Page 32 of No Mercy
“Fuck,” I hiss, biting back the pain as it shoots up my leg. Shaking it off, I grab the mask from my bag and pull it over my face.
Rustling outside the room signals my last chance. I lean against the door frame, crossing my arms, just as Eva steps into the room. Her bag hits the floor with a dull thud, and she freezes, her wide eyes locking on me.
Air rushes from my lungs at the sight of her while time slows as I take her in—the black leggings hugging her thighs, the oversized sweater hanging effortlessly off her frame. Blonde hair is piled into a messy bun, loose strands framing her face, glowing with natural radiance.
The world falls away. It’s just her.
She stares at me, surprise etched into her features, but something else lingers—recognition. “It’s you,” she whispers, her voice soft, almost disbelieving. A smile tugs at my lips, my voice low and steady. “It’s me, Buttercup. I told you I’d find you.”
CHAPTER 17
EVA
I should be scared—terrified,even—of the stranger leaning against the door. But I’m not. Instead, I feel safe, and that unsettles me more than anything else. His words echo in my mind as we stand frozen in this unspoken standoff, neither moving, neither looking away.
It’s me, Buttercup. I said I would find you.
And he did. He’s here.
My legs tremble as I take a hesitant step forward, resisting the urge to sink to the floor. He tilts his head slightly, straightening up from the door frame like he hadn’t expected me to move toward him. The thin white fabric of his shirt clings to his chest, taut over the strength barely concealed beneath it. A dark, winding tattoo wraps around his forearm—a pattern that tugs at a memory buried deep in my mind. I’ve seen it before, but where?
He takes a step toward me, closing the distance I had just breached. But I refuse to let fear take hold. I stand my ground. Every horror movie I’ve ever watched tells me to scream, to run, to fight for my life. But here I am, against every shred of logic, stepping closer to the man who could be my doom.
I take a shaky breath, trying to steady myself, but my chest rises and falls too quickly, betraying me. What the hell is wrong with me?
Each confident step he takes sends heat rushing through my body. My palms are damp, and I swipe them against my leggings, desperate to hide the effect he’s having on me. By the time I reach the bathroom door, he’s so close I can feel the warmth radiating from him. My hand lifts instinctively, reaching for him. I need to touch him, to confirm that he’s real, that I’m not losing my mind.
He stops, his gaze dropping to my outstretched hand. His eyes—what little I can see through the mask—linger, and I know he’s noticed the trembling in my fingers. “Are you scared?” His voice is a low murmur, almost teasing, and it sends a shiver down my spine.
Embarrassed, I snatch my hand back.What the hell was I thinking?
He stays still, waiting for my answer, his presence filling the room. I should say yes. I should admit how every nerve in my body is screaming at me to be cautious. But the word doesn’t come. Instead, I shake my head.
“Brave girl,” he whispers, stepping closer.
I swallow hard, fighting the instinct to step back. When I don’t mirror his motion, he inches nearer, forcing me to retreat until my back meets the cold wall behind me. His chest brushes against mine as his arms cage me in, hands braced against the wall. The door is only a few feet away. If I ran, could I make it before he caught me? Would he let me go—or chase me down?
But the truth is, I don’t think he’s here to hurt me. Something deep inside tells me to trust him. I lift my chin, trying to seem unfazed even as my heart races. The motion brings me closer to him, my chest brushing his. His deep groan vibrates against me, and a spark of pride flares within me.
Finally, I find my voice. “What do you want from me?”
Amusement dances in his tone as he leans in closer. The scent of citrus and smoke from his cologne fills my senses, intoxicating and grounding all at once. “Do you want me to tell you,” he says, his voice low and teasing, “or should I show you?”
Every word he speaks wraps around me like a spell, and before I can respond, he tilts his head, his mask brushing my cheek. “Maybe I’m here,” he murmurs, “to see if you’ll keep being this brave… or if you’ll finally let me chase you.”
His words stir something in me—a thrill of danger, of anticipation. “Chase me?” I ask, my voice barely audible. He lowers one hand, brushing his knuckles along my cheek. His touch is gentle, tender even, yet it leaves a trail of heat in its wake. “Do you trust me?” he asks, his voice quieter now. My breath catches. I shouldn’t trust him. I barely know him. But as his fingers trace the line of my jaw, my answer escapes before I can stop it.
“Yes.” The moment the word leaves my lips, his hands shift. One grazes my shoulders, turning me toward the wall. My palms press against the cool surface as his hands glide over mine, lifting them above my head. I feel the rough texture of a belt slipping around my wrists, binding me lightly.
“Wait… what are you doing?” I whisper, panic creeping into my voice. He leans in, his breath warm against my ear. “Trust me, Buttercup.”
Something in his tone steadies me, and I nod, letting him continue. The strap tightens, firm but not restrictive, every movement drawing me deeper into his control. The weight of his body presses me gently against the wall, his movements calculated, deliberate. A gloved hand trails up my arm, its touch both foreign and electrifying, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. My breathing quickens as his fingers curl around my wrist, pinning it effortlessly above my head.
“Stay still,” he commands, his voice low and distorted by the mask, sending a shiver down my spine. I don’t reply. I can’t. Words lodge in my throat as my body betrays me, heat pooling low in my stomach despite the fear threading through my thoughts.
His free hand slides down my side, slow and unhurried, like he’s savouring the way I tremble beneath him. When his fingers reach the waistband of my leggings, he pauses, his head tilting slightly as if he’s waiting for me to object.
I don’t.
