Page 18 of Mercy

I spot him as soon as I enter the main room.

He's leaning against the bar, chatting with Aziza, but his eyes lock onto me the moment I appear.

The smirk that spreads across his face makes my knees weak.

"Well, well," Aziza says, her eyes dancing with amusement. "Dang, who are you going on a hot date with?"

I open my mouth to deny it, but Tor beats me to the punch. "Me," he says, his voice filled with a possessive pride that sends a shiver down my spine.

"It's not a date," I protest automatically, even as my cheeks flush.

I don’t want anyone in the club to know what’s going on, not while it’s so fresh.

Tor raises an eyebrow, his smirk growing wider. "It's absolutely a date," he counters, pushing off from the bar and sauntering towards me. "Just so there's no confusion."

My heart does a somersault in my chest.

A date.

With Tor.

I try to keep my face neutral, but inside, I'm doing cartwheels.

"Oh really?" I manage to say, aiming for nonchalant but probably missing by a mile. "And when exactly did I agree to that?"

Tor reaches me, his hand coming to rest on the small of my back.

The heat of his touch burns through my shirt. "When we were upstairs. And then about thirty seconds ago, you had the nerve to come down those stairs looking like that," he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear.

I swallow hard, fighting the urge to lean into him. "You’re not shy in vocalizing your opinions today."

He chuckles, the sound sending warmth pooling in my belly. "Baby, I never am. Ready to go?"

As we head toward the door, Aziza calls out, "Have fun on your not-date!"

I flip her off over my shoulder, but I can't keep the smile off my face.

Tor's hand guides me through the garage door, and my breath catches as I take in the sleek lines of his motorcycle. “Wait, are we taking your bike?”

It's a beast of a machine, all gleaming chrome and midnight black paint.

He chuckles, "Damn straight. Here," Tor says, handing me a helmet. "Safety first."

As I strap it on, the weight of the moment hits me.

Riding on the back of a biker's motorcycle isn't just a casual thing—it's reserved for ol’ ladies, girlfriends, for the women who truly belong.

My hands tremble slightly as I adjust the strap.

Tor asks, his bottle-green eyes searching mine. "You good?"

I nod, not trusting my voice.

He swings his leg over the bike with practiced ease, and I follow, wrapping my arms around his solid torso.

The engine roars to life, vibrating through me, and we're off.

The wind whips past as we cruise down the road, and I can't help but lean into Tor's back, savoring his warmth and the exhilaration of the ride.

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