Page 11 of The Price of Mercy
At the sound of my voice, his gaze snaps to mine. Fire burns hot in his eyes, but I can’t tell its source. Fury? Desire? Obsession? Fuck, I’ve spent years watching him obsess over our targets as they fall apart beneath his touch. I’ve yearned to be the one he unravels. But that’s not what this is. Kane’s gaze is too intense—too sharp—and more dangerous than anything I’ve seen before. It’s like the man I’ve fallen in love with has forgotten who I am. What we are to each other. He’s not just my friend, but my brother. My lover. Myeverything.
I’ll do anything to keep him.
“Kane,” I start again, standing. “What’s going on?” I hold my tongue to keep from asking something specific, like “Where have you been?” or “Are we in danger?” Or, worst of all, “How’s Mercy?” The truth burns in my throat. I hope she’s bleeding on the floor right now. I hope that Kane walked in on her being railed by another man and lost his shit. I hope that she’s crying her eyes out, because her new favorite toy—my man—has lost all interest in her.
And yet.
Razor wire wraps tightly around my heart, squeezing, digging into the muscle, cutting deep and making me bleed. Picturing Mercy naked and alone with tears streaming down her face doesn’t… feel right. Itsoundsright. It’s what I’ve wanted. To get her out of the way so that Kane and I can finally be together, free from the binds of these stupid fucking games we play.
I’ve wanted this shit to end before it ever began. I’m the one who pulled the knife on her the first night we met. I wanted her dead and buried next to Forty-Three—barely a blip on our radar, underserving of the title Forty-Four, dead and gone in a heartbeat. That should be what I want now. It’s what I’ve been preparing for. Fixing up that ridiculous chapel on her family property. Setting it up like a rustic love nest, ignoring all of its flaws, because I know that Kane salivates over that shit. The worn floorboards, the cobwebs hanging from the eaves, the smudged stained glass windows casting muted light across every dust-covered surface. It’s dirty and awful and hardly romantic. But it’s where I’ve imagined Kane killing her, when this shit is finally said and done.
Cutting our journey short before the grand finale has its consequences. I won’t get to see how pretty of a corpse she is—bathed in ethereal moonlight, her perfect skin turned into a canvas of bruises, the rattle of her final breaths echoing in time with the flickering candlelight. I blink away the fantasy, knowing that it will never come true.
I can live with that disappointment so long as I have Kane.
Two long strides is all it takes for my lover to pounce. He barrels into my body, cupping my jaw and slamming his mouth over mine. The barest sound passes his lips—a hard, frustrated puff of air—as he backs me against the wall. Tearing at my clothes, he rips my t-shirt and attacks my neck at the same time, biting hard enough that I whimper.
“K-Kane,” I stutter, my nerves unable to keep up with the rapid-fire beat of my heart. Anxiety pulses through my bloodstream, knowing that I want this—I want him—but something isn’t right. We’ve spent the past week together in tender bliss, notthis.
Not aggression.
He wraps his palm around my throat. “Shut up.” Squeezing, he nips my jaw as he cuts off my airway. “I can’t think with your voice in my head, so just—” A shiver rolls down his body. “Stop talking.”
I grab the nape of his neck as I struggle with my next breath. “Safe word.” We never came up with one. I didn’t think I needed one. Butfuck.This is too much, too sudden, too rough?—
A growl rumbles inside Kane’s chest. “This is what you want, isn’t it?” He sucks a bruise into my skin, on the tip of my shoulder, and releases my neck, his hands dipping to roam my abdomen. “My attention.” Lowering his palm, he cups my balls and massages, sparking desire in my blood. It burns painfully hot as he licks a stripe up the side of my neck and groans, his erection swollen against my hip. “Speak up, Zane. Is that what you want?”
I choke on the words tumbling around my brain. Yes. No.Fuck.My cock thickens, heavy and hot between my legs, and I moan.
Shoving his hand in my boxers and grabbing my shaft at the base, Kane rubs my length against his wrist, barely stroking, his voice rumbling in my ear. “Use your words,lover.” The endearment sounds wrong—harsh like cracking glass. Kane bites harder, the clench of his teeth on my throat painful.
I can’t think like this. Can hardly breathe. I’ve spent hours wondering what he’s doing, where he is, who he’s with, but the sudden onslaught of attention renders me speechless. My body burns for him, but my heart aches.
Why? Why does this hurt?
Finally, I choke out a response. “Were you with her?” I feel the tension shift as Kane freezes in place, suddenly shaking from head to toe. “Were you?” Wedging my arms between us, I push him off of me. “Did you kiss her?” I shove him square in the chest. “Touch her?” My gaze rakes across his body, looking forsigns that they’ve been together. He’s shirtless. Hard as a rock, tenting his jeans so much that I’m sure it hurts. Jaw clenched. Eyes flashing like the sharpest shards of ice. “Did you kiss her—” I wipe my mouth on my forearm—“and come home to me after?”
Outrage roars in my ears, but I see it reflected in Kane’s eyes. He’s just as pissed as I am.
“You fucking asshole,” he growls, grabbing my wrists. “You think this is fun for me?” Spinning us around, he tosses me onto the bed and crawls on top. By now, this is our normal. Kane likes to be in control. He likes feeling me squirm beneath him. But this time, he hovers over me, barely touching my body with his. Shaking. Gritting his teeth. Angry. Hurt. Trying to make me happy, I think, in his own way.
Our eyes lock, and we glare at each other.
“You want me to apologize?” I scoff, stretching my arms over my head. The sheets are soft, contrasting the man nearly pinning me down. My knuckles knock against the wall. Rigid, just like Kane. “I won’t.” Jutting my chin out, I hold my ground. “I’m not sorry for anything.”
Not for his anger. Or what happened to Mercy. Or my role in everything. I’m not sorry about the years we’ve spent together—the people we’ve killed—the pain we’ve caused. Sometimes, when Kane is locked inside his studio finishing up a series of paintings, I visit the funerals of our victims. Studying their families. Feeling their grief. Forty-three kills, and I’ve been to at least half of their services, hiding in the shadows like a ghost. I can’t bring myself to regret a single murder. I’ve tried—begging the twisted chambers of my heart to pump an ounce of remorse into my soul—but it hasn’t worked.
Mercy is no different than the rest.
I don’t have any regrets about that girl.
“You’re not sorry for kissing her, so why should I be sorry for hurting her?” I know the answer. I know that I should sayit, too.Because hurting Mercy hurts Kane.But I can’t form the words when they’re not true. I’m a twisted, fucked-up man for everything I’ve done. Our fallen angel makes no difference. She hasn’t changed who I am—and she hasn’t changed Kane, despite what he may think.
Kane’s jaw clenches and unclenches repeatedly. His nostrils flare. His muscles twitch as he strains not to touch me. Blonde hair a mess, icy eyes wild, lips a darker shade of red than usual.
A speck of blood hiding under his chin.
He’s fucking breathtaking.
