Page 13 of The Price of Mercy
I’m sorry that I’m not strong enough to keep you safe.
I’m sorry that in the end, I’m not enough to make you happy.
Which feels like complete bullshit, if I’m being honest. How could Kane—serial killer and professional fuckboy—be better than me? How could Ilethim be better than me?
Turmoil churns in my gut as I war with myself. A better man would let Mercy go, wouldn’t he? Bow down to what she wants—because it clearly isn’t me. She’s been hugging a throw pillow for the past half hour, her eyes barely open as she drifts between reality and dreaming. Her head bobs, and she catches herself with a jolt, working hard to keep her eyes open and stare at the smooth stainless steel door between us and the body crumbling to ash inside.
This is stupid. Our situation. The uncomfortable tension between us. How she won’t let herself relax.
Is it because of me?
Does she not trust me anymore?
Knives dig into my lungs, and I choke on my next breath. I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t, but the possibility fucking hurts. If she doesn’t think that I can keep her safe, then who does she trust?
Kane’s arrogant smirk pops into my mind as I consider the possibility that Mercy trusts him more than me, and I want to punch the goddamn smile off his face. Not only does it suck that she might consider him her savior after he literally dragged that asshole off of her tonight, but he kissed her in front of me. Not once, but twice. First, before we left the frat house, and second, ten minutes ago as he rushed out the door. Without warning, he wriggled out from under Mercy, stole one hell of a kiss, and shouted something abouttying up loose ends.He was gone in the blink of an eye, revving up his motorcycle outside and tearing down the street. If it weren’t for the blush warming Mercy’s cheeks, I’d have convinced myself that I imagined the kiss. That in my jealousy of their bond, I created a fantasy in which Kane was comfortable kissing her like he had a right to her lips.
The reality is just as grim.
Hedoesfeel entitled to her kiss.
Per our brief sparring match outside, it wasmyright to kiss her next. Not his. But he took it anyway, because that’s who he is.
Selfish.
But the most important lesson isn’t about Kane’s ego; it’s that he’s a man who breaks his own rules. For people playing a game of life and death with the maniac, that is averyimportant lesson to learn.
Slowly, carefully, I slip from my folding chair and onto the couch beside Mercy. The cushion dips between us, and I wrap my arm around her shoulder and drag her against me: thighs touching, tiny hands curling around my t-shirt, cheek pressed against my shoulder and her soft breaths falling onto my chest. I drape a knit blanket over her bare legs and gently rub warmth into her thighs with my free hand. She must be freezing after so many hours without clothes. I should have gotten her a t-shirt or shorts or?—
My thoughts derail as she settles into me like a cat seeking warmth, her eyes cracking open for the barest second. Peering up at me, she gives the barest smile before closing her eyes again. “Thanks for being here, Sam,” she murmurs, sighing softly. “I don’t know where I’d be without you.”
I grit my teeth as waves of emotion roll over me, each one stronger than the last. Without me, Mercy might be at home, tucked in her bed, blissfully unaware of the dark corners of the world. The gun I stashed in the middle console of my truck. The spare in the glove box. The way blood splatter looks after a gunshot to the head—messy, pulpy, nothing like the movies—or how hard it is to clean afterwards. What it feels like to fight a man whose inner demons have taken over, and how easy it is to lose in a battle of physical strength.
Without me, she might be smiling at her sketchbook right this very instant, hunching over her desk with little more than a few taper candles to light each pencil stroke across the page.
Without me, she could be in so many places, doing so many better things than this.
But despite the overwhelming regret that’s in my heart, it’s hard to wish for anything other than holding Mercy close while she drifts to sleep. It’s a familiar comfort that settles my lingering anxiety. My heart beats steadily, my nerves too shot for me to sleep alongside her.
I called Grey about the clean-up at my frat house, but it’s only a matter of time before word gets to my father. He could be halfway across the world, and it wouldn’t matter—any word about his son makes it to his ears within a few minutes. Not that I’m expecting him to jump on a plane to see me. If he can’t be bothered to take a car across town, he sure as shit won’t be jumping for joy at the prospect of a thirteen-hour flight to see his son. Our reunion, no matter how dismal, is imminent. I’ve fended him off for a few years, citing my need for a college degree to delay my onboarding with the family business, but when he learns about this latest incident with the frat, he’s bound to scoop me up in his talons and put me to work doing God knows what.
Whatever it is, it won’t be good. For my father, the added bonus will be keeping me from Mercy and her family. It’s no secret that I consider them more of my family than the man who raised me. It’s one of the sticking points in our relationship that I’m sure irks him. Not because he wants to have a better father-son bond, but because it’s proof of a battle that he’s lost.
Thinking about my father puts me on edge, so I press my face to the top of Mercy’s head and breathe in her scent. Lavender, like her pillow. Her breathing comes easy, and pride warms my chest. She’s always fallen asleep best when I’m with her. Tonight’s events didn’t erase that. I close my eyes and whisper a prayer without meaning to, unable to stop the hushed words flowing past my lips.
Stay with me, Mercy.I press a kiss to her hair.Forever.
I don’t know how long we sit in the dark, but the sun rises and light shines through the windows. Mercy continues to sleep. The furnace completely cools and shuts off, awaiting the next steps. I don’t actually know what to do. It’s not like I read a manual or searched the internet forhow to cremate a body. We could have buried him in the backyard and washed our hands of it by now. I guess this leaves less evidence than a fresh grave?
While I contemplate whether waking Mercy is worth it or not, the door to the hall creaks open, and Mr. Morningstar shuffles into the room. Coffee steaming from the travel mug in his hand, a yellow notepad tucked under his arm, dark hair falling into tired eyes, he turns to the right and starts checking things off of a list before noticing the antique velvet couch in the middle of the room or his daughter tucked beneath my arm.
He blinks, taken off guard, before coming over to check the crematorium. Holding his hand over the front, then the side, before checking the dials and switches that Mercy used to turn the machine on, he mutters a few things under his breath. After a minute of quiet contemplation, he moves to drop his notepad and pen onto the rolling cart before stopping midway, rethinking it, and tucking both into his back pocket. Then, he turns the cold metal folding chair around and takes a seat.
“Sir—”
Holding up his hand, Vinicius Morningstar gestures for me to remain silent. “Don’t say any more than I need to know, son.” He leans back in the chair and sighs. “Was it a dog?”
I blink. Should I tell him the truth?
