Page 12 of At Your Mercy
He wanted me to know he could have ended me, and didn’t.
Ichabod said, “First order of business: you don’t stay here. Not until we gut this system and build it back stronger. Pack a bag.”
I laughed, but there wasn’t much humor in it. “And go where? Some hotel? A safehouse?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation.
I shook my head. “If he can walk intothisplace, what the hell do you think is going to happen at a hotel, Ich? He’ll waltz right in, order fucking room service on my tab.”
Ichabod’s mouth opened like he wanted to argue, but then shut again. His silence was answer enough.
This apartment was supposed to be the best of the best—locked down, fortified. And Ro had just casually slipped into it like it was his own.
“He won’t catch me running,” I said finally. “Not here, not anywhere. If he wants to play, I’ll play. But I’m not giving him the satisfaction of seeing me pack my shit and scurry off like a rat. I’m going to stay.”
Ichabod swore under his breath, but I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t—not with the way my mind had started circling back to the feel of his knife at my throat, his lips shining when he pulled off the barrel.
For a man who’d broken into my home with the intention of reminding me how mortal I was, Ro had left me with something else entirely.
The scent of him was still clinging to the sheets, stubborn and sharp. And damn me, but when I closed my eyes after Ich and Lena had finally left, the image that came wasn’t of him cutting me open—it was of him straddling me again, softer this time, without the blade.
This was dangerous. Not just because he was a threat, but because a part of me—traitorous, hungry—wasn’t thinking about danger at all.
It was thinking of how I could fuck that attitude right out of him and leave him sobbing for my touch.
4
Wesley
The warehouse was already humming with activity when I arrived. The air smelled of burnt coffee and gun oil—a familiar mixture, and sharp enough to wake me better than caffeine ever could.
I shrugged out of my coat and rolled my sleeves past my elbows, feeling every pair of eyes in the room hitch briefly my way before darting back to their screens, dossiers, and surveillance feeds.
“Morning,” I said, voice carrying across the command room. I made my way to my desk at the center of it all and took a seat.
Lena approached and slid a manila folder across my desk. I was thankful that she made no comment about the break-in that had occurred the night prior. “Three potentials. One corporate leech out of Miami—no bodies, he’s white collar. One judge with too many skeletons in her closet—we can link at least one bodyto her, but it was a hit she hired out for. Additionally, she has a history of issuing some overly lenient sentences and others overly harsh sentences, depending on who’s lining her pockets. And lastly, a cartel broker—he’s got a whole ass list.”
I flipped the file open, scanning photographs, movements, reports in neat, coded shorthand. The corporate man required additional surveillance. I had a feeling there was more to him. The judge was, unfortunately, too useful to burn yet. But the broker… Well, he indeed had a long list of things he needed to answer for.
“Option three,” I said, tapping the page with two fingers. “Set up observation. No engagement yet.”
A ripple of quiet relief passed through the room. They always breathed easier when I made the call. None of them wanted to be the one responsible for pulling the trigger.
I leaned back in my chair, stretching my shoulders. “Anything else?”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was expectant, uneasy.
I knew that silence.
And right on cue, the double doors swung open.
Hayes and Hudson entered like a storm, wearing matching grins. Tall, sharp, clean-cut in their black jackets, the kind of men you’d mistake for models until they smiled a littletoowide. The room seemed to recoil around them.
“Uncle,” Hayes greeted, his voice all sugar. He leaned one elbow against the back of a chair, ignoring the way the analyst seated there went rigid. “We heard you’ve got fresh meat.”
Hudson came to stand at my shoulder, close enough that I caught the scent of his cologne. He bent low, whispering like it was a private joke meant only for me, “You’re not keeping the best toys for yourself again, are you?”
I gave him a look, steady and unamused, until he straightened. “Sit down,” I ordered, pointing to the empty chairs across from me.
