Page 9 of Burned in Stone
“Cash.” Mercy tries to argue as I pull her onto my lap. “What are you?—”
My arm snakes around her waist, locking her against my chest. Her gasp is lost against my shoulder as I hold her there. A claim. A promise. A public statement that she’s mine and everyone here better fucking acknowledge it.
She’s mine, and she’s family. Whether she knows it yet or not.
Her whole body goes rigid, a silent protest against the public display. “You can’t just do this,” she hisses, her voice a low, frantic whisper meant only for me. I know I’m pushing. Maybe too far. But she keeps slipping through my fingers, and her standing on the edges of my world is worse than the looks we’re getting.
“Watch me,” I murmur, my lips brushing against her hair. The scent of her—lilac and something uniquely Mercy—calms theferal thing roaring in my chest. “You belong here. With us. With me.”
She tries to shift, to create distance, but I hold her fast. Her fight gives way to a tense surrender. She stops struggling, her weight settling against me. Her head tilts back slightly, and her wide, uncertain eyes meet mine.
“You don’t get to decide that for me,” she whispers, her voice filled with a weary resignation that makes me want to burn the world down for her.
“Maybe not,” I concede, my thumb stroking the curve of her hip. “But I’ll keep showing you you’re wrong until you believe it.”
I let her slide from my lap then, because I know when to push and when to let her breathe. Control isn’t about forcing—it’s about knowing exactly how much pressure to apply and when. And right now, I’ve made my point. Everyone in this room knows she’s mine. Now, she just needs to accept it.
She instantly crosses the room back to where Kya, Josie, and Ginger are standing. Bones makes his way over to me again.
“Looks like you have a fight on your hands.”
Arms folded across my chest, I look over to where the women coo over baby pictures. “Story ofmyfucking life.”
It takes a solid hour for everyone to pay their respects to Axel, Poppy, and little baby Rose. I’ve never been that big on kids, but even I have to admit the kid is kind of perfect. A tiny, scrunched-up thing with a full head of dark hair, just like Axel. But my opinion is definitely skewed by Mercy holding her. She’s got the baby tucked into the crook of her arm, her head bent low as she whispers something that makes the kid’s mouth work in atiny, sleepy O. The soft light from overhead catches the red in her hair, turning it to fire, and the look on her face is pure, unguarded awe.
A fierce, possessive heat coils low in my gut.
It’s the first time I’ve ever looked at a woman with a kid in her arms and seen my future. An old lady on the back of my bike, a baby in her belly.
My baby.
My old lady.
The thought steals the air from my lungs.
Fuck.
I’ve always been in control of what I want, when I want it, how I take it. I decide when to walk away. I decide the terms. But this? This is different. This is wanting something I can’t just take. Something that requires her to choose me, to stay, to build something permanent. And that means giving up control. Means trusting her not to leave when she figures out all the shit I keep buried.
I don’t do trust. Don’t do vulnerability. But looking at her holding that baby, I want it anyway. Want her anyway. Even if it scares the hell out of me.
Mercy reluctantly hands Rose back to Poppy, her smile soft and a little sad. I follow her out to the waiting room. We settle back into the uncomfortable chairs, the energy shifting from tense anticipation to a low, happy buzz. One by one, the others take their turns. Kya and Lee are the last to go in, and when they emerge twenty minutes later, Lee looks like he’s just seen a goddamn miracle.
Josie is the first to stand. “Early court date tomorrow,” she explains.
“I’ll walk you to your car.” Stone stands with her, and if we didn’t know our president as well as we do, we’d think he was just being polite. But the low tone in his voice tells us he’s practically falling over himself trying to get this woman alone.
I know exactly how you feel, Prez.
Josie slings her purse over her shoulder. “That’s not necessary?—”
“It’s three in the morning. It’s necessary.”
Josie looks like she wants to argue, but something in Stone’s expression stops her. “Fine. Thank you.”
As they head toward the elevator, the room erupts with speculation. Mercy somehow starts another one of her betting pools before we all head to the parking garage, a pack of leather-clad misfits moving as one. It’s a little after three in the morning. The exhaustion hits me all at once, but it’s a good kind of tired. As we pile into the elevator, I find myself next to Mercy again. Her shoulder brushes mine. The simple contact sends a jolt straight through me. I want to pull her close, to pick up where we left off the last time we were in here, but there’s no room, no privacy.
The ride to her apartment is quiet, both of us lost in our own thoughts. When I pull up outside the building that houses her place above the laundromat, she slides off the bike and pulls off the helmet I insisted she wear.
