Page 39 of Merciless

I’m so fucking sorry.

10

ALANA

I don’t bother trying to close the door once I’m back in the safety of my cell. It looks heavy as shit, and I don’t have the energy to even attempt it.

Instead, with my bleeding wrist still cradled to my chest, I crawl onto the cot bed and curl into the fetal position as my tears continue.

Shivers rip through my body. Not only am I still damp, but the air-conditioning is high as fuck in here, making my clothes feel like ice wrapped around my body.

Honestly, if I had the energy, I’d probably take them off.

But as it is, I just lie here listening to the sound of my pounding heart and erratic breathing, waiting for the door to slam closed, signalling my safety.

Once I’m alone. Truly alone, then I can break.

I’m so up in my own head that I don’t hear footsteps, or sense that someone else has joined me.

“Dove,” he whispers as a warm hand lands on my upper arm.

My heart jumps into my throat and I scream like a banshee before jumping up as fast as I can.

“Whoa,” JD soothes, holding his hands up in defense, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Get out,” I demand weakly.

But, unsurprisingly, he just stands there staring at me.

I cringe, only able to predict what a state I look and how awful my hair is.

“I don’t want or need you here, JD. Go follow your leader like a good little puppy and see if he has a bone or something to keep you entertained.”

“You’re a real bitch, you know that?”

I shrug. What the fuck is there to say in response to that.

Yeah, I’m being a bitch, but is it any surprise?

He’s one of two men who has me locked up like some kind of criminal.

Yes, I lied. Yes, I’ve been dishonest and unfaithful. But it wasn’t by choice, or because I thought it would be fun.

I didn’t have any other option.

It was either follow orders or watch someone I love suffer. And I’ve already experienced too much of that in my lifetime.

Or worse…

“Sit back down, I’m going to clean up that cut,” he says, his voice losing its bite from the last comment.

“It’s fine,” I mumble, happily lowering my aching body back to the cot.

It’s hard and uncomfortable. But while it might not be a luxurious bed in some fancy five-star hotel, at least it’s not that solid, unforgiving chair out there.

“No, it’s not. I’m sorry for hurting you.”

He says the words with such conviction that I can’t help but laugh.

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