Page 69 of At Your Mercy
“Idiot,” I whispered, pulling the knife free.
I wiped it clean on his shirt, tucked it back against my thigh, and stepped away, already blending into the shadows. My pulse was steady—my breathing calm.
On the surface, it was just another night. Another job. Another gift from Elias broken in.
But underneath, where Wes’s hands had held me only hours ago, where his voice still lingered like an anchor in my head—something shifted.
And I didn’t know if it was a strength or a weakness that I now carried within me.
I slid back into the waiting car, the door closing with a dull thud that cut the noise of the busy downtown street clean away. The driver didn’t say a word, didn’t even glance at me, just eased us back into traffic.
My phone buzzed against my thigh. Elias. Of course.
I thumbed the answer button and lifted it to my ear. “That one was too easy,” I sighed.
There was a low hum on the other end, Elias considering me. “Boring then?”
“Yeah. Can’t you give me something interesting?”
He chuckled, “I don’t know, Ronan.” His tone shifted, lazy but edged. “I can’t help but notice how long it’s taking you to put an end to Cohen.”
My fingers tightened around the phone. “You were the one who told me to take it slow, get him to trust me. I’m just following orders.”
“Yes, but surely he trusts you by now.” The sneer in his voice was audible even through the line. “You’ve fucked him often enough. I imagine he’s wrapped around your little finger.”
The shame hit hot and fast, coiling in my gut. I turned my face toward the window so the driver couldn’t catch whatever flashed across my expression. The city lights blurred in streaks against the glass.
Elias laughed softly, cruelly. “Don’t tell me you’ve grown attached. That would be… disappointing.”
“I haven’t,” I lied, the word rough in my throat. “I’m just waiting for the right time.”
“Good,” Elias said, his approval sliding over me like oil. “I want it done by the end of next week. Once it’s done,thenyou can have some fun jobs.”
The line went dead before I could answer.
I let the phone slip into my lap, my hand trembling despite the steady rhythm of my heartbeat.
For a moment, I thought I might smash the phone against the seat just to hear something break.
Instead, I sat back, fingers brushing the hilt of the knife still warm from use.
And I told myself over and over that Elias hadn’t won—that he couldn’t win. I was going to destroy him with Wes’s help. I was going to be free of him finally.
Even if part of me wondered if I’d ever be free of the way his words clung to my skin like filth.
17
Wesley
In the following days, Ro began pushing away, like he was hastily rebuilding his walls after I’d all but torn them down the other night.
I’d seen the behavior before, in witnesses who thought they could handle testifying until the reality of it started settling in, and in undercover agents who’d started losing themselves in their cover.
The more he pulled away, the more I wanted to grab hold.
By the third day of it, I’d had enough. I caught him as he was slipping his boots on by his front door, shoulders tense, eyes down.
“Ro,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “What’s going on with you?”
