Page 90 of At Your Mercy
It had filled me with a deep sense of dread.
Then I remembered the scene I’d walked down into.
The basement I used to spend my best days in, relishing in my father’s attention, was just concrete, wood, and pipes. Elias stood at the base of the stairs; Wes was bloody and seated in a chair at the center of the room.
I hardly remembered reaching the bottom of the stairs or what words Elias had said to me.
But I did remember pulling out the gun, aiming, firing.
Click. Boom.
Then—chaos.
Gunfire. Heat. Pain.
And then—darkness.
I pressed a hand against my chest again, the ache pulsing under my palm. The memory of the bullet was too clear now, a phantom weight still lodged inside me. But someone had patched me up—wrapped me tight, stopped the bleeding.
Wes.
He must’ve gotten us out.
The realization sent a faint tremor through me, half relief, half dread. My stomach twisted as another thought followed:Elias.
Was he dead?
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to piece together the fragments that followed the shot. There’d been shouting—stern, commanding voices I didn’t recognize. Men rushing into the basement, guns drawn. Wes was cradling me.
It all blurred together after that.
My throat felt dry as sandpaper. I swallowed hard, glancing toward the door. I could hear the murmur of voices, but couldn’t make out the words they were saying.
I forced myself to breathe, slow and steady.
My fingers drifted to the bandages again, tracing the edge where clean white gauze met pale skin. Whoever had tended to me knew what they were doing. The wound didn’t feel fresh anymore. It was sore, but not bleeding. A few days old at least. Had I been asleep for that long?
I exhaled shakily and leaned back into the pillows. The ceiling above me blurred and refocused.
The door creaked open.
For a heartbeat, I thought I was imagining it—the soft shuffle of feet, the faint hitch of breath—but then Wes stepped inside, and every muscle in my body went rigid.
He froze when he saw me awake. The relief on his face was immediate and staggering, like the tension holding him up snapped all at once. His shoulders slumped, his eyes went glassy, and he just stood there in the doorway for a second, staring at me like I might disappear if he blinked.
“Ronan,” he breathed, voice cracking around my name.
It hit me then, in the quiet between us—the patch over his left eye, the dark bruise along his jaw, the splint around his wrist.
My chest ached with something that wasn’t physical. “Wes… You’re hurt.”
That was all I managed before he was crossing the room, dropping to his knees beside the bed, and cupping my face with shaking hands.
“Babydoll, you—” His voice broke again. “You were shot. You werefucking shot.” He swallowed hard, pressing his forehead to my arm. “I thought you were gonna die.”
I blinked at him, stunned by the raw fear in his tone. His hands trembled against my skin, his breath uneven. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
“I’m okay,” I lied, the words rough and small.
