Someone like Rahil.
No, not simply someone like him. Buthim.
Mercer wanted to spend the rest of his life having this moment over and over again with Rahil Zaman, vampire, people-pleaser, and the only living person in all Mercer’s life who’d managed to find the key to his soul. He wanted Rahil’s fangs in his neck and Rahil’s lips on his skin and a life where that was the routine they both held, glamourless but perfect.
Mercer wanted Rahil’s future, every last day of it.
27
RAHIL
Rahil wanted to quietly make history with Mercer, for better or for worse.
If he could trap himself in the fae’s life the way he had trapped himself in his shed, by god, Rahil would have done it in that moment, watching Mercer’s face transform from brow-pinched scrutiny, laced in melancholy and desperation, to sudden soft joy. Should he be able to do one thing in life, consistently and exceptionally, he’d want it to be that.
He knew, in the rational back of his mind, that he would never be so good as to keep up that joy forever, or even for long—he’d fuck it up, invert every last happy feeling with his own incompetence, the same way he had with his first family. But for that moment, that one glorious night, he wanted to believe otherwise. Mercer Bloncourt made him wish the best for himself, and with the alcohol still running through his veins and the thrill of Mercer asking him out, he gave in to the darkest desires in his heart: that they might work out.
That they mightmorethan work out.
Which meant hereallyneeded to bring up Leah’s death.
But he couldn’t just plunge fromI hope you’re the one for metojust so you know I killed your last soulmatewithout skipping a beat. There had to be some way to ease Mercer into it. To make it feel less shocking, less—something. Less like the original news of her death.
The thought of how exactly he’d manage it sent a light panic through Rahil, but it was cut off by a spark like lightning as Mercer slid one finger against the pulse at Rahil’s wrist. After a slight hesitation, Mercer dropped it lower, then lower still. His fingertips slid between Rahil’s.
“Come with me,” Mercer whispered.
Rahil forgot everything but the inevitable: the rush, the fall, and then eternity. Even if it was short, even if it ended in a crunch of bone against the pavement, he was going to give whatever he could to this beautiful, thoughtful man. He tangled his fingers with Mercer’s and let himself be bound by the strong grip and firm calluses of someone who’d given him that same trust in return. “Just show me where.”
The boardwalk was still teeming with life, the warmth and chaos swaddling Rahil like a comfortable cloak, but Mercer led him to the end, down onto the less-populated wooden path that swept northward toward the state park side of the lake, dropping the last few bites of his ice cream cone in the trash as he went. Rahil didn’t think it was from lack of wanting it either—rather an excess of wanting something else—and the notion made his stomach flutter, his chest tight. As they ran out of the purposeful pattern of bright lamps, Mercer paused, glancing at Rahil with an expression hauntingly gorgeous in the deep shadows.
Again, he asked, softer and more hesitant, “Come with me?”
“Anywhere,” Rahil said.
Mercer turned them off the main path, onto a steep stone stairwell that Rahil wouldn’t have noticed otherwise. They nearly ran straight into a young man with a bottle clutched in his grip. He hissed like a vampire, alcohol flooding his breath, but as Rahil instinctively hissed back, he swore the stranger’s teeth looked wrong for fangs. The man tucked his way quickly up the stairs and Mercer tugged Rahil further down, and then they were alone on a tiny wall that jutted out into the water, empty and quiet.
Down the beach, a small group sat around a bonfire, someone plucking at a guitar while the others swayed, but it was far enough off for their little dock to feel like a world all of its own. Seemingly endless water stretched out before them, the silhouettes of the mountains jutting like claws of darkness into the starry sky. It smelled of Mercer and of the lake, a damp, slightly dank scent, not traditionally pleasant but comforting after so many years living in San Salud. Rahil imagined the original inhabitants, carried down in stretchers to soak in the mystical healing powers of the sun and the dry southern Californian air. Neither saved them, but Rahil was pretty sure whateverthiswas could savehimany day.
Mercer let go of Rahil’s hand then, but it didn’t feel like pulling back. It felt like permission.
Rahil slipped out of his shoes and settled onto the edge of the wall, dropping his feet into the water. It was perfect—more cool than warm, but enough of a contrast to the balmy air to be a shock.
A little clumsier, Mercer settled in beside him. Their thighs didn’t quite touch. Their breaths didn’t quite mingle. And Rahil couldn’t help but bridge that gap. For better or for worse.
“Can fae see better than humans?” he asked, leaning toward Mercer. His knee knocked Mercer’s—fabric on fabric. Warmth on warmth.
Mercer turned his face, and Rahil could feel each word like a tiny gust against his chin. “In the light, yes—better than Leah and my grandparents, anyway—but not in the dark.”
“That’s a pity; you’re lovely by starlight,” Rahil whispered, and he used his night vision to take in every angle of Mercer’s face, the dark rim of his lashes, the stray curls floating free of his bandana, the length of his neck, the strength of his jaw and the breadth of his lips, even the mole that graced their edge. In every lighting, from every angle, he was spectacular.
Rahil had known this, he thought—it had been why he’d swiped right in the first place, why he’d tangled himself in Mercer’s trap a second time—but he hadn’t known it thisway. There were pretty people, gorgeous people even, and then there was this: a gorgeousperson. A whole being, every flaw made lovely by the depth of his motivations and every wrinkle turned to a laugh line by the joy that just being here, just listening to him speak, brought Rahil. And he could not look away.
But Mercer didn’t either, holding Rahil’s gaze in the darkness like he was searching for something. He lifted his fingers, hesitated, then pressed the tips ever so gently to Rahil’s jawline. “There you are,” he whispered. Then he cringed, drawing the hand back. “Sorry,” he explained, “Ice cream stickiness.”
As Mercer leaned down to rinse the butterscotch coating off his skin, Rahil caught him before he could reach the water. His heart thudded against his rib cage, a thousand butterflies mating in his stomach. This could be the exact wrong thing to do. It could ruin whatever they had going; and for the first time in a decade, Rahil thought losing a night like this might kill him, not from lack of blood, for once, but from the aching depths of his heart.
What else was he supposed to do, though?
