Page 56 of At Your Mercy
I was so tired of being rare, exotic, one-of-a-kind.
I wasn’t an object.
I was a person.
The dealer packed the others away, latching the case shut with a heavy snap. Elias clapped his hands once, and as if on cue, the stylist swept in. His rolling rack followed, burdened with hangers of shimmering fabrics, sequins, silks, and lace.
“Now to get you into something that accentuates your beauty,” Elias crooned, sliding an arm lightly around my shoulders.
I nodded.
“Let’s get those clothes off of you then,” the stylist said smoothly, already reaching for a slip of shiny silver fabric.
I tensed. “No. I want to change in my old room. Alone.”
The weapons dealer smirked, amused. Elias’s eyes narrowed, sharp as glass. “Alone?” he echoed, tilting his head like a predator sniffing a lie. “You’ve never been shy about lettingothers see. Half of this continent could tell you what you look like naked, Ro.”
Heat prickled across my neck, but I kept my voice calm, quiet. “It’s not about being shy.” I leaned in close, lips almost brushing his ear, letting only him hear. “I have a small rash on my back. I didn’t think you’d want anyone to see.”
He stiffened. His vanity was a blade sharper than anything in that case.
Did I have a rash? Course not, but he didn’t need to know that.
For a moment, silence hung. Then he hummed low, stroking a hand down my hair. “Very well. Go.”
The stylist seemed to want to protest. Elias cut him off with a snap of his fingers. “He’ll come down when he’s ready.”
“Wait, take these with you then,” the stylist insisted, shoving a pair of sparkling, strappy heels into my arms.
I inclined my head, careful not to look too eager as I left the room, clutching the garment draped over one arm, and shoes in the other.
Every step toward my old bedroom felt like a countdown.
Because I wasn’t going there.
Not when Elias’s study was just down the hall, behind a door I’d once been told was “never for me.”
And I’d always been the kind of child who wanted most what I wasn’t allowed to touch.
14
Ronan
The door handle to his study turned under my palm. It was unlocked. It’d never been unlocked while I was living here. Did he really trust his staff more than me? Or was it more along the lines of feeling threatened by me?
I slipped inside, shutting the door softly behind me.
The room was filled with wood paneling, shelves stocked with books, and a massive desk at its center. The computer sat waiting, its screen asleep. I draped the silver scrap of fabric the stylist had given me over the desk, tugged my t-shirt off and pants off, and then shrugged into it.
I slid into Elias’s desk chair, removed my boots, and strapped my feet into the heels I was given.
The computer came to life under my touch, glowing across my skin. There was no password, so he’d either guessed my true motive for the visit and set a trap, or he was just genuinelyegotistical enough that he couldn’t believe someone would ever try to pull one over on him.
Either way, I needed to get in and out as quickly as possible.
I moved quickly, clicking through folder after folder. At first, it was information I was already well aware of—his numerous shell companies and offshore accounts. However, after about ten folders, I found what Wes had asked for. Each held a string of directories labeled with innocuous words that meant nothing… until I opened them.
Maria Vasquez, F, Hispanic, 27. Date of acquisition: September 15th, 2025. Belmont.
