Page 66 of Judge's Mercy

Cringing, I swallow the thick mucus sitting in the back of my throat and roll onto my right side, curling into a ball. No one knows where I am, and there’s no way for them to know. Judge knows of the list, but I tucked it into my bra when I left the house, so not even he knows how to find me. A piercing pain shoots through my heart, but it’s not from my injuries. It’s from the thought of never seeing him again.

The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. If only I had known this was how things would end, I wouldn’t have wasted the last week giving him the cold shoulder. Instead, I would have found the courage to tell him how I truly feel and explained how much those feelings scare me.

As I suck in a shuddering breath, it dawns on me that it took being shoved down the stairs, shot at, and trapped in a dark basement for me to finally be honest with myself. How could I have been so blind and foolish? Every second I spent pushing him away feels like an eternity of missed opportunities and regrets now.

My love for Judge is a twisted, all-consuming force, the opposite of all cliché notions of romance. It’s a toxic blend of death and darkness, fueled by blood and pain. We are two broken souls, irreparably damaged but somehow perfectly matched. The chances of us ever crossing paths were slim to none, yet fate brought us together. Isn’t that worth fighting for?

I’m getting the hell out of here. My only option is to find the dreaded stairs and hope that the door at the top isn’t locked. It takes all of my strength, but I push up using one arm while holding the other close to my body. The intense pain forces animalistic sounds from me, but I refuse to give up. As I stand on shaky legs, I scan the darkness around me, searching for a way out.

With each small step, my movements are accompanied by chattering teeth and weak knees; from shock or the cold, I can’t tell which. Eventually, my hand brushes against something hard—a wall. I keep my hand on the rough surface as I slowly make my way around the perimeter, mapping out the space in my mind. I jolt when I feel something unexpected—something that changes everything.

Cold, steel bars.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

JUDGE

Glancing at my phone, I see it’s nearly one in the morning. I turn Myla’s TV off and stroke Ryder’s soft, rounded belly. After he ate his dinner, he went into a food coma and hasn’t come out.

“She should be home by now,” I say to the unconscious kitten. “I’m starting to get worried.”

Her actions are reckless and idiotic, but my attempts to talk some sense into her have fallen on deaf ears. The thought of her being in danger is consuming me, suffocating any semblance of control I had left. This is the last time she’ll do this alone, even if I have to tail her ass and watch from the shadows.

It doesn’t take a psychologist for me to know what it’ll do to me to become part of her killing spree, but it’s preferable to the uncertainty I feel now. It’s been six hours since I saw her pull away from her apartment. My nervousness had me park around the corner and stalk her like a damn fool. I should’ve followed her right then, but I knew if she found out, it’d be just another reason for her to push me away.

I bring up her contact in my phone and call her again. This is my tenth try, and I’ve sent as many text messages, all with no response. How long do I let this play out before I call in the cavalry? If I make the call to Cy, only for her to turn up an hour later, she’ll feel betrayed, and I’ll lose her forever. If I wait too long—well, I can’t think about those ramifications.

Placing the kitten on a blanket, I decide I don’t give a shit if I’m wrong and piss her off. Her safety comes first, and my gut is telling me something is wrong. Without any proof to the contrary, I have to trust I’m making the right call.

“What?” Cy barks in greeting.

“Sorry to call so late, Prez, but I think we have a situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

“Can you meet me at the clubhouse? I’ve got a lot to say and I only want to say it once with everyone together.”

He grumbles something unintelligible, but I think I catch a string of curse words as things shuffle in the background. “All right. I’m up. See you in thirty.”

“Prez?”

“Yeah?”

“Better make it twenty.”

“That bad, huh?” He sighs. “Fine. Twenty.”

Once that call is made, I dial up Lucky. He doesn’t have a commute since he lives on the compound, so I rope him into calling everyone else while I get on the road.

“Yeah?” The word is clipped, and he’s out of breath.

“Need a favor.”

“Can it wait?” His tone turns playful. “I’m kinda in the middle of something, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m sorry, but it can’t. I need everyone at the clubhouse. Now.”

“Shit.” There’s a rustling and a frustrated female groan. “Need me to make the calls?”

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