Page 23 of At Your Mercy
I’d call the only one I could call. Elias would talk me down, remind me who the enemy was, remind me who the fuck I was.
I hit his number. Listened to the line ring and ring until it clicked over.
Voicemail.
Grinding my teeth, I hung up and tried again, only to get the same. A second later, a text blinked onto my screen.
Elias:
Busy. I’ll stop by later.
“Great,” I muttered under my breath, shoving the phone back in my pocket hard enough that it nearly cracked. “Fucking great.”
The walk back toward my apartment blurred, and my head just wouldn’t shut up. Wes’s face lingered in every thought—those calm, steady eyes, the tone of his voice when he told me to sit up like I was a fucking schoolboy, the way he ordered food for me without a flicker of hesitation.
I’d sat there like some puppet, letting him tug the strings. And every time he said something—every time he dropped one of those goddamn nicknames—it was as if he were tugging something in me that I didn’t even want to admit existed.
Pervy old man. That’s all it was. Power games, some weird kink where he thought he could control me. But it worked, and I hated that it worked. I hated the shiver it sent down my spine, the way it made my chest feel too tight and too light at the same time.
He wasn’t supposed to be the one in control. I was the one who was sent to kill him. The only control I had in my life was with my marks, but now he’d gone and taken that away from me, too.
My laugh came out bitter. “Fucking pathetic,” I told myself, raking a hand through my hair as I walked faster.
By the time I made it back to my building, my nerves felt raw, ready to snap. The front door stuck on its hinges the way it always did, and I shoved it open hard enough that it banged against the wall. The sound echoed in the silence.
I kicked my shoes off and paced across the small living room. My hands wouldn’t stay still—first raking through my hair, thenballing into fists, then pulling at the collar of my shirt like it was choking me.
I wanted to scream, or break something, or—hell, maybe even laugh, because what the fuck was happening to me?
I should’ve felt triumphant. I’d walked into enemy territory in a way, sat across from the man I was supposed to kill, and walked back out. He’d even taken me out to eat, for god’s sake.
But all I felt was small.
It was like he’d cut me open with a single look, like he’d read all of my tells, my secrets, and left me bleeding out from the wound.
“Because there’s no need,” I mocked scathingly, flopping down onto the couch. “You haven’t actually tried yet.” My body couldn’t settle—I stretched out, sat up again, pressed my palms into my eyes until little sparks danced behind them.
I snatched up my phone again, thumb hovering over Elias’s contact. Half of me wanted to call him again, to scream until he listened. The other half wanted to throw the damn phone across the room.
What would really even be the use in ranting to him? It always felt like it’d help, but it never actually did. Sure, he usually got me refocused on the task at hand, but he was never a shoulder to lean on or a friend who’d join in on my ranting.
My head thunked back against the couch cushions. I closed my eyes tightly, heart pounding too loud in the quiet of my solitary home.
Fuck.
In my haze of aggravation, I’d somehow ignored the fact that Elias was going to be mad, considering I’d missed yet another chance to finish the job.
* * *
The sound of my lock clicking open had my whole body lurching up from where I’d fallen asleep on the couch. I fumbled for my phone, which had slipped underneath me at some point during my nap. A tap at the screen showed that I’d been asleep for about three hours.
“Why do you even bother with locks?” Elias muttered as he shut the door behind him. His tailored coat fell open as he moved toward me, his every motion as polished and practiced as ever. “Anyone who wants in here is either me or someone who a deadbolt won’t slow down.”
I sighed, nails digging into my palms. “You could just knock, you know.”
He arched a brow at me like I’d just told the punchline to a bad joke. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
That look, that tone, made my skin itch. My words shrank back into my throat as he crossed the room, setting his phone and keys neatly on the counter like he’d done a thousand times before.
