Page 10 of Burned in Stone
I cut the engine, the rumble dying into the quiet of the pre-dawn street, and swing my leg over the bike. She turns as I approach. Her hand comes up, pressing flat against my chest.
A barrier.
“Cash, I?—”
“I’m not trying to fuck you, Mercy,” I say, hooking a finger under her chin and ghosting my thumb over her lower lip. “It’s late. You look dead on your feet. I’m just walking you to your door, making sure you get in safe.”
Her hand falls away, but her body doesn’t move. The fight has gone out of her, replaced by an exhaustion that settles deep in the lines around her eyes. I want to carry her upstairs, tuck her into bed, and stand guard until morning.
“OK,” she whispers.
We climb the exterior metal stairs, our footsteps the only sound in the sleeping street. The air is cool and smells of damp pavement and the faint, clean scent of bleach from the laundromat below.
At her door, she fumbles with the keys. I take them from her trembling fingers, unlock the door, and push it open into the darkness of her apartment.
She hesitates in the doorway, a silhouette against the gloom. “Thank you, Cash.”
“Get some sleep, angel.” My voice is a low growl. I step closer, my mouth brushing her ear. “Dream of having my mouth on you.”
She shivers and I step back, waiting until I hear the deadbolt slide home before I head back into the street and fire up my bike.
A cold shower is definitely in my immediate future. Maybe several of them.
5
MERCY
The industrial washing machines downstairs hum their familiar rhythm. Normally the sound soothes me, but today it only adds to the chaos in my head. I couldn’t sleep after Cash walked me to my door. My mind kept replaying his mouth on mine, the feel of his calloused fingers on my skin.
His comment before he left—dream of having my mouth on you.
So here I am at seven in the morning, feeding quarters into the washing machine, watching my meager wardrobe tumble in sudsy circles. The scent of soap and damp heat do little to calm the energy thrumming under my skin. My fingers trace the faint purple mark on my throat, a brand hidden by my curly hair. I’ve had marks put on my skin before. But those were meant to punish, to shame. This one… this feels different.
A claim.
My stomach twists—fear and arousal. What happened last night was dangerous. More dangerous than a card game, moredangerous than an outlaw biker. The most dangerous thing in the world is hope, and last night, Cash lit a match in the dark. One I know I need to extinguish.
Because hope means having something to lose. And I’ve already learned what happens when I start believing I can have more. Two years ago I walked away from a man who made sure I knew exactly how small I was allowed to be. He still tries to remind me. Every time I begin to breathe, he finds a way to tighten the leash from miles away.
He doesn’t fight fair—he destroys what you have until you crawl back just to make it stop.
My past is never far, always waiting for the next misstep.
I lean against the washing machine. The vibration thrums through my bones. I close my eyes, wishing things could be different.
From the moment I met Cash, I was drawn to him. That kind of attraction that feels like gravity—quiet, constant, impossible to ignore. I rebuffed him immediately, told myself to keep my distance. Beautiful men usually come with ugly attitudes, and I’d had my fill of those. But the longer I knew him, the more I saw the man beneath the looks—steady, patient, protective in a way that made me feel safe when I hadn’t felt safe in years.
Against my better judgment, we became friends.
It started small. Trading late-night texts, swapping sarcastic comments over the bar, filling quiet hours with easy conversation. I told myself being his friend was enough. That it was safer. But that was a lie. Every look, every laugh, every casual brush of his hand pulled me closer. Until last night, when the tension finally snapped.
I can still feel the phantom weight of his hands on me, still taste whiskey and want on my tongue. For a few hours, I let myself believe in the fairy tale—that I could be the woman he sees when he looks at me. Strong. Confident. Free.
But fairy tales don’t survive the morning. And the truth is, I’m not free. My ex doesn’t care that I left. He doesn’t care that I built a new life. He’s made that abundantly clear.
I know what he’s capable of. And I know exactly how far he’ll go to remind me who holds the power. But I’m not crawling back. Not ever again.
And I won’t let him touch Cash. Or the club. If keeping them safe means staying guarded, then so be it. I’ve survived worse than loneliness.
