Page 34 of Burned in Stone
We move back to the living room, and that’s when I see it—the only mess in the pristine space.
“Oh god.” Mercy moves toward the kitchen table, toward torn paper spread out like a taunt.
“Don’t touch them,” I say, pulling out my phone to take pictures of what appear to be their unsigned divorce papers. “He wants you to know he was here. That he can get to you whenever he wants.”
“Mrs. Yu,” she whispers, concern lacing her voice as she pulls out her phone and dials. When she puts the phone to her ear, I watch her face, see the fear warring with fury, then relief when the call connects. “Mrs. Yu?” She lets out a sigh. “It’s Mercy... yes, I’m fine. But did my... did Gabriel stop by?”
She listens, her knuckles white around the phone, her eyes darting around the unnaturally tidy living room. “Two of them? What did they want?” Her gaze locks with mine, full of a dawning horror. She listens again, her face paling. “Just... questions?” Another long pause. “No, everything’s fine up here. As long as you’re OK. And thanks, Mrs. Yu. I’ll call you later.”
She hangs up, her hand dropping to her side as if the phone suddenly weighs a hundred pounds. “They were here this morning,” she says, her voice hollow. “Gabriel and buddies. My guess is he sent two of them into the laundromat to keep Mrs. Yu busy while he came up here and did all this. They asked her about clientele. The neighborhood. If she sees anything ‘suspicious.’ Wouldn’t explain why. She kept pressing and they stonewalled her. Then a third cop whistled, and the first two just wrapped up and left.”
“They were just a diversion,” I say, the pieces clicking into place with a sickening thud. The motherfucker used his own partners to run interference while he played his little mind games. Asshole.
Cops protecting cops. Tale as old as fucking time. I watched it my whole life—close ranks, protect their own, make the problem disappear. The kid who reported Officer Friendly got hit with phantom warrants. Excessive-force complaints went missing. The badge is a shield, and guys like Gabriel wield it like a weapon.
And that’s what we’re up against. Not just one dirty cop, but an entire system that’ll protect him while he destroys her. Unless we’re smarter. Unless we’re ready to fight just as dirty.
“Classic Gabriel.” She wraps her arms around herself and scans the room. “He used to demand this, you know. That I make everything perfect for him. Every single day. If a cushion was out of place, if there was a smudge on a window... he’d lose his shit.” She shudders, the memory raw and close. “This is him telling me I’ve gotten messy. That he’s going to put me back in order.”
“And that running won’t work,” I add. “He unpacked your escape bag to show you he knows your moves before you make them. He’s telling you there’s nowhere you can go that he won’t find you.”
She nods, and I can see the defeat trying to settle in her shoulders.
“No,” I say, my voice a low growl. “Don’t let him in your head. This is also him being a fucking coward.” I step in front of her, blocking her view of the sterile room. “Fuck him, Mercy. Thisisn’t your life anymore. Grab what you need. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
My words seem to break the spell. She blinks, and the terror in her eyes hardens into resolve. She moves past me into her bedroom, her steps quick and sure. I follow, planting myself in the doorway, watching as she grabs the duffel bag Gabriel had so carefully emptied and starts shoving clothes back into it—her way this time, on her terms. She grabs her laptop, a stack of books, a framed photo of her and Kya laughing behind the bar at Devil’s. Each item is a declaration of the life she built without him. A life I’ll die to protect.
By the time she zips the duffel, her hands are steady. She looks up at me, chin high. “Ready. Although I have to warn you. I don’t own any leather. So I don’t think I’m going to fit in with the other biker bitches at the clubhouse.”
“Who says you have to?” I force a grin, even though all I want to do is go find Gabriel and beat him until he reportshimselfmissing. “You want leather, I’ll buy you some. You want to wear head-to-toe flannel? You’ll start a new clubhouse trend by tomorrow.”
She snorts. “Please, as if I could ever one-up Ginger’s collection of boob tubes.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself. You’re already changing the uniform and you haven’t even moved in yet.”
She shakes her head, slinging the duffel over one shoulder and looping her laptop case over the other. “Just so we’re clear, this is temporary. I’m not moving in. I’m just cohabiting until we figure out what Gabriel’s next move is.”
“Temporary?” I scoff. “Angel, I’m gonna treat you so good you’ll forget you ever said that.” I slip the duffel off her shoulder and toss it over mine, heading for the door.
She hesitates at the threshold, glancing around the apartment one last time. For a second, I think she’s going to cry, but then she just makes this soft scoffing sound, like she’s clearing the lint of her old life away with one breath. “Fuck it,” she mutters, and steps out ahead of me down the stairs.
The way back is quiet. She doesn’t speak, but when we’re about halfway across town, she leans forward, resting her cheek against my back. The smallest thing, but it feels like a victory.
Back at the clubhouse, the lot is full. Church starts soon, and most of the club’s main players are probably already inside, milling in the kitchen and main room, talking in low voices over black coffee and, if you’re Duck, far too many cigarettes. I park the bike, cut the engine. Mercy dismounts behind me, feet hitting the gravel a few moments before mine follow suit.
I reach out and unclip her helmet for her, fingers gentle as I slide it off. Static lifts strands of her hair, wild red escaping in every direction. For a moment, she’s bashful, chin tucked, but then she meets my eyes. There’s a defiance there, but it’s threaded through with gratitude. Maybe even something like trust.
I step into her space and cup her jaw, just enough pressure to anchor her here. Her breath hitches. But she doesn’t pull away. My thumb brushes the curve of her cheek. And she just… stares at me. Those big green eyes are wide but steady, like she’s daring me to do something stupid. And maybe I am. Maybe this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but I can’t stop myself. Not when she looks at me like I’m the only thing holding all her tiny pieces together.
“Mercy,” I murmur, a warning, a plea, a promise—I’m not even sure what it is anymore. But I lean in, slow, giving her every chance to stop me, to shove me away or tell me no. But she doesn’t. Her lips part, just a little, and then my lips brush hers, soft and tentative. It’s not a kiss, not really, just the barest press of skin against skin, but it sends a jolt through me like I’ve been struck by lightning. My hand tightens on her jaw, pulling her closer, and she lets me. Her fingers curl into the front of my shirt, clinging to me as if I’m the only solid thing in a world that’s spinning too fast.
I don’t push. I don’t take. I just hold her there, our breaths mingling in the cold morning air, and wait for her to decide. To tell me what she needs next. For a second, we’re just breathing each other’s breath, her grip tight on my shirt, her pulse racing under my thumb, and nothing else exists except the temptation to never let her go.
Then, just as carefully, she eases back, her eyes huge and dark.
“I’m sorry,” she says, voice small, but rawer than I’ve ever heard it. “I—Fuck. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
I drop my hand, stuffing it into my jacket pocket so she doesn’t have to see how hard I’m trembling. “Hey,” I say, as gentle as I can. “Nothing’s wrong with you.”
