that path.

“Killing him won’t bring them back,” he told her softly, putting his hands on her shoulders. She jerked back, eyes flaring bright. He held both hands up. “Sorry.”

“Then you’ll still stand in the way? Reading what you just did?” She scoffed. “The money must really be something.”

Her tone was bitter. Angry. She shot him a look of hatred so pure that he lost the ability to breathe. Ten subjects, but only two survivors. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

“I’m not going to let you kill him. I didn’t say that I was going to follow orders, though.”

She sighed hard and shook her head. “The plan wasn’t to kill him. I want to expose what he’s done. I want to burn his empire to the fucking ground. It’d be easier to do that with you out of the way, but don’t think I won’t go through you, Paladin.

God, she was fierce. He loved it. Still… “You’ll burn with it like this.”

“I don’t care. I’m willing to make that sacrifice.” The anger bled from her and she looked utterly lost. It sparked a protectiveness that was as unexpected as it was sudden. “Eight people have died, Paladin. Eight that I know of. God knows if there are more. Left to his own devices, there will be. You have to see that? You have to understand that he thinks some people are disposable. That their lives are worthless. Just because he has money.”

He reached for her again without thinking. She inhaled sharply when he wrapped a gentle hand around her upper arm and her chin lifted. However, she didn’t push him off. Didn’t pull away. She gazed up, her pale eyes shimmering with pain and grief.

It broke his heart.

“You’re right, but expose the testing.” He glanced back at the folder. “There should be enough to shut that down. Let the courts deal with him. Leave your hands clean.”

“You think a man that rich will face justice?” Her laugh was bitter. “There is one way only, and that’s to take him down myself. I had hoped you’d…” She shook her head. “But when did hope do anything? And I don’t have the money to counter his offer.”

Paladin bit back a smile. “Is my life in danger? From you, I mean?”

She snorted. “No. It never was, really.”

“Say yes.”

“What?” Her confusion was adorable.

“Say. Yes.”

“Yes?”

“There you go.” He folded his arms and grinned at her. She looked at him like he’d gone crazy. “See, while my services are bought, my life is a larger currency. If I don’t wanna die, then I have to work for you. Right?”

Understanding dawned as a small smile and a bottom lip caught between her teeth. She shook her head again, though this time in delight she couldn’t quite hide.

“Are you always this impossible?” she asked, her tone lighter than it had been a moment ago. The empty look in her eyes had faded.

“So I’m told.”

She gave a soft laugh, then sobered. “Half a million pounds.”

“Can’t spend it if I’m dead.”

She moved past him to the desk, then rested a hand on it and stared down at the folder. “I haven’t trusted anyone enough to ask for help. I’m not sure that I should trust you.”

Paladin nodded slowly. “Understandable. I’m not… Miss Wells, I am not a hero. I don’t pretend to be. But I know right from wrong, and what Vermain’s doing is very wrong.” He reached past her and tapped the report in its plastic sleeve. “This is really fucking wrong.”

“Bea,” she whispered.

“What?”

“My name is Bea. Well, Beatrice, but I hate that. You… you can call me Bea.”

It felt like a gift, considering the evening’s events. A tiny measure of trust. He gave her a toothy grin.

“Bea it is, then.”