Page 31 of Judge's Mercy

I fist my hands, digging my nails into my palms. “Never grew out of your tattle-tale phase?”

“Don’t do that. This isn’t like all the other times when I was being overbearing.” He points to the bathroom. “There’s a bloody knife in your tub, but you don’t have a mark on you. That means there’s someone out there who’s either dead or will be soon, and since you have ties to the club, your fuck-up puts my brothers at risk.”

“I don’t have any ties to the club. I don’t have any ties to anyone.”

“The fuck you don’t. Your sister is the Sergeant-at-Arms’ ol’ lady, and the prospects and I have been in and out of this apartment for weeks. If you get busted, do you think your neighbors will even hesitate to tell the cops about the big scary bikers hanging around?” He keeps his tone in check, probably to keep said neighbors from overhearing, but there’s a biting edge to each word that doesn’t need volume to get his point across.

“I won’t get busted.”

“Oh, so you’re a professional now?”

My hands tremble as the adrenaline dump hits me like a brick, and bone-deep exhaustion, along with a flood of emotions I don’t have the capacity to decipher, overwhelm me. Judge threatening to tell the Sons only adds another layer I can’t process right now. A wave of nausea has my stomach in knots, and little worms swim over my vision. I’d noticed them earlier, but I’d been lightheaded after killing a man for the first time and thought it was a byproduct of that.

“Maybe I am, Judge. That’s the thing, you don’t know me.” A headache takes root on the right side of my forehead. Damn it, not now. These migraines are driving me crazy. It’s been weeks since my concussion, and the headaches still haven’t gone away. I apply pressure to my temples. “Just go away. Tell whoever you want. I don’t give a fuck.”

His voice softens. “Headache?”

“None of your goddamn business. Can you please just leave?”

“I’ll leave, but you have to know I’m going right to Cy and Rigger,” he threatens again.

It won’t matter if I tell him or if I don’t. Either way, he’ll go right to the club. The most I can hope for is that the club will wash their hands of me, leaving me in peace to finish what I set out to do. Killing one of those men didn’t make a difference, but killing all of them will go a long way in fighting my demons. Unfortunately, that’s not what will happen because Judge is right. My twin being directly linked to a ranking member makes me the club’s business, and they would lock me up before they allowed me to be reckless.

Fuck. This headache is making it hard to think, and I need to come up with something that’ll stop Judge from going to the Sons with what he saw tonight. I just need a little more time. An idea forms, and I cross my fingers that Judge doesn’t hate me after minimizing what we shared tonight.

“I’ll tell them myself,” I say and watch his brow lift. “I just need some time. Six months at the most, and then I’ll admit to everything.”

“Admit to what? And why do you need more time?”

“Can’t you just trust me?”

The look he gives me makes me feel small. “No. You haven’t done anything to earn my trust.”

“Ouch.” Considering his cum has started dripping down my thighs, I thought I’d earned at least a modicum of trust.

He sits on the edge of the bed and drags a hand over his mustache and beard. “Okay, here’s the deal. You tell me what you’re up to, and I’ll keep your secret for six months, but not a day longer. And if I feel like you’re in over your head, I reserve the right to pull out of this deal.”

I scoff. “What’s your gauge of me being over my head?”

“If I see a direct threat to you or the club.”

I chew on a nail as I think. I’ve been careful. There are no “how to commit a murder” Google searches on my computer, I wear gloves and keep my hair covered, I don’t leave anything behind, and there’s nothing to tie the club or me to my victims because none of them would’ve admitted to anyone that they got rejected from a brothel. It’s the perfect crime.

“Fine. I’ll tell you,” I say, not seeing another option.

“I’m listening.” He rests his elbows on his knees as he stares at me with a look that is both familiar and foreign. This is not the composed, put-together man I have come to know. He’s a disheveled mess, with sex-mussed hair and a beard coated in my cum. His wrinkled shirt only adds to the image of a man completely undone. I get the sudden urge to find out more about this man, even if it shatters my perception of him.

“Not tonight,” I say, slipping inside the bathroom. This migraine is intensifying by the minute, and I’m too exhausted to deal with the knife, which means no shower. Instead, I wet a washcloth and clean between my legs.

“Then when?” he asks the second I step back into the room.

“Tomorrow.” I rub the back of my neck where the sharp pain stems from.

He expels a frustrated breath. “Get in bed.”

“I was going to.” I drop the robe and climb between the sheets.

“I’ll go get you some water. Have you eaten anything tonight?”

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