Page 32 of Burned in Stone
Her head snaps up. “My things? Why would I?—”
“Mercy.”
“No.” She sets down her mug hard enough to slosh coffee. “I have a life, Cash, a job, an apartment?—”
“You have an ex with a badge and a hard-on for control,” I interrupt. “Who knows where you live. Who’s probably watching your place right now.”
“So what—I just hide here forever?”
“Not forever. Just until we figure out his game.” I move closer, crouching so we’re eye level. “Look, you’ve got two options. Either you stay here where there’s always someone around to watch your back, or I stay with you. Your choice.”
“That’s not a choice, that’s?—”
“The best I can offer.” I soften my tone. “I’d prefer you stay here. Not because I don’t trust you to take care of yourself, but because this place is a fortress. Steel doors, security cameras, and twenty brothers who’d gladly rearrange Gabriel’s face if he shows up uninvited.”
She chews her bottom lip, a habit I’m learning means she’s weighing her options. “How long?”
“Until he’s not a threat anymore.”
“How long will that take?”
“I don’t wanna lie to you, angel—I don’t know.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then I’ll be your shadow. Where you go, I go. Where you sleep, I sleep.” I let a hint of heat creep into my voice.
Her cheeks flush, but she holds my gaze. “Jesus. You’ve got an answer for everything, don’t you?”
“Only when it comes to protecting you, angel. I’m not letting him get near you again.”
“Fine.” She stands abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor before she dumps her banana peel in the trash. “But I need more than a few days’ worth of clothes. And my laptop. And?—”
“Whatever you need. We’ll get it all.”
She studies me, my T-shirt riding up dangerously high on her thighs. “Give me five minutes to get dressed. Then we’ll go.”
As she heads back to the bedroom, she pauses at the door. “Cash? That property patch thing....do I have to wear one?”
“I’d like you to,” I say, keeping my voice soft. “But you don’t have to do anything you don’t want, Mercy. Ever.” I take a step closer, keeping my hands open and visible. “The patch is tradition. A symbol. It just lets everyone know you’re with me. That you’re family.” The word feels both too big and exactly right. “Gabriel branded you with his name and a gold band. This isn’t that. This is about protection, honor and respect. And it’s your choice, always, whether or not you ever want to pick it up.”
She studies my face, searching for the catch. I know what she sees. A man built for violence, talking about protection like it’s just another word for control. I hold my breath, waiting for the verdict. For her to tell me to go to hell. Instead, she just nods once, a quick, sharp dip of her chin.
“Give me five minutes,” she says, then vanishes back upstairs to my bedroom. I let out a whoosh of air, the sound rough in the quiet kitchen. It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no. One step. At least it’s not a step back.
12
CASH
Ten minutes later, she emerges wearing last night’s clothes and my shirt over the top, tied at the waist. She looks like a fucking dream, like she belongs with me. Her hair is a tangled storm of red and her chin is tilted up, defiant, but I see the way her fingers clench the strap of her purse.
“Ready?” I ask.
She nods, following me out to the bike. I hand her the helmet, our fingers brushing, and the spark is still there, sharp and immediate. I swing a leg over the seat, waiting. As she settles behind me, her arms circle my waist, hesitant at first, then firm. I cover her hands with mine. “Got you,” I murmur, and kick the engine to life.
The ride to her apartment is tense. She’s pressed against my back, but I can feel her every muscle coiled tight. I take the streets slow, my eyes scanning every parked car, every face on the sidewalk. Looking for him. Looking for trouble. The words ‘property patch’ echo in my helmet, and I curse myself for mentioning it. I glance in the mirror, see her reflection, smalland fierce in the dark helmet. I have to prove it to her. Prove this is different. Prove I’m nothing like the man she ran from.
When we pull up to her building, I kill the engine. The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the distant hum of traffic. The street looks normal, but every window feels like a pair of eyes.
