Page 50 of At Your Mercy
Ichabod’s shoulders dropped a fraction, the tightness in his face easing. “So what’s the plan when—if—Ro finds out and starts resisting the idea of taking Elias down? We need contingencies. Safe places don’t work if the person wants to go back. We need to dismantle Elias’s influence.”
“I know. I’ll figure it out,” I grunted. “I want surveillance on Ro. We make sure nothing happens to him while we gather the pieces.”
Ichabod’s eyes were steady in reply. “I’ll set it up.”
As he walked back to the bank of screens, I sat for a long moment and let myself feel the odd dissonance: a man in his fifties planning a rescue because a younger man’s soft breathing in his bed had unraveled his routine. Dangerous, foolish, perhaps—maybe all of the above.
Still, I found I didn’t regret it. If anything, I regretted the world that had made Ro a weapon and then called it a life. I’d seen men like Elias before. I’d put them down. This one would be no different—except that now, for the first time in a long time, the stakes felt a little too high.
13
Ronan
The cafe was too bright for my liking. It made me feel exposed. Couples and friends crowded the tables, sipping their coffees like they had no idea what it meant to look over their shoulder.
I put in a drink order with the human golden retriever working the counter, then slid into the restroom. I ignored the other patrons coming and going from the stalls and stared at my reflection in the large mirror above the sinks.
Look at me, just about to casually back-stab the man who’d raised me.
Not that he doesn’t deserve it, though.
I picked a loose thread off the hem of my old R.E.M. t-shirt, smiling a bit at how I was dressed. Elias preferred a more feminine look from me—glam, high-end escort vibes with sequins, silk, glossy lips, and dresses molded to my body—a fantasy, curated by him.
But this? This was real.
The shirt was worn thin in spots, the print cracked with age, but it reminded me of basement nights when my father would disappear into his man cave for hours on end, much to the amusement of my mother, who said he’d turned into a true American man.
They’d emigrated from Germany when I was two. My mom had flown against medical advice, refusing to disrupt the plans she and my father had made. Just short of a month later, she’d given birth to a healthy baby boy—my little brother, Henri.
Three years later, we’d grown to a family of five with the addition of Lia, my little sister.
The walls of our unfinished basement had been covered in posters: Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Bowie—his holy trinity. Guitars leaned against amps, and records were stacked like bricks. He’d play those old alt-rock albums loud enough that the house seemed to hum with it, and I’d sit at the top of the stairs listening, waiting for the moment he’d beckon me down to join him.
Just me.
My siblings would be upstairs getting ready for bed with our mom, while I got to share those basement memories with just him.
He’d hand me a Coke, crack open his beer, and tell me what the songsmeant—to him, to the world. He had a way of talking like music was gospel—like riffs and lyrics could keep a man alive longer than air.
That was before he was gone.
Before all of them were gone.
Now, whenever I pulled on one of the thrifted band tees in my closet, I felt like a younger, truer version of myself. Not Elias’s ornament, not a weapon someone else pointed.
Just me—the boy in the basement who knew that guitars sometimes sounded better when they weren’t perfectly tuned.
I tugged the shirt straight, raked my pale hair back with my fingers, and let my eyes settle back on the reflection in the mirror.
If he could see me now,would he recognize me? Would he be able to see past all that I’d done?
I gritted my teeth, swallowing back my emotions.It didn’t matter.
I pushed away from the sink and slipped out of the restroom. The cafe buzzed with chatter, too warm, too alive, and for a moment, I felt the weight of eyes on me—people always stared, though they pretended not to.
“Cafe mocha for Ro,” the too-happy guy at the counter called, voice cheerful as a bell.
I crossed the room at an easy pace, weaving between tables without hurry. My boots scuffed against the old wood floors, and I brushed a strand of white hair behind my ear. I slid up to the counter and took the warm cup from his hand.
