Page 26 of Burned in Stone
The thought alone is enough to make my stomach twist. These people gave me refuge when I had nowhere else to go. I can’t be the reason they lose everything.
That’s why I have to go before he gets the chance to play hero. Before his loyalty sparks a war none of us could win.
“Up to me?” I manage, barely loud enough to rise above the music. “Does that mean you’re going to stick around all night acting like my prison guard?”
His tongue does that devious flick against his teeth—the one that means he’s holding back something sharp. “Not a prison, Mercy. It’s a fortress. And if you’d stop fucking fighting me, you could be part of it.”
I almost drop a glass. Fortress. The word hits like a warm hand to the chest, equal parts comfort and danger. My eyes sting, and I hate that it feels like the first kind thing anyone’s said to me in years. I spin away to re-rack pint glasses and buy myself some dignity, but Cash doesn’t let it go.
He moves behind the bar and cages me between the keg cooler and the ice bin. There are witnesses everywhere—Kya catching it over the prep sink, Lee over by the taps pretending not to notice—but with Cash this close, the rest of the bar goes flatline. There’s only the smell of man and bike leather, and the heat from his body, and the way he dips his head so I have to look him square in the face.
“Ineedyou to stop fighting me, angel.” His voice isn’t angry. It’s almost begging. He’s so close I can see how impossibly long his lashes are, see the tiny scar through his eyebrow, the little curl of tension at his lip.
“Cash—” I start, and my voice buckles.
He brushes a piece of hair behind my ear, slow and careful, like he’s been practicing this move in his head for weeks. “You want to run, I’ll let you run. But if you stay… if you let me do what’s in my head…” He trails off, clenching his jaw, the veins in his forearm going rigid. “If you’ll just say yes to me, Mercy, you’ll never have to be scared again.”
He’s not asking for forgiveness or permission. He’s making me a promise, one I am absolute shit at believing but suddenly, standing in the cold beer-funk air with his hand warm on my jaw, I want it so bad it aches.
“I’m not—” I try, but the rest of the sentence gets stuck. I’m not ready, I’m not yours, I’m not someone worth claiming. They’re all true, and all useless now, because I can’t get the words out, and Cash doesn’t need them, anyway.
He leans in even closer, lips curving with that reckless tenderness that makes my knees want to fold. “I’m not scared of your worst, Mercy.” His thumb traces my cheekbone, and now I’m sure Kya’s watching, but I can’t seem to care. “You give me all your broken. I’ll give you everything I got.” The way he says it, low and cracked and almost a little scared, makes my head go static.
I open my mouth to argue, but all that comes out is a whisper. “You say that now.”
Cash’s eyes flicker, the green gone cut glass. “I’ll say it always.”
I study his face, the bandaged knuckles, the set of his jaw that always looks a little dangerous, and before I can figure out my answer, someone yells at the other end of the bar, breaking the moment.
“Mercy! Can we get some service or what?” It’s Felix, Poppy’s brother, waving his empty glass and making a show of being outraged. I fire back with a one-finger salute, and Cash shoots him a look that could strip paint. Felix just grins wider, like he’s the king of the dirtbags, and when I give him a fresh hard cider on the house, he clinks it on the bar in a little toast: “Here’s to Mercy, who’s too good for any of you neanderthals.”
I suspect he’s talking about Cash, but I’m not about to call him on it.
The rhythm of the bar takes over. We’re slammed from seven to almost eleven, and Cash plays co-pilot the whole night—restocking coolers in the back, lending a hand with drunk customers even though I’ve dealt with drunks for years and don’t need it. Still, in some weird way, I’m into it. Not just the help, but the attention. I could get addicted to the way he tracks me across a crowded room, or how his jaw ticks every time I so much as smile at a customer who looks twice at me.
Maybe I should just say yes.
The thought ambushes me, and for a second I let myself imagine it. Saying yes. Staying. Building something real here instead of running again. But then I remember the burner phone in my apartment, the already packed bags, the car full of fuel so I won’t have to stop for hours. And I remember that I’m not built for staying.
Maybe I could just give him one night…
I don’t get the chance to consider it further when a cold jolt prickles the base of my spine. The bar’s suddenly too quiet—just for a breath, but enough for my bartender senses to gofull DEFCON 1. Through the front window, blue and red lights unfurl like a goddamn peacock.
Cash catches my eye. I see the calculation in his face. He’s already moving toward me when the door opens.
Three cops walk in.
For a second, I just see the uniforms—dark blue, badges catching the bar lights. These aren’t our usual Stoneheart PD guys. I’ve never seen them before. Two beefy guys built like bouncers, all thick necks and suspicious eyes.
And then the third steps between them, taking the lead with his air of authority.
The tray in my hands tilts. Empty glasses slide, crash to the floor in a cascade of breaking glass that seems to happen in slow motion. The sound is distant, muffled, like I’m underwater.
Gabriel.
10
MERCY
