Page 17 of The Price of Mercy
The moment he latches on, sucking the bud into his mouth and rolling his tongue over the tip, my body convulses. I smack the wall as my back arches and a gasp catches in my throat. Electricity zings down my spine and settles between my thighs, intensifying the growing ache in my core.Holy shit.No one’s ever touched my tits before. They’re small and plain and?—
Sam pops off my nipple with a wet smack, groaning as he switches to the other one. “So perfect.”
I whine, feel it echo in the air, and try not to spontaneously combust. “S-Sam.” God, I never knew this could feel so…hot.The cool water isn’t touching my rising body temp, and I smack the handle to turn it off. Sam pays it no mind, perfectly content with teasing me like this and in no rush to move. “Please.Sam.” I don’t know what I’m asking for, but my body wantssomething.Heat. Cold. Pressure. Air. Mixed desires war with each other. I shouldn’t have to pick. Why can’t I have it all?
Sam’s willing to give me everything, right?
Groaning, he shudders. “Fuck, Mercy.” Propping his chin on my chest, he peers up at me. “I want to lock you up, beautiful, sothat no one can find you. You’ll bemine.” His grip tightens on my ribs, making me flinch. “Forever. I’ll treat you just like this.” Blowing air onto my nipple, he chuckles as I shiver. “You’ll be my pretty little plaything, won’t you? Dressed up in ribbons and lace so that I can unwrap you every night.” Biting the top of my breast, he sucks, pulling blood to the surface and leaving a fresh mark. When he pulls away, I catch a red smear on my skin, the cut on his lip bleeding again. The blood mixes with a water drop trailing down my chest, and Sam wipes it all away with his palm. “Let’s dry you off.”
I’m weightless as Sam lifts me out of the tub and sets me down on the bathroom counter. Mascara and eyeliner fall into the sink and on the floor, but when my eyes travel low, it’s not the puddles of water or the fallen makeup that catches my attention. Sam’s jeans are barely holding on. If it weren’t for the massive tent in front, I’m pretty sure they’d fall right off. As he stands there soaking wet, they slide down his hips and reveal more muscle than I’ve ever seen on a man. Even the models for drawing class aren’t built like Sam—he’s cut from stone, resembling a Greek Adonis.
“Since when are you—”fucking delicious“—ripped?”
He barely hears me, too caught up in what he’s seeing to answer. I blush once I realize that he’s checking my body from head to toe and counting under his breath. It can’t be that bad. I glance down and gasp at the bruises mapping my skin like constellations.
As a pale woman, I’ve always bruised easily. My veins aren’t strong and the layers of my skin are thinner than tissue paper, so a little bruising is normal. But this is the worst I’ve ever seen. In addition to the bruises from last night, new ones have appeared over my stomach and hips, along my thighs, down my arms. Not all of them are deep, but because of my complexion, even theslightest difference stands out like watercolors on stark white paper.
I cross my arms over my chest and shiver. “Don’t look.” Emotions well inside my chest, too many to sift through and name, but the strongest one that punches through the surface isshame.Pretty girls don’t bruise. Strong girls don’t get thrown around by bullies. Smart girls avoid danger. Clearly, my ineptitude has resulted in this—this proof of my failures.
But Sam ignores my plea, grabbing a towel from the bar and holding it out for me. His eyes finally flick up to my face. “Come here.”
Moving slowly to avoid more bruising, I slide off the countertop and step into the towel. Sam wraps it tight around me and tucks the ends in. Without warning, he engulfs me in a bear hug. Warmth seeps through the towel and into my bones, soothing some of the ugliness chafing at my heart.
“Those bruises are mine,” he whispers, cradling the back of my head. “I put them there.”
That’s not true. I open my mouth, but he hushes me.
“I mean it, Mercy. Those are mine.” The gravel in his voice rumbles inside his chest. “Any time you look in the mirror, you need to remember that.” Pulling back just enough to peer into my eyes, he levels me with a serious look and taps one of the bruises on my chest. “I want you to think of me when you see them.”
I don’t know that rewiring my brain will be as easy as wishing it into existence, but for Sam, I can try. “Okay,” I murmur, tucking my chin. “I’ll try.”
His lips brush the shell of my ear. “Youwill.” He rubs warmth into my body through the towel. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.” Sam carries me into my room and tucks me into bed. I watch as he drags his wet jeans down his legs, kicks them away,and hovers with his hands on the waistband of his boxers. A divot forms between his eyebrows.
“You can take them off.” I turn onto my side and prop my head up on my hand. “I don’t want you to get sick. If you need clothes, you can raid my brother’s closet.” It’s not like Malachi needs them anytime soon. I don’t know when he’s coming home from boarding school. We haven’t kept in touch since he’s not allowed a cell phone and hates writing letters. The few phone calls he gets per month aren’t wasted on his little sister.
Rolling onto my back, I stare up at the ceiling as Sam undresses. Rather than slip across the hall to find clothes, he pulls back my blankets and slides into bed beside me, quickly wrapping me in his arms and sighing into my hair. He relaxes instantly. “S’warm,” he mumbles, burying his face in the crook of my neck.
It takes less than thirty seconds for him to pass out, but I lie awake, cocooned in his warmth and struggling to sleep. Normally, Sam would provide enough comfort for me to sleep peacefully, but my nap earlier this morning has taken its toll. I watch shadows dance around the room as they evade the barest whispers of sunlight filtering through the curtains. Each one tells its story with dramatic flair, flickering like obsidian flames crawling up the walls, dripping like candle wax over the windowsill, floating like ash in the wind, or writhing like a girl trapped in a nightmare that never ends.
Chapter 7
Kane
Samson fuckingWright is the shittiest communicator I’ve ever known. I send a barrage of messages his way, knowing that the bastard has his phone on him. He might hate my guts, but for possibly the first time in our lives, our interests align. I’m not trying to steal his girl. I’m trying to help her.
Is it so hard to believe that I fucking care?
ME
Hey, this is Kane. How is she?
Don’t ignore me, Sam
Hey
HEY
SAM
