Page 45 of At Your Mercy
It should’ve been enough, and usually it was.
But as I stood over him, my chest heaving from exertion, my knife dripping, I somehow felt even emptier than before.
The echo of Wes’s voice threaded through my head, unshakable.You’re so good for me, aren’t you?
I hated it. I hated Elias. I hated Wes. I hated myself most of all.
Wiping the blade on the dead man’s jacket, I turned on my heel and slipped back into the night, the city swallowing me whole.
The blood was barely dry on my hands when I called Elias again.
“I need another.” I didn’t bother pretending it was for the mission. Elias would know better anyway.
He chuckled, low and pleased, like he’d been waiting for me to ask. “Greedy boy. I thought one would settle you.”
“Well, it didn’t.”
Silence stretched on the line, long enough that my pulse started to pound with something ugly. Then he finally spoke, “Fine. There’s a private gathering tonight. Small. You’ll like it. Consider it… a gift. I’m sure you’ll give them a good show.”
The address hit my phone a second later, and I ended the call.
By the time I found the place—a strip club that looked like it hadn’t seen a health inspection in at least two decades—the bass was already rattling through the walls. Smoke clung to the doorway, smelling of cheap perfume layered over sweat and liquor. The bouncer at the front didn’t even stop me. Elias must’ve called ahead or some shit, because the man just opened the velvet rope and let me inside with a grin that made my stomach turn.
I took a short detour to the grimy bathrooms to get ready before going to find my prey.
The “gathering” was in the back, in a low-lit private room thick with cigar haze. A handful of men sat sprawled around a small stage at the center of the room. Their eyes were glazed from booze, from greed, maybe even from whatever lines they’d snorted before I walked in.
They thought I was the entertainment. Elias had made sure of it.
I felt the mask slip over my face—the one that let me survive, the one that wasn’t me at all. My steps became fluid, deliberate, sexual—predatory but enticing. I knew how to use my body to distract, to bait. They all leaned forward on the couches, jeering, hungry for boys and girls who had no choice but to serve them.I let the music guide me onto the stage, dressed only in a tiny black thong and bralette, a silky red robe, and red-bottomed heels.
Every eye was on me—every laugh sounded grating.
The music pulsed through the walls and into my bones, loud enough to drown out my thoughts if I let it. I wrapped my fingers around the cold steel of the pole, let my body sway with the rhythm—a practiced curve of my back, a calculated roll of my hips. I let my robe fall open, a splash of red against the dim, smoke-hazed lights.
They whooped and whistled, some already fumbling at their belts. I smiled—the smile Elias had trained into me, the one that promised submission even while I planned their deaths.
I twined around the pole, heels clicking sharply against the stage, every movement deliberate. They wanted to believe they were in control, that I was their toy for the night. They didn’t see the knife hidden under my robe, tucked into the back of the bralette. They didn’t see the tension in my muscles, coiled and ready to strike.
I hated every second of it—the way their eyes stripped me bare, the way their leers clawed at my skin. But I was good at this. Too good. Elias had made sure of that.
Eliasalwaysmade sure of everything.
My fingers slid up the pole, body arching, head tipping back, throat bared in mock surrender as my hair swayed. Their cheers rose louder. I kept moving—swinging low, slow, spreading my legs just enough to draw them in closer.
One of them stumbled forward, too drunk to wait for the show to end, his hand reaching out like he had a right to me. My smile sharpened, and in the same breath that I dropped to my knees in time with the beat of the song, I slipped the blade free.
The music masked the first wet sound of the cut. His body jerked, blood spraying across the stage lights like somegrotesque strobe effect. For a split second, the others didn’t even notice.
Then I stood, their companion’s blood dripping down my arm, and they realized.
The mask fell away, and my face went blissfully blank.
My movements weren’t teasing anymore—they were vicious, precise, each strike honed by years of practice. The screams drowned out the music, but my body moved with the rhythm anyway.
They tried to run, but didn’t make it far.
By the time the music cut out, the room was painted red.
