Page 48 of Burned in Stone
“I don’t.”
“You do. You’re quieter.”
“Are you telling me I snore?”
She laughs. “No. You just breathe like a person sleeping.”
I run a hand down her bare back, feeling the way she shivers at my touch. “Sounds like someone else has been a creep, staring.”
“In my defense, you barely sleep,” she says, propping herself up on her elbows. “I had to check if I finally wore you out.”
“Good luck,” I smirk. “I don’t go down easy.”
In fact, I never sleep deeply with someone else around, not even her. Old habits from the streets—never let your guard down, never trust that the person next to you won’t roll you the second you’re vulnerable. But that’s not the point. The point is I can’t stop looking at her. I’ve never met a woman with an appetite to match mine. Yesterday I only left the apartment to bring back food, and the second I got back she dragged me into the shower before we even finished breakfast.
I smooth my palm over her hip, memorizing the soft fullness, the tiger stripes she still tries to hide when she rolls out of bed. I’m aware of every damn inch of her—the little scar above her knee, the tattooed raven on her shoulder, the way her hair smells like sweat from sex and apples from her shampoo. This woman makes me feel like everything from my skin to my shadow belongs entirely to her.
And the crazy part? There’s a weird comfort in it. In belonging to someone instead of just claiming them. I’ve spent my whole adult life keeping control, keeping distance, keeping people from getting close. But Mercy? She’s got all of me. Every fucked-up piece.
Mercy shifts, propping a leg across my thigh and burying her face in the crook of my neck. She’s warm and sleepy and still has that afterglow, the kind that radiates out of her and into the air,making the room feel small and safe and like we could stay here forever.
“What time is it?” she mumbles, her breath tickling at the base of my jaw.
“Eight-thirty.” I run my hands through her hair, massaging her scalp lightly. “We need to leave for Josie’s office by ten.”
The mention of the lawyer makes her tense. Today we start the legal battle to force Gabriel to sign the divorce papers. Today, shit gets real.
“Hey.” I cup her face. “We’ve got this. Josie’s the best there is. She always comes through for the club.”
“I know.” But she’s chewing her bottom lip, that nervous tell I’m learning to read. “It’s just... Gabriel doesn’t lose. Ever. At anything.”
“He’s never gone up against Stoneheart MC before.”
“That’s what worries me.” She sits up, holding the sheet to her chest like she needs a shield just to speak about him. “He’s already in Summit’s pocket. And we know the sole purpose of that task force he’s on is to dig up dirt on the MC. What happens if he actually finds some? Or worse—what if hecreatesit?”
“Then we handle it.” I pull her back down. “Stop borrowing trouble, angel. We deal with what’s in front of us today.”
She studies my face. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It is simple. You’re mine. He doesn’t get to have any part of you anymore. End of story.”
Mercy just shakes her head. She knows I’m making the world simple when it’s never once been simple for either of us.Whatever. If telling this woman ‘you’re mine’ a thousand times keeps her from splintering, I’ll do it a thousand more.
Even if part of me knows I’m saying it as much for myself as for her. Because the alternative—that Gabriel could actually take her from me, that the system could side with him because he’s got a badge and connections and I’ve got a criminal record—that’s the kind of loss I don’t know how to survive. I lost everything enough times already. I can’t do it again. Won’t.
So yeah, I make it simple. Because simple is the only way I stay functional.
Outside, I can hear the clubhouse starting to wake. Steel’s over-eager laugh through the courtyard window, Tank hollering for someone to bring him a wrench, the background thrum of people who will have my back without ever needing to say it. Any other morning, I’d already be at the gym or the garage, burning off whatever tension the night brought. Instead, I want to stay in this bed with Mercy, mapping every inch of her until my hands know nothing else. Every instinct is in conflict—war with Gabriel, war with Summit, but also war with myself, with the urge to hoard her in here as long as I can before the world comes clawing at our door.
“We should start getting ready,” she says, making a move to get up from the bed.
“Whoa, whoa, angel.” I catch her upper arm. “It’s not gonna take an hour to get ready.”
“With the way you and I shower, it’ll probably take longer,” she says with a wicked little smirk.
I let go of her arm, watching as she slides out of bed and heads for the bathroom, hips swaying in a way that makes me want todrag her right back. She glances over her shoulder, catching me staring again, and crooks her finger at me.
“Coming?”
