Read Online Frontline by Alexandra Richland - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alexandra Richland
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give them a good push to open them. Inside, it’s dark. I place my palm flat against the wall and drag it along until I locate the light switch. One flick and the room illuminates before me.
The blood drains from my face.
Oh, my God.
It seems I have a reason to be afraid of Mr. Merrick after all.
Chapter Six
Weapons. The room is full of weapons.
Hundreds of ancient swords and daggers are mounted on the walls and displayed in glass cases, lining the black marble pathway that slices the length of the vast rectangular room. The dim light reflects off the metal blades, creating the illusion I’m in a room full of mirrors.
My first instinct is to flee before Mr. Merrick finds me in here, but my legs don’t cooperate. My eyes remains fixed ahead, feet anchored in place.
Okay, don’t panic, Sara. All these weapons don’t necessarily mean Mr. Merrick is going to go all Norman Bates on you.
Maybe Mr. Merrick feels he’s too cool to collect stamps or something normal so he decided to get more creative and collect . . . sharp tools used for slicing and stabbing?
Who am I kidding? Run, Sara! Run!
Instead, I exhale a deep breath and take a step forward. There’s something about his collection that intrigues me as much as it terrifies me. Maybe the wine is affecting my judgment.
I may know absolutely nothing about swords and daggers, but I’ve read every book in J.R. Ward’s Black Dagger Brotherhood series so I can’t help but equate these weapons with sex, control, wealth, bad boys and, well, more sex. And I’m not talking about slow, tame sex. I’m talking hot, wild, fuck-the-foreplay-I need-you-right-now kind of sex.
My body heats up at the thought of Mr. Merrick wearing leather and shitkickers.
The door wasn’t locked so he can’t be hiding his collection, which means he probably isn’t a psycho killer. Then again, Randall did instruct me to stay in the parlor so maybe this room isn’t meant to be found.
Oh, well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
My heels echo along the floor as I travel deeper into the room, gripping my wine glass with both hands. A large chandelier casts shadows across the cathedral ceiling and blood red walls, highlighting the intricate details on the handles of each weapon. I notice that all of the blades are long, thick, and angled upward. Maybe Mr. Merrick collects them to compensate for where he’s lacking in other areas. Though, he certainly didn’t feel small when he rubbed against me during our passionate exchange at the hospital.
My heart races at the memory. I close my eyes to steady myself.
Okay, Sara. Now is not the time to think about Mr. Merrick’s large cock.
“See anything you like, Miss Peters?”
I gasp and wheel around to face the doors. My wine slaps against the inside of the glass, teetering just shy of the brim.
Mr. Merrick stands in the entryway, an imposing figure blanketed in shadow. The silhouette of his coiffed hair, tall, lean frame, and tailored suit weakens my knees.
“Yes, I definitely see something I like.” I drag my forefinger around the rim of my glass, surprised by my uncharacteristic, brazen response. “And please, call me Sara.”
“All right . . . Sara .”
Mr. Merrick emerges from the shadows in all black —black suit, black tie, and black dress shoes. His fair skin appears almost translucent in contrast.
Please don’t be a psycho killer. You’re much too gorgeous.
His measured footsteps resonate across the marble floor as he strolls toward me, his commanding presence dwarfing the cavernous room. I back up slowly, my body surging in response to his unyielding expression and perilous unpredictability, despite the alarm bells clanging between my ears.
At the far end of the room, I stop and wait, ready and eager to receive him.
He is the hunter. I am the hunted.
Finally, he stands before me. I breathe in his spicy scent, craving more . . .
Waiting . . .
“You’ re not supposed to be in here.”
“What are you going
The blood drains from my face.
Oh, my God.
It seems I have a reason to be afraid of Mr. Merrick after all.
Chapter Six
Weapons. The room is full of weapons.
Hundreds of ancient swords and daggers are mounted on the walls and displayed in glass cases, lining the black marble pathway that slices the length of the vast rectangular room. The dim light reflects off the metal blades, creating the illusion I’m in a room full of mirrors.
My first instinct is to flee before Mr. Merrick finds me in here, but my legs don’t cooperate. My eyes remains fixed ahead, feet anchored in place.
Okay, don’t panic, Sara. All these weapons don’t necessarily mean Mr. Merrick is going to go all Norman Bates on you.
Maybe Mr. Merrick feels he’s too cool to collect stamps or something normal so he decided to get more creative and collect . . . sharp tools used for slicing and stabbing?
Who am I kidding? Run, Sara! Run!
Instead, I exhale a deep breath and take a step forward. There’s something about his collection that intrigues me as much as it terrifies me. Maybe the wine is affecting my judgment.
I may know absolutely nothing about swords and daggers, but I’ve read every book in J.R. Ward’s Black Dagger Brotherhood series so I can’t help but equate these weapons with sex, control, wealth, bad boys and, well, more sex. And I’m not talking about slow, tame sex. I’m talking hot, wild, fuck-the-foreplay-I need-you-right-now kind of sex.
My body heats up at the thought of Mr. Merrick wearing leather and shitkickers.
The door wasn’t locked so he can’t be hiding his collection, which means he probably isn’t a psycho killer. Then again, Randall did instruct me to stay in the parlor so maybe this room isn’t meant to be found.
Oh, well. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
My heels echo along the floor as I travel deeper into the room, gripping my wine glass with both hands. A large chandelier casts shadows across the cathedral ceiling and blood red walls, highlighting the intricate details on the handles of each weapon. I notice that all of the blades are long, thick, and angled upward. Maybe Mr. Merrick collects them to compensate for where he’s lacking in other areas. Though, he certainly didn’t feel small when he rubbed against me during our passionate exchange at the hospital.
My heart races at the memory. I close my eyes to steady myself.
Okay, Sara. Now is not the time to think about Mr. Merrick’s large cock.
“See anything you like, Miss Peters?”
I gasp and wheel around to face the doors. My wine slaps against the inside of the glass, teetering just shy of the brim.
Mr. Merrick stands in the entryway, an imposing figure blanketed in shadow. The silhouette of his coiffed hair, tall, lean frame, and tailored suit weakens my knees.
“Yes, I definitely see something I like.” I drag my forefinger around the rim of my glass, surprised by my uncharacteristic, brazen response. “And please, call me Sara.”
“All right . . . Sara .”
Mr. Merrick emerges from the shadows in all black —black suit, black tie, and black dress shoes. His fair skin appears almost translucent in contrast.
Please don’t be a psycho killer. You’re much too gorgeous.
His measured footsteps resonate across the marble floor as he strolls toward me, his commanding presence dwarfing the cavernous room. I back up slowly, my body surging in response to his unyielding expression and perilous unpredictability, despite the alarm bells clanging between my ears.
At the far end of the room, I stop and wait, ready and eager to receive him.
He is the hunter. I am the hunted.
Finally, he stands before me. I breathe in his spicy scent, craving more . . .
Waiting . . .
“You’ re not supposed to be in here.”
“What are you going
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