Page 9 of The Price of Mercy
“Does it hurt?” My voice hangs in the air between us. What I really want to ask is “Does it hurt to love me?”
I have a feeling that the answer would be yes.
Sam would never admit that loving me is like willful drowning. He could come up for air, but then he would miss the ocean’s deadly caress. That’s likely what Sam craves—the darkest parts of me intertwined with the darkest parts of him, like drinking poison until you’vebecomepoison.
A better woman would pull him out before it’s too late. Sacrifice her needs for his. Ensure that he lives and thrives in the light rather than suffer in her shadows. But I am not a betterwoman. I caress Sam’s bruised cheek with the edge of my thumb, sweeping gently across the bone, knowing that his pain is proof of his devotion to me. It shouldn’t excite me.
And yet.
I’ve never been someone’s first choice. A priority. Something to shelter and love and pour your heart into. But with Sam, maybe that’s what I am. What I’ve become.
His first choice.
Hisonlychoice.
Cupping Sam’s cheek, I dip my head and brush my lips over his, the split in his bottom lip scraping against mine. I swipe my tongue over the wound and shiver at the taste of his blood. “Thank you, Sam.”
He clutches my wrist and keeps me still as his eyes search mine. “Mercy.” Sam’s next breath cracks inside his chest. He wheezes through the pain. “Don’t thank me. I’m—” His emerald eyes shimmer with regret. “I’m so sorry.” He kisses my wrist rather than my lips. “Everything that happened tonight is my fault. I should have—I shouldn’t have—” Whatever he’s trying to say gets lost in translation, and he clenches his eyes shut. “I should have been there when he—this is all my fault.”
I don’t blame Sam for what happened. I wish he wouldn’t claim it all for himself, either.
Kane grunts, idly tapping my thigh as he enters the conversation. “Or,” he murmurs, “there’s more to it than Pretty Boy’s failures.” Sighing, he closes what little distance remains between us and digs his forehead into my shoulder, his chest tightening against my back as he works through whatever is on his mind. “Tell her what happened upstairs, Sam, in your room. Besides you getting your ass kicked.”
The heat swirling in the air suddenly cools. I shiver. “What do you mean?”
Swallowing hard, Sam sits back on his haunches and creates some distance. “They had a video of us.” Opening his eyes, he grabs his wine bottle and clutches the neck so tightly that his knuckles turn white. “At your house, before the party. We were outside.”
It takes me a second to remember the conversation, but then it comes rushing back. Sam’s pickup truck. Leaves swirling around us. The way he begged me not to make him watch me and Reaper together. How I asked anyway, knowing that it would hurt Sam but unwilling to compromise.
I wince. That was a shitty thing for me to ask.
After a few tugs on the wine label, Sam successfully tears off a corner and flicks it to the floor. “They heard us talk about Reaper. They assumed it meant that—” His scowl deepens. “That you?—”
“That I wanted it.” The words taste like ash in my mouth. “They thought I wanted to get fucked by The Reaper.”
He sweeps his hand out in a small arc. “Yeah. But I don’t know where that guy came from or who he is, Mercy, I swear. Or how anyone got the video. I didn’t even know there was a video!”
Neither did I. I’ve adjusted to being monitored in my bedroom, but anywhere else? Are there cameras in the kitchen or living room or—I frown, picturing my grandmother minding her own business as she wanders the tombstones in the afternoon, or my father playing piano by himself late at night. Those are private moments. My conversation with Sam was personal. No one should be intercepting those—no one.
Reaching behind me, I weave my fingers through Kane’s blonde hair and tug hard enough that he hisses, flecks of his spit hitting my shoulder. “Is the camera yours?”
Dread weaves through my ribs as I consider Kane’s culpability in my assault. Would he have done this to me? My eyes narrow. No, that doesn’t make sense. He would have bentover backwards if it meant getting in my pants. And he wassoangrywhen he arrived at the frat house, he threw punches before he asked any questions. But who else would have a put a camera outside my house? Who else?—
The answer rips through me like a bullet, leaving me gasping for air.
Our little trio is missing its fourth person.
The man who sticks by Kane’s side like his shadow.
Who said he’d murder me if I got intimate with Kane.
He fingered me so that Kane wouldn’t find out I was a virgin.
I clench my jaw at the same time Kane clenches his. I feel, rather than hear, the name that grinds past his teeth.
Zane.
The cameras are fucking Zane’s.
