Page 4 of The Price of Mercy
The edge of his lips twitches as he fights a smile. “I’m not babying you. I’m being nice.”
“You’ve been through a lot tonight,” Sam interjects, clearly agreeing with Kane. They both want me to sit alone in my bedroom and wait for them to finish the job. “Let me—” He sighs. “Letushandle this part.”
I glance between the two of them. I’m outnumbered and outvoted, but I refuse to back down. “Thisfucker—” I throw my hand out towards the body hidden in the bed of Sam’s pickup. “—tries to rape me, and you want me to go home?” The echo of guilt in my head about the man’s death quiets, squashed by the anger boiling in my blood. “Screw that. If you’re getting rid of the body, I deserve to watch him burn.”
If they make me go home, if they lock me in my bedroom, I know that I won’t sleep. I’ll replay tonight over and over in my head, running through all the possible scenarios, the outcomes, thewhat-ifs.That man’s face—pretending to be Reaper—will haunt me. He didn’t get away with hurting me, and I’m grateful for that. But it’s not over until he’s erased from existence.
The gears turn in my head as I come up with a plan. I don’t know what the boys discussed, but I don’t care. I’m a Morningstar—handling the deceased is what we do.
Chapter 2
Kane
Morningstar Mortuary is fucking perfect.Exposed red brick both inside and out, with original hardwood floors that date back decades and old glass windows that warp incoming light. At night, the building looks as haunted as the surrounding landscape, and I fuckingloveit. The recent updates to the driveway, doors, and inner workings feel out-of-place but up to code, a necessary evil for running a business in today’s world. The lobby has been remodeled for modern times, but the back hallways and rooms preserve the morgue’s original charm.
As Mercy leads us through the front door and humors me with a brief tour of the building, she lights up like the North Star. Every room has a story, and she sifts through them all to tell her favorites. What began as mild curiosity about her family and their business experience quickly turns into something deeper. The stories are fine and all, but Mercy is exceptional. Everything she says makes me fall in love with this place—and the woman within it.
She may as well be guiding me home. I never want to leave.
While she brushes her fingertips over an old velvet couch and speaks fondly of a man who couldn’t bear to leave his wife’s side—for three days!—while the Morningstars prepared her body inthe next room, I watch the subtle intricacies of Mercy’s face in the lowlight, committing them to memory. To Sam’s credit, he doesn’t interrupt, keeping his hands in his pockets as he nods along to Mercy’s story. I guess he’s heard this one before, or maybe he was here with her when it happened. He could have met the mourning man and listened as he sang songs of love for his dearly departed.
As we enter the next room, an ornate stained glass window casts soft blue light across the floor. An image of a riverbank, complete with a crescent moon hanging in the sky overhead, decorates the center of the far wall. Here, Mercy tells a story about a woman whose sister drowned in a nearby river after the current carried her away. Heavy rainstorms had filled a lake past capacity, so the city authorized more water to be released from the dam than usual, thus picking up the current, cooling the waters, and subsequently resulting in her sister’s untimely death. But the strangest thing about the tale is that her sister was smiling as she drifted away, letting nature carry her into the next life.
Mercy tells at least half a dozen of such stories in a hushed whisper, likely aiming to be respectful of the dead and their loved ones, but there’s no need for caution. The warmth in her eyes says it all. This place—these stories—are as much a part of her as the bricks are to the walls.
Taking her hand, I lace our fingers together. For one of the first times in my life, I don’t have anything to say. Nothing to contribute to the conversation. But Ifeelit—the gentle tug on my heart—and I want to share this moment with her.
She stumbles with her story, pulled out of a monologue by our joined hands. Blinking, she looks down at our interlocked fingers, like she’s surprised. We held hands the other day when I led her from the fine arts building to the cemetery, so it’s not like this is new.
But somehow… it feels different.
I don’t pull her closer like I have in the past. Instead, with a gentle nod, I encourage her to keep going. “I’m listening, Siren.”
The blush on her cheeks makes holding back so fucking worth it.
Sam, the fucker, slides up to Mercy’s other side and takes the opposite hand, copying me as he laces their fingers together. Our eyes meet over Mercy’s head, and I glare. He doesn’t deserve to touch her after what happened tonight. As far as I’m concerned, everything is his damn fault for taking her to the party in the first place.
The spell between Mercy and me breaks, and she laughs awkwardly. “Um, we should—it’s getting—I mean?—”
I hate to cut the tour short, butfine. We’re technically on the clock. If Zane were here, he’d be throwing a fucking tantrum about the delay. Keeping my eye on Sam, I address Mercy without looking at her. “Prep the room for us. We’ll bring the body around back. Can you prop the door open?”
“Sure,” she breathes, tugging her hands free. When neither me or Sam let go, a tiny laugh fizzles past her lips. “Guys, c’mon, this is ridiculous.”
“Is it?” My eyebrow lifts. “Let go, Sam.”
The guard dog shows his teeth. “You let go.”
“Both of you, let go!” Mercy jostles both of us. “Stop playing tug of war with me.”
I lick a stripe across my top row of teeth. “He hasn’t earned you, Mercy.” If I have any say in how things unravel between them, he’ll have to watch as I split his girl open with my cock. My girl. Our girl. Fuck, this is getting complicated. Regardless, I want to watch Sam crumble into a pitiable pile of dust while Mercy writhes beneath me. Is that so fucking bad?
My lips twitch into a frown. Zane won’t like that. He’s already possessive of me. When I fuck Mercy—because I will—he’ll beright there with us. Watching, grinding his molars the entire time, unable to see the beauty past his own jealousy.
But that’s the thing. There’s nothing for him to be jealous of.
Running my fingers through my hair, I sigh and let go of Mercy’s hand. I need to talk with Zane before I get too carried away with Mercy, or he’ll never forgive me. Jealous bastard.Greedybastard. He’s had me all to himself for years.Nowhe decides to throw a fuss about who I sleep with? When he’s the only one who’s seen the parts of me that matter most? What’s more intimate—a quick fuck against a gate with some stranger or spooning the most important person in your life during a thunderstorm?
Knowing him, he wants all of it. The quickies in the dark corners of the graveyard and the long nights wrapped in each other’s arms.
