Page 24 of Mercy & Her Devils

He understands my needs.

I nod.

Lark puts down the mug and slips off his jacket with an elegant shrug of his shoulders. He clearly comes from just as an elite pack as I do.

Why the hell would anyone break their bond with a man like him?

Gently, he lays his jacket over me. I don’t care that it’s dirty and stained; it smells of him. I bury my face in its collar, running my fingers over its soft material.

My whimpers turn to purring.

Millie claps. “Pretty Omega. Pretty purr.”

“Out of the mouths of babes.” Lark’s smiling, and he starts to purr as well.

It’s an adorable sound, deep and rumbling. It makes me want to nuzzle against his neck and feel the vibrations of our purrs intermingle.

I blush.

How is it possible that we can purr, when we’re locked up? It should only be possible, when we’re safe and happy.

I never purred with Fletcher.

Lark’s still purring as he picks up the mug and holds it to my lips.

Before I can drink, however, I’m slipping back into unconsciousness.

For days, I struggle between waking and sleeping.

Delirious, I know that I’m ranting. I’m not sure what I’m saying but I’m writhing in agony.

The only thing that soothes me is a scent — plum cake — and I nuzzle closer to it.

Sometimes, it feels like I’m being held in someone’s arms.

Is it the fever? Am I only smelling the jacket?

Or is Lark helping me?

I can feel his elegant fingers pressing against my forehead and helping me to drink.

I can hear his soothing voice.

Touch starved, I lean into every sweep of his fingers and massage of my aching temples.

I’d have died without him.

No one else comes to the cell.

No one else comes to me in my pain.

Only Lark.

Then one day, my eyes flutter open, and my mind is more lucid. The fever has died down to embers.

Even though a low level headache is throbbing in my temples, it’s no longer blinding.

The fuzziness in my mind has cleared.

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