Page 107 of At Your Mercy
When we finally stood, the sun had started dipping lower, a pale orange bleeding through the trees. The shadows stretched long across the grass, over the stones, over the small one I’d placed myself.
I stared down at it and felt something settle deep in my chest. Not peace, exactly, but a kind of stillness. A knowing.
“Goodbye, Andreas,” I murmured. “You can rest now.”
We walked back toward the path slowly. I could feel the weight of everything behind me—the years, the hurt, the ghosts—but it didn’t feel like it was chasing me anymore. Just… following, the way memories do.
When we reached the car, I looked back once more. The daisies on my mother’s grave caught the light, glowing faintly in the fading sun.
“Do you think they’d be proud?” I asked.
Wes didn’t answer right away. He turned to look with me, thoughtful. “I think,” he said finally, “they’d be glad you lived.That you fought to come back from it. That you didn’t let him win. I think they’d be very proud.”
My throat tightened again, and a tear slipped down my cheek. “I hope so.”
Wes leaned in, brushing a kiss against my temple. “I know so.”
I smiled faintly, resting my head against his shoulder for a heartbeat before pulling open the car door. The gravel crunching again under our feet as we climbed in.
“Thank you for coming with me. I wasn’t sure about coming alone, driving here by myself.”
“No, thank you for sharing them with me. Next time, though, remind me to bring flowers.” Wes smiled, resting his right hand on my thigh.
Outside the window, the cemetery gate slipped past us, and I felt the weight lift from my shoulders.
Because Andreas had finally been laid to rest—
And I was finally free to live.
25
Ronan
One Year Later
The gym in the warehouse smelled like sweat, metal, and faint traces of gun oil—the kind of scent that seeps into your skin and stays there no matter how many times you shower. I didn’t mind it. It smelled like purpose.
“Again,” I said, circling the mat. “And this time, don’t telegraph your swing.”
Lane adjusted his stance, breathing hard, the end of his braid sticking to his cheek.
Dorian stood across from him, his movements precise but too restrained, like he was still thinking too hard instead of letting his body lead.
“Come on,” I urged. “You can’t analyze someone mid-fight. They won’t wait for you to figure out their next move.”
Dorian’s gaze flicked to me, annoyed but focused.
Dorian lunged, and they collided hard, the slap of their feet against the mat echoing through the open space. Dorian feinted left, caught Lane’s shoulder, and tried to sweep his leg—only to get elbowed neatly in the ribs for his trouble.
Lane grinned triumphantly at him. “Gotcha.”
Dorian exhaled through his nose, rubbing the spot. “You’re just faster because you’re so little,princess,” he grumbled, scowling at Lane in his pastel pink sports bra and yoga pants.
“Aw, someone’s embarrassed that a pretty twink is beating their ass,” Lane teased.
Dorian rolled his eyes and cracked his neck, his black hair messy in a bun.
“Enough,” I said, but there was a hint of amusement in my voice. “Good. Both of you are improving. Lane, you’re doing great, but don’t get cocky. Dorian, stop hesitating. If you see an opening, take it.”
