Page 292 of Fearless

She shook her head, lifting her gaze again to meet his. “But then I brought Ronnie home, and Mercy was here.” She bit her lip. “It was like magnets coming together. It was like gravity pulling. Poor Ronnie. He knew I was unfaithful to him, and it hurt him badly, I think. But what was I supposed to do?” She shrugged. “I’ve only ever loved Mercy. Ronnie didn’t have a place here. When he stopped coming around, I figured he’d gone home to Georgia. I didn’t think he’d beenkilled. My God, what got into Collier?”

Grey snorted. “I forgot you were a writer.”

“I’m sorry?”

“That was a pretty story, but that’s all it was.”

She gave him the softest, most innocent expression she was capable of mustering on short notice. “Agent Grey, I don’t know what happened to Ronnie.”

“And let me guess. Mercy doesn’t either?”

“No,” Mercy’s voice sounded from the kitchen doorway, drawing both their attentions. “I don’t.”

Of all the times for him to get his ass out of bed, Ava thought with an inward curse. She was about three seconds from escorting Grey out the door, and here came Mercy, all scowly-faced, to complicated things.

He no longer used crutches, but still wore a clunky brace on his left knee. He was in sweatpants and a long-sleeved black shirt that clung to his skin, highlighting the weight he’d lost while he recovered. His high cheekbones had a hollowness to them, sharp shadows cutting down across the narrow planes of his face. His nose looked more prominent by contrast. His hair was tied back in a knot today, and that added to the harshness of his thunderous expression, his lips pressed into invisibility.

He braced a hand on either side of the doorjamb, aggressive, threatening. “You don’t have to talk to him,” he said to Ava, eyes latched on Grey. “He’s got no reason to be here.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Ava agreed, tone light. “I’ve been telling him that. I think he was about ready to leave.”

Grey didn’t respond. He was staring back at Mercy, his complexion a notable shade paler. He was afraid. Of course he was; everyone was. He’d heard about the towering Cajun biker with the heinous reputation among underground circles. As was always the case, the flesh surpassed the imagination.

Ava cleared her throat. “Agent Grey.”

He snapped around to look at her. “Uh…oh. What?”

“You were just leaving.” She smiled.

“I…right. Yeah.” He frowned. “Yeah, I guess I was.”

“I’ll walk you out.”

He let her shoo him toward the door, but paused halfway through, a hand on the frame. “My card,” he said, extending one toward her between his first two fingers. “If you think of anything.” Dimmed though it was by the sudden fright of seeing Mercy, his smile was still threatening. “I have a feeling we’ll see each other again, Ava. Give my best to your family.”

She slammed the door in this face and locked the deadbolt.

“You–” Mercy started as she turned around, and she waved him to silence.

“Wait.” She walked past him into the living room, then to the entryway, so she could watch Grey’s department issue Tahoe back out of the drive and recede down the street. When he was safely gone, she returned.

Mercy was sitting at the table, bum leg stretched out before him, but looked no less murderous. This time, his black gaze was turned on her. “You let that fucker in the house?”

“Telling him to fuck off would have only made me look guilty.”

“You are guilty,” he said through his teeth, “and he knows it. That’s why having a goddamn conversation with him is so dangerous.”

Eight weeks she’d endured his sour temper, and she didn’t think she could take it for another day. “How is it dangerous?” she asked, flapping her arms in a helpless gesture. “He’s got no body, no physical evidence, no witnesses, no video, no nothing. He’s got nothing on either of us.”

In a frustrated huff, she went to the counter, snatched up the plate of cookies and slammed them down on the table at his elbow, cookies leaping on impact. “I baked you cookies, asshole. Eat some of them so you’ll stop looking like the Crypt Keeper.”

She closed her eyes the moment she said it, tears burning behind them. How many old reruns ofTales From The Crypthad she watched with Mercy when she was nine and ten? Curled up like a cat at his side, his long fingers stroking idly down her back. Every time she became furious, some tender memory would sneak up and bite her in the ass, toying with her raw emotions.

When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her with a tortured blend of anger and deep, deep sadness, his face tight and spare, his eyes large, hard and soft at once. He swallowed, throat working. “Why are you doing this?”

“Baking cookies?”

“Throwing your life away.”

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