Page 50 of Begging for Mercy
Complicated.
I woke up on my driveway to the sound of him crying. Felt his tears on my chest and witnessed the cracks in his heart. The man is bleeding for his best friend, and I don’t think Kane realizes how bad it is.
“You’d tell me…” My voice carries like a whisper on the wind, so soft that I can barely hear it. “You’d tell me if I hurt you, right?”
Sam’s answer is immediate, his eyes locked firmly onto the road ahead. “Of course.”
For the first time since I met Sam, I’m not sure that I believe him.
Chapter 18
Sam
That night,I fix the locks on Mercy’s bedroom door, changing out her doorknob and adding three sliding locks—two across the top and one at the bottom. “You have to use them,” I tell her, glancing at her for the thousandth time since we arrived. She’s been sitting at her desk for the past hour, either staring outside her window or at that drawing of her and Zane in her sketchbook.
Every time I see the drawing, a cord of anger tightens inside my chest.
Setting my tools down, I cross to Mercy’s chair and grip the backrest. “Why did you draw that?” The man—dark hair, lean build, clearly not me or Reaper—mocks me with the level of intimacy displayed on the page.
Mercy’s legs are pulled up in front of her, squished between her torso and her desk. She taps a dull pencil against her knee.“I didn’t.”
I grab the sketchbook from over Mercy’s shoulder and tear the drawing out, the harshriiiiipsatisfying a lesser demon throwing a tantrum inside my heart. Crumpling it in my hand, I toss it outside the open bedroom window, wishing it would crashinto the earth and shatter, but it merely floats down to the dewy grass and gently tumbles another foot before rolling to a stop.
Mercy snatches the sketchbook from my hands and snaps it closed. “Don’t touch my stuff.”
I scoff aloud. “What, are you upset? I fixed it.” Something ugly scratches inside my chest, clawing to get out. “I’ll fix everything, Mercy.” On the drive home from Lucio’s, I came up with a plan to leave the city. It would take a few weeks to set everything up, but I could have fake IDs and a safe house set up for us. Mercy would be my wife, the two of us fresh off our honeymoon and looking for a new start in another town—another life—while Grey gets rid of both Kane and Zane for good.
I don’t need to see their dossiers to know that they’re better off six feet under, where they won’t have a chance in hell of dragging her down with them.
If I’m being honest, I don’t even need Mercy’s permission. I’dlikeit, obviously, which is why I have to be delicate about how I propose the idea to her. She can’t think that we’re running away for good, or she’ll never agree to it. Her family means too much to her.
Spinning her chair around, I meet the flare of indignancy in her auburn eyes, and my proposal for a two-week getaway vacation dies on my lips. “Why are you?—”
So stubborn!
“—mad at me?”
She huffs. “Because it’s like—” The frantictap tap tapof her pencil on her knee makes my eye twitch. “It’s like I don’t even know you, Sam.” Her jaw clenches as she looks me up and down. “I didn’t even know youhada gun.”
“I didn’t until yesterday.” Wincing, I admit, “Well, okay, my dad gave me one for my birthday once, but I don’t ever use it. I specifically brought one to dinner last night because I don’t trust them. And clearly, I was right!” The memory of Mercy with a gunpressed to her lips nearly tips me over the edge frommoderately calmtoI’m going to shoot that fucker.“Kane’s a fucking psycho, Mercy. I tried to tell you that, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“So this is my fault?” She shoves my arm. “Poor little Mercy Morningstar, so desperate for attention that the only men she pulls are murderers and psychos!” She lifts her chin. “So what does that make you, Samson Wright? A murderer or a psycho?”
“Neither,” I insist, planting my hands on her knees. “I’m the only one who’s good for you. Youhaveto see that by now.”
She laughs, the sound catching in her throat like a bitter pill. “God, it’s like you’re trying to convince yourself. Wake up, Sam!” Her smile turns cruel, the corners of her eyes watering. “No one’s good for me.”
I stop her from spinning her chair back around. “You don’t honestly believe that.” A silent tear falls down her cheek, and I gently brush it away. “You’re not destined to be alone, Mercy.”
“Everyone ends up alone.” She blinks through a wave of tears, barely holding them back. “I’ve seen thousands of people come through the funeral home, Sam, and every one of them walks away emptier than before. Being alone is our default. We’re the ones fighting against it when we shack up with other people. Make friends. Take lovers.” A broken laugh spills past her lips. “Not that I have either.”
I’ve seen her talk this way before when her depression gets bad. It’s usually seasonal, but we should be coming out of it instead of driving into the dark. “Have you been taking your meds?”
She purses her lips.
That would be a no.
Sighing, I reach around her to open her desk drawer. “You shouldn’t skip them?—”
