Page 10 of Mercy & Her Devils

Yes, yes, yes.

Relief rushes through me, and my shoulders slump.

Fletcher traces down my cheek. “You look beautiful today, darling. That dress always suits you. I truly am the luckiest man in Haven to come back to such a sight. You look…sweet.”

“May she get up now?” Thomas’ voice is tight.

“Of course,” Fletcher says like it’s not his rule that has me on my knees in the first place.

Fletcher gently grasps me by one hand and helps me to my feet.

He smiles, and to my surprise, it’s one of his soft loving ones that he normally saves for when we’re in private.

He doesn’t want other Alphas to know that this vulnerable side of him exists. I almost wish that I didn’t know that it did.

It’d be easier, if I could simply hate him.

He swings the arm that he’s been hiding behind his back around to reveal a cardboard box with the bakery Dough Knot’s pink logo on the top.

My eyes light up. “For me?”

Fletcher makes a show of sniffing the box, before pulling it under my nose, and I melt at the sugary flavors. “Well, I don’t know any other chocoholic Omegas who’d love this gift. And this box certainly appears to contain a dozen of your favorite dark chocolate and strawberry cupcakes with extra swirled frosting from your favorite, luxury bakery, hmm?”

Fletcher does this type of thing.

He’s observant about what I like. He may decide when to give it to me — or whether never to give it to me — but these small gestures hurt more than if he simply ignored me or was brutal like some Alphas.

Because I know that this is him trying.

I’ve met his Alpha mom, the pack’s Head Alpha, and she is one of the old-school brutal Alphas. She’d never bring back cupcakes or remember the favorite anything for her Omega.

My chest tightens.

Or is this just more conditioning…?

“Thank you,” I whisper.

Fletcher’s smile fades, as he assesses me. Then he drags me against his chest.

My nose wrinkles up at his scent of bitter coffee.

He nuzzles at my neck.

He’s checking that he can’t smell another Alpha on me.

Possessive asshole.

I stiffen.

Finally, he relaxes, licking across the scarred bite mark on the right of my throat.

I fight not to move.

Thomas coughs. “Busy day then, Sheriff?”

Fletcher reluctantly pulls away from me, guiding me with his hand on the hollow of my back. Then he throws himself down in the ivory wingback chair, which stands stiffly opposite the couch. He drops the box of cupcakes onto the floor and drags me to sit on his lap. He loops his arm around my waist.

“I’m having the Brok’s reactions monitored for a case study. I could make a published paper on Broken Bond Syndrome out of it. This Brok has a fiery spirit, even if he is rebellious,” Fletcher replies.

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