Page 65 of Burned in Stone
“You’re not broken,” he says, like he can read my mind. “Neither of us is. We’re just?—”
“Survivors,” I finish. “With matching baggage sets.”
He laughs, and the sound is so unexpected, so genuine, that it makes me laugh too. We’re both crying and laughing in this ridiculous guest apartment at three in the morning, tangled up in sheets that smell like sex and soap, and somehow it’s the most real thing I’ve ever experienced.
“Stay here,” he says suddenly, sitting up. “Don’t move.”
He disappears into the bathroom, and I hear water running. When he comes back, he’s carrying a warm washcloth and a glass of water. The tenderness of it—the simple act of taking care of me after I took care of him—makes my throat tight.
He wipes the tears from my face with gentle efficiency, then hands me the water. I drink it while he climbs back into bed, pulling me against his chest.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he says quietly. “The nightmare. The…everything.”
“Don’t.” I press my palm over his heart, feeling the steady thump beneath my fingers. “Don’t apologize for being human. For having trauma. I’ve got my own nightmares, remember? You’ve held me through enough of them.”
“It’s different.”
“No, it’s not.” I tilt my head to look at him. “We both got hurt by people who should have protected us. We both survived. And now we’re here, together, trying to figure out how to be whole again.”
“Together,” he agrees, pulling me closer. “I like hearing you say that.”
“Well then I’ll keep on saying it until you understand you don’t have to be the only strong one in this relationship,” I add.
“Fuck, we’re a pair, aren’t we?” His laugh rumbles through his chest. “Two broken people trying to make something whole.”
“You said it just before—we’re not broken,” I correct. “Maybe a little dented.”
“Dented.” He tests the word. “I can work with dented.”
“Besides,” I say, fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. “Dented things fit together better. All those rough edges hook and line up in ways smooth, perfect things never could.”
He catches my hand, brings it to his lips. “Is that your way of saying we’re compatible?”
“I’m saying we’re perfect for each other. You want me real, scars and all. Same as I want you.” I meet his eyes. “That’s why this works.”
We lie there as dawn starts creeping through the curtains, neither of us able to go back to sleep but not ready to face the day either. His heartbeat under my ear is steady now, calm. Real.
“Mercy?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for not running when you saw me like that.”
I press a kiss to his chest, right over the DEAD INSIDE tattoo. “Never. I’m your angel, remember? Any demon that’s coming, I’m gonna be right here, fighting beside you. Whatever you need.”
His arms tighten around me, and I know we’ve crossed some invisible line. There’s no going back now. We’re all in, damaged goods and all.
22
CASH
“So I was thinking,” I say, spinning a coaster on the bar while Mercy wipes down glasses, “maybe we should start looking for our own place.”
It’s been a quiet Friday at Devil’s—unusual, but welcome after the week we’ve had. The regulars are scattered around, playing pool or nursing beers. Bones is in his corner booth doing something on his laptop, and Tank’s teaching the new prospect how to properly lose at darts.
“You don’t like the guest apartment?” Mercy teases, refilling my water. I stopped drinking well over an hour ago since I’m her ride home.
“I love the guest apartment. Especially that tub.” I let my eyes wander down her body as I remember how much we’ve both enjoyed that thing, loving the way her cheeks have flushed in response when my eyes return to hers. “But it’s not ours, you know? I want something that’s just us. Where you can paint the walls whatever color you want, have a kitchen that’s yours, maybe a yard for?—”
