Page 31 of Burned in Stone
About the fact I let you crawl under my guard before I even realized it was happening.
She rolls her eyes, but it’s gentle — like she needs to pretend irritation because the alternative is panic. “I’m fine, Cash.”
“You’re not. But it’s OK.” I grab a banana from the fruit bowl and offer it over. She gives me this tiny smile like she doesn’t want to draw attention to accepting care, but can’t refuse it either. “How are you feeling?”
“Like my ex-husband is in town with a badge and a grudge.” She attempts a smile. “So, you know, fantastic.”
I nod. There’s nothing useful left to say. Instead, I lean on the counter and sip my own coffee, watching her slowly peel the banana. For a minute, a weird kind of peace settles over the kitchen. I sense the gears behind her eyes, grinding, sparking as she replays everything from last night.
She’s the one to break the silence. “You ever wish you could just... disappear?”
“Used to,” I admit. “When I was younger. Living on the streets. Thought if I could just vanish, start over somewhere else, maybe I’d stop feeling hunted.”
“Did it work?”
“No. Running doesn’t fix what’s broken inside. Just gives it a new zip code.” I set down my mug, studying her. “But finding the right people, the right place? That can make all the difference.”
I’m telling her things I don’t tell people. The street kid stuff isn’t secret, but I don’t advertise it. People hear ‘homeless’ and start dissecting you—pity, curiosity, calculation. But Mercy doesn’t do that. She just listens without any big reaction.
“I didn’t know you lived on the streets.”
“I didn’t know you were still married,” I shoot back. “But here we are.” The words are barely out of my mouth before I regret them. Nothing like tit-for-tat trauma ping-pong over breakfast. “Shit,” I mutter, dropping my gaze. “Sorry. That was?—”
“No, it’s OK,” she interrupts. “I was pushing for information, and I hate when people do that to me.” She tucks a stray strand of red hair behind her ear. “It’s just… you don’t look like the type who?—”
“Used to beg for food and sleep under bridges?” I try to make it a joke, but my voice is flat.
She doesn’t laugh. She just watches me, her eyes soft. It’s not pity, though. It’s more like she’s trying to imagine fifteen-year-old me shivering under an overpass instead of the man leaning against the counter.
“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I didn’t mean to…”
“Don’t apologize,” I cut in, softer this time. “It’s ancient history now.” Needing to move, I push away from the counter and glance at the clock on the wall. Eight-thirty. Church in an hour and a half.
“You should get dressed,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual. “Can’t have you wandering the clubhouse in just a T-shirt when you don’t wear a property patch.”
Her brow furrows. “Property patch?”
“Shows you belong to someone in the club. That you’re protected, off-limits.” I shrug. “Old school tradition. Not everyone follows it anymore, but enough do that it matters.”
“And without one?”
“Without one, you’re fair game. Not that anyone here would disrespect you, but visiting members or prospects might not know you’re under club protection. Might not know you’re...” I close my mouth. Something about telling a woman who fled a controlling relationship that I claimed her under club rules doesn’t sit right.
Mine.
Her gaze flicks up and her brow creases slightly, and I know she heard the word I didn’t say. “You went to Stone and claimed me, didn’t you? As far as the club is concerned, I’m yours,” she says, and it’s not a question. It’s a translation.
“It’s not about ownership, Mercy,” I say, my voice rough. “It’s about protection. It’s a line in the sand. It tells every motherfucker out there that if they touch you, they start a war.”
She just looks at me, those big, wounded eyes searching my face for the lie, for the trap. For the first time, I see the full weight of what I’m asking her to trust. Not just me, but the promise that this kind of claim won’t become another cage.
“I can’t expect you to get it,” I finally say, breaking the silence. “Not after him.” The name Gabriel sits in the space between us, unspoken but heavy as a boulder. I see the flicker of a hundred bad memories in her eyes, a lifetime of being owned and controlled. And here I am, using the language of property and claims. Fucking brilliant. “But I promise you it’s different here, Mercy. This isn’t a cage. It’s a shield.”
She doesn’t answer, just keeps staring into her coffee like it holds all the answers I don’t have. I can see the argument playing out behind her eyes, the debate between the safety I’m offeringand the price it might cost her. My words are supposed to give comfort. But they probably sound like the same bullshit he fed her. Promises are cheap. I learned that young. Social workers swore they’d help. Cops swore they’d protect me. Men swore they just wanted to give me a place to crash. Every single one wanted something. Everyone had conditions.
So why the fuck should Mercy believe me when I say it’s different? When I’m using the same language Gabriel probably used—’protection,’ ‘safety,’ ‘mine.’ The only difference is I mean it. But how does she know that? How does anyone know until it’s too late?
“Look,” I say, breaking the tension, pushing past my own spiral. “How about we go get your things from your apartment? Together. You’re not setting foot in that place alone.”
