Page 30 of Burned in Stone
Despite everything, I laugh. It’s shaky and probably a little hysterical.
“Get some sleep, angel,” he says softly.
“Cash.” I catch his arm before he can reach the door. “Thanks for having my back. I know we haven’t?—”
“You’re mine now, Mercy.” He cups my face gently. “Part of the club. I’ve got you.” He drops a kiss on my head and slips out the door before I can try to stop him.
As I settle into his bed wearing his shirt, surrounded by his scent, I stare at the ceiling and try not to think about what Gabriel is doing right now. Who he’s calling. What lies he’s spinning. What threats he’s making.
Because if I know Gabriel—and I do—tomorrow, he’ll have a plan. And the Stoneheart MC has no idea what kind of devil they just invited to their door.
11
CASH
Idon’t sleep.
Can’t, not with Mercy in my bed. Not with the memory of how she shook in my arms after that fucker of an ex showed up, how that bastard made her small with just his presence. And I certainly can’t sleep with the knowledge that somewhere out there, Gabriel Rogers is planning his next move.
So instead of sleep, I sit on the couch, laptop open, digging. Because if I can’t control what Gabriel does next, at least I can know everything there is to know about him. Information is power. Safety. It’s what kept me alive on the streets when I had nothing else—knowing which corners the dirty cops worked, which shelters the predators watched, which alleys had exits.
Old habits. But right now, those habits might be the only thing standing between Mercy and whatever Gabriel’s planning.
Gabriel Rogers. Ailington PD for fifteen years. Two commendations for ‘community service,’ which probably meanshe knew whose ass to kiss. One complaint for excessive force that mysteriously disappeared. Married nine years ago to?—
I pause. Even in the official records, she’s just an extension of him. Mrs. Gabriel Rogers. No first name. No maiden name. Just this cop’s wife and nothing more.
The woman in those photos isn’t the one I know.
The Mercy I first saw at Devil’s Bar wasn’t smiling for a camera—she was elbow-deep in a keg cooler, neon lights catching in her hair, telling some drunk frat boy to go fuck himself with a lime wedge. She was alive. Sharp. Full of her own heat.
The woman in these photos looks embalmed.
By six a.m., I’ve built a decent profile. Model cop on paper, ruthless control freak in practice. His father was a captain before him, and his mother was the DA’s office clerk, which means the entire courtroom-and-blue brotherhood in Ailington would close ranks without blinking. I run the usual cross-checks for criminal contacts, under-the-table deals, known associates. Most of what I find is boring — fantasy football leagues, precinct softball photos, and those annual ‘Brothers of the Badge’ pancake breakfasts. The kind of PR shit abusive cops use to look like pillars instead of predators. His social media? Squeaky, almost aggressively so. Every post is Mercy and Gabriel at black-tie fundraisers, Mercy and Gabriel running 10Ks, Mercy clutching some dumb trophy for ‘Community Pillar of the Month’ at some church charity banquet, again with Gabriel’s hand clamped tight around her waist, always like he’s holding her in place.
I know that grip. Different context, same control. Hands that lingered too long and smiles that promised things I didn’t want to give.
Gabriel’s not that different. He just has a badge and a wedding ring to make it look legitimate.
I close the laptop and rub the heels of my hands into my eyes. Mercy’s never talked about what happened before she came to Stoneheart. But the longer I look, the easier it is to see the bars of the cage she used to live in. The perfection of her past life is suffocating, pristine as a tomb.
At seven o’clock, I move to the kitchen to make coffee, partly out of habit, partly because my hands need something to do. I’m trying to be quiet, but the clubhouse’s ancient machine gurgles like it’s dying. I hear movement in the hall, then Mercy appears in the doorway, still wearing my T-shirt that hits her mid-thigh, looking soft and rumpled and perfect.
“Morning,” I say, trying not to stare at her legs. Failing. “Coffee?”
“Please.” Her voice is husky with sleep. She settles at the kitchen table, curling her knees up to her chest. She looks like someone’s kid sister and my favorite sin all at once. I pour her a cup and slide it across to her.
She cradles the mug in both hands. “You always up this early?”
“I was never asleep.”
She gives me a long look over the rim. “You an insomniac?”
“Only when I’m worried.”
About you.
About Gabriel.
