Page 72 of At Your Mercy
“And?”
“And?” he repeated, confused. When he tried to lift his head up to look at me, I pushed it back down. I put my palm on his hip, steadying him. His skin was warm and flushed, a line of color blooming where my hand had landed.
“You didn’t rely on me, Ro. You didn’t come to me with your concerns.” I smacked his right cheek, drawing a hiss of pain out of him.
“O-oh,” he breathed, shifting his hips. “You want me to do that?”
“You—” I took a breath, calming my rising frustration. Softening my tone, I started again, “Yes, I want you to rely on me. I was hoping you understood that since you called me over the other day.”
“I just… I…”
“Listen to me, doll. I love you. You said you love me too. People who love each other—well, they go to each other for support, for comfort.” Another spank.
Ro’s breath hitched. “Are we dating then?” he asked quietly, sounding unsure.
I gave him two lighter swats and drew him up into my arms. He folded into me. I buried my face in his hair and inhaled—salt, soap, him—and the smell steadied the growl in my ribs.
“We can be whatever you want us to be, Ronan,” I murmured softly. “I guess I hadn’t thought about what actually to call this.”
“If you were my boyfriend, then I’d never hide stuff from you again,” he said too sweetly, making me huff out a laugh.
“Oh, is that so?” He nodded, grinning as he looked up at me. I rolled my eyes, but kissed the top of his head.
“I want you to be mine,” he said.
“Ro, I’ve been yours.”
He bit his lip, mischief and hope warring in his eyes. “So say it. Say you’re my boyfriend, Wesley Cohen.”
I tilted my head, watching him. The look on his face was so unguarded it made something in my chest ache. He’d gone from trembling to bratty to almost shy in seconds, and I was watching it happen in my lap like a time-lapse.
“Say it,” he whispered again. “Say you’re my boyfriend.”
My thumb brushed his jaw, a slow stroke to keep him grounded. “Yeah, Ro. I’m your boyfriend,” I said quietly, the words coming out steadier than I felt.
His smile cracked wide and quick, like sunlight through a break in the clouds. “You’re my boyfriend.”
I tipped forward and kissed him, soft and slow, a lover’s kiss. His hands came up around my neck and clung there, and I felt him melt against me.
When I pulled back, he was blinking up at me with that same shy light in his eyes. “You mean it?” he asked, like he needed to hear it again, just to be sure.
“I mean it.” I traced a thumb over the bruised, blooming color on his hip. “I’m not going anywhere. But,” I added, letting a faint smile tug at my mouth, “don’t think I’ve forgotten about your punishment.”
He tilted his head, pretending to be innocently confused. “What do you mean?”
I let my palm slide back down, cupping his ass. “You still owe me ten more, babydoll. Over my lap.”
* * *
The vibe in the warehouse was tense, to say the least. Harsh fluorescent lights hummed from above us. Monitors lined one wall in the conference room we’d taken over, Ichabod manning the displays. My nephews—Hayes, Hudson, and the oldest, Greyson—sat around the long table like soldiers called in for battle.
Ich had already walked them through the basics. He kept the dossier open on the tablet at the center of the table; Ro’s photos were locked in a folder, cataloged by date. I didn’t need to look at them again. I’d seen enough in the bathroom to haunt me for years to come.
“You all saw what I sent,” I said, starting without preamble. “Ro found files on Elias’s home computer. There are names, ages, and locations going back as far as twenty-six years ago.”
Greyson drummed his fingers on the edge of the table, appearing lost in thought, which was odd for him.
“Ichabod?” I prompted. He tapped the screen, and the three location names glowed larger: Fulton, Belmont, and Truman.
