Page 33 of Burned in Stone
“Stay here,” I say, swinging off the bike. I do a slow three-sixty, scanning the parked cars, the alley across the street. Nothing. But the feeling persists, a low-grade hum of wrongness.
I turn back and offer Mercy my hand. She takes it, her fingers cold in mine.
“Stick close. Let’s make this quick.”
She just nods, her grip tightening on mine as we walk toward the building and climb the stairs.
When we reach the top, I test her door. It’s locked. Relief sweeps over me as I hold out my hand. “Keys.”
She hands them over. The lock turns smoothly—no signs of tampering. But when we step inside, Mercy makes a small, hurt sound.
“This isn’t how I left things.”
“What do you mean?”
“My bags.” She moves through the living room like she’s in a daze. “I’m not this tidy…” She heads straight for her bedroom.
I follow, noting how pristine everything is.
Mercy stops in the doorway, frozen. The room looks perfect, everything in its place. But I’m guessing that’s exactly what the problem is.
“You OK?”
“I was packed,” she whispers, her hand covering her mouth. “Last night. I had everything ready. I was going to tell Kya I had a family emergency and then just... leave. Drive to Colorado, maybe. Somewhere far from here. From Gabriel. From—” Her voice cracks. “He unpacked it all. He knew what I was planning, and he unpacked it all. Put it away.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. She wasleaving. While I was falling for her, while I was claiming her to the club, she was planning her exit.
“You were going to run.” My voice comes out flat.
“I was protecting you.” She still won’t look at me. “Gabriel destroys everything I touch. Everyone I care about. I thought if I left before he found me?—”
“Before he found you? Mercy, he was already here. He was just biding his time before stepping out of the shadows.” The anger bleeds through despite my efforts to keep it contained. “And your plan was to just disappear? Leave us to wonder if you were dead somewhere?”
“My plan was to keep yousafe!” Now she turns, her eyes fierce and wet. “You don’t understand what he’s capable of?—”
“Then tell me!” The words come out louder than I meant. I force myself to take a breath, lower my voice. “Stop making decisions for me. Stop deciding what I can handle.”
“Cash—”
“No.” I step closer. “You think I don’t get running? That’s all I fucking did as a kid. I ran from dealers, from cops, from whoever my mother pissed off that week.” I shake my head, jaw tight. “And you know what running taught me? That I was alone. That no one stayed. That I wasn’t worth staying for.”
“Cash.”
“Don’t you ever fucking do that to me.”
She’s crying now, silent tears tracking down her face.
“You want to protect me? You fight beside me. You don’t vanish and call it protection.”
She nods, wrapping her arms around herself. “OK. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” My voice roughens. “Fuck.” I reach out and tug her into my arms, holding her against my chest. “Angel.I’mthe one who’s sorry. If you’d run? That would’ve wrecked me, Mercy. I wouldn’t have come back from that.” I don’t mean to say it—don’t mean to let that dark and ugly part of me out—but it’s too late. Now she’s really crying, hands twisting in the fabric of my shirt, face pressed into my chest so I can’t see if it’s anger or guilt or just plain exhaustion making her shake like this.
We stand like that for a long stretch of silence. Her breath is hot against my neck and I hold her tighter, because if I don’t, I might come completely unstitched right here on her bedroom carpet.
After a while, she pulls back. Her eyes are red and raw, but her jaw is set hard. “He was in my house.”
“I know. We’ll make sure he never comes back. I swear to God, Mercy, he will never get close to you again.” I cup her face with both hands, forcing her to meet my eyes. “He’s not here now. I am.”
