Page 63 of The Price of Mercy
He tries to cover it up, steeling his expression as he turns back to me. But the damage has been done; I saw his heart break in the dining room hours ago, only to witness him taping the pieces back together so that he can hold onto that love for her a little longer. I don’t think he means to set himself up for failure or heartache; he’s just… in love with love. No matter if it’s for me or Mercy or both of us at once.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, trying to be supportive. My heart isn’t fully on board, but I can suck up the pain if it helps him heal. “It’s also okay to be sad that she loves someone else. That’s… life.” The smile I give is meant to be reassuring, but the tears stinging my eyes make it as watery and pathetic as I feel.
Of course Kane loves Mercy. She’s perfect for him.
“I’m not leaving you.” Sliding his hands into my hair, he pulls me close. “So don’t you dare try to pull away. I can love more than one person.”
But how much can he give either of us if his heart is split two ways?
Shaking my head, I close my eyes. I know that technically, he’s right. He can love two people. If anyone has the capacity for it, it’s him. I just don’t want to lose him… and now, after all this time, he knows that.
God, I’m a terrible boyfriend. I’m supposed to be reassuring him, and he’s the one reassuring me.
I rub the tips of our noses together and take a deep breath. “We’re a mess, aren’t we?”
“The messiest,” Kane agrees, smiling against my lips. “But you’remymess, Zane Hunter, and I’m yours.” The kiss is soft and sweet and a little sad, but maybe that’s our new normal.
Soft touches, sweet whispers, and sad hearts.
Chapter 25
Sam
In a perfect world,I would have been born to your average American family. We’d have grown up with a white picket fence—or a chain link one; I’m not picky—and a yard big enough to play catch or have a dog or spend evenings grilling hot dogs and hamburgers with the neighbors. Our house wouldn’t have to be large. Or fancy. Or even ours. Renting would be fine, too, not that I would have known the difference as a child. But we would have been happy. We could have been normal.
Just me, Mom, and Dad.
In a way, it’s still the three of us in this house. My dad hasn’t changed anything since Mom died; the decor is still hers, and the five foot tall family portrait hanging over the fireplace is frozen in time, reminiscent of the Romanovs before they fell. Sometimes, I wonder if there’s a curse on families like ours, ones who extend their reach beyond mortal limits. The Wright family name shouldn’t have as much power as it does, and yet, my father has enough sway to curb local elections and influence the city’s growth, helping new storefronts he deems worthwhile and ignoring all the rest.
When my mother was alive, she was the chairwoman on a lot of different committees. They met in our dining roomand drank tea from our finest chinaware. Together, my parents were an unstoppable force capable of bypassing red tape and creating change within the city. For a long time, I wanted to be just like them. Influential and well-liked among both peers and professional adversaries, with a doting wife and loving family.
Until I realized that it was all a lie.
I have no doubt that my father loved my mother, and I believe that when they first met, she fell head over heels for the confident, multi-million dollar heir to the Wright legacy. They began working together philanthropically before they ever got married, I’ve been told, and I think that seeded their interest in each other. Everything I’ve seen or heard about my parents’ sparkling reputation has been through the rose-tinted glasses of the public eye, which misses the heart of their relationship… or lack thereof.
My mother was as much a prisoner in my father’s world as I am today. Which, suddenly, is suffocating.
I’ve spent years pretending that I have autonomy—attending a local college instead of an Ivy League, driving around a beat-up old pickup truck that a friend sold me for dirt cheap, playing football and spending hours on the practice field to avoidevergoing home. But the reality is that no matter how far I think I’ve pulled away from my father, with one snap of his fingers, he can rope me back in and tighten the knots.
Standing in his office while he stares disapprovingly at me feels a lot like being a cockroach under his shoe. He’s waiting for the moment I sense freedom lurking just out of reach—for that tiny, glimmer of hope—before he breaks me.
Despite the hour of night, my father is dressed as though he’s come directly from a board meeting. For all I know, he may have just finished berating some poor employees who didn’t meet their monthly quota, and I’m next in line for a verbal lashing. When he finally speaks, I brace myself for the worst.
“Do you know why I’ve allowed you to entertain this fantasy of yours for so long?”
The best response is silence, but I can’t help myself. “And what fantasy would that be?”
My father’s perfect smile turns cruel. “That you have a choice, son. In any of this.” He stands and slowly makes his way to the built-in bar beside the unlit fireplace. “There are things outside of our control. Your birthright is one of them. You cannot deny it, much like I can’t deny it from you.”
“I’m sure you could find an all-too-eager replacement.” The glassware clinks as my father pours himself a drink. “I don’t want your money or your legacy, and I sure as hell don’t want your name.”
He turns around and walks closer. With one hand gripped tightly around his glass, he slaps me with the other. The liquid sloshes over the side and stains the rug, joining the red welt on my cheek as the only evidence of my provocation. “Neither of us has a choice in this, Samson.” He leans on the edge of his white marble desk as he takes a sip of his drink. “Your mother died before she could produce a more suitable heir, so as regrettable as it is, you are all I have.”
I was sixteen when mom died. They should have had plenty of time to procreate. “I bet you suck in bed, don’t you?”
My father stops breathing.
“Can’t get it up anymore? Or maybe that was the problem all along. I’m your miracle child, born from the one time you could actually finish. What, did she deny you, too? Is that why you’re so fucking frigid? Couldn’t even get it on with your own wife?—”
