With an assured knowledge of strength that was his trademark, Mercy reached around and took Mason by the throat. Ava saw, in her haze, the tendons leap in Mercy’s fingers as his grip tightened, and then Mason was hauled backward like a child’s toy, and flung against the bannister of the second staircase. Two balustrades cracked with puffs of dust. Something crunched in Mason and he slumped forward onto the floor. His hands were slick with his own blood. He moaned.
“Baby.” Mercy’s voice was hitched, breathless, as he leaned over and gathered her up with his hand beneath her arms, lifting her to her feet, urging her to lean against him. His face was the enraged mask of the day he’d killed the two Carpathians in her room. She felt the fury leaping under his skin as she rested her head against his chest. “Where does it hurt? – What did he?...”
Mason tried to push up on his hands and Mercy snarled, a vicious, animal growl coming out through his teeth. He hooked an arm around Ava’s waist and pulled her along with him, as he went to Mason. Ava knotted her hands in Mercy’s flannel shirt, swaying; the pain in her stomach was getting worse, an awful knotting deep in her womb, but she felt detached from it somehow, floating high above the scene playing out here in Hamilton House. Mercy was here now; she was safe; all she had to do was stay awake.
A sharp kick cracked Mason’s head back. He yelped; his face was wet with tears. He lurched and writhed, so he was sitting up against the balustrades, bloody hands braced on the floor, legs splayed at awkward angles out in front of him. His jeans were black with blood. Ava wondered, dimly, if she’d hit the artery and if he might bleed out right here in front of them.
Mercy dropped down to a crouch, slowly, so he didn’t dislodge her. Ava moved behind him, looped her arms around his neck and let his solid shape hold all her weight, her boots set back on the floor behind her. He reached up to close his hand over her wrist, briefly, a silent encouragement:stay with me, I’m here, you’re okay, baby. Then he reached for the wicked length of serrated knife down his boot.
Mason’s eyes latched onto the blade, and dilated with horror. He breathed in shallow huffs, his skin slick and sallow. The blood loss was getting to him. All the adrenaline had drained away in one terrified rush. He wasn’t a fighter now, just a scared kid.
“It’s Mason, right?” Mercy drawled, turning the knife so the unnatural flashlight glow glinted down the length of it. When Mason didn’t say anything, Mercy said, “I asked a question, dumbass.”
“Y-y-yes. I’m Mason.”
“Right. So.” Mercy’s voice became almost soothing, low and emotionless. He’d gone to that dark place in his head. He wasn’t him anymore; he was the club extractor. “Looks like something happened to your leg, Mason.” He used the tip of the knife to tap at the hole in Mason’s jeans. Mason cringed and tried to scoot back. “No, no, you’re going to want to keep very still.” Little tap-tap with the knife. “Your leg?”
Mason’s eyes flickered up to Ava, then back.
“Ah…” A note of satisfaction. “Feisty little thing, isn’t she? I taught her how to use a knife myself.”
Mason’s lips worked, but no sound came out.
“What’s that?” Mercy trailed the knife tip down the outer seam of Mason’s jeans, down past his knee. “She never mentioned me?” His shrug pushed against Ava’s arms. “Guess that’s not the sort of thing a girl goes around school talking about: being friends with me. Not anything to brag about.” When Mason kept silent, Mercy said, “See, her brother, her old man, they’re leadership types. Guys in the front of things, yeah? And me? Me, I’m not that important. I’m the middle-of-the-night guy. I’m the guy” – tight bands of steel threading through his voice – “they sic on guys like you.”
“No!” Mason squeaked. “No, I didn’t–”
“Didn’t what, Mason?” Mercy shouted. “Beat my girl to within an inch of her life?” He dug the knife down into Mason’s shin, the thin patch of skin just over the bone.
Mason howled, and Mercy pulled back, voice softening again.
“It was just a misunderstanding, right?
Fast, jerky nod from Mason.
“I figured. So’s this.” The knife flashed down in a lightning strike, burying itself in Mason’s other thigh.
His scream was terrible, veins popping in his neck and eyes rolling back, lips skinning off his teeth in anguish.
Mercy, totally composed, wiped the blood off on Mason’s shirt, sliding the flat of the knife on his sleeve once, twice. His head cocked a fraction, as Mason’s screaming dissolved into gurgling. His hair brushed Ava’s face as he turned to her, just a little, and said in a sweet, crooning voice, “What do you think, sweetheart?” He gestured to Mason’s body with the knife. “Where next? Belly? Balls? You tell me.”
For a moment, Ava let the thought stir her. She hurt everywhere, so very much, and her vision was spotty. She allowed herself a moment of debate. Yes, she had this power. She had this ungodly strong creature at her disposal, at her beck and call, her own heaping helping of nightmare revenge to dish out on whoever she wanted to point him at.
In that moment, she knew: he would do anything for her. Anything. No request was too gruesome, no deed too despicable for him. He’d flay Mason alive, if she wanted him to, and then go for Beau and Ainsley.
The power, all that power in him she felt whenever he was inside her, above her, sheltering her – that was hers.
Dizziness tackled her, had her leaning against him harder.
Mason sobbed. “Please, please, please…”
Ava felt a surge of warmth between her legs, a wetness as her stomach cramps threatened to blind her. She was bleeding. Oh, God, the baby…Mercy…
“Ava!” Her dad’s voice, a harsh bark from behind her.
“Baby.” Maggie’s sharp gasp.
“Merc,” Dad said, sounding his most authoritative. “Leave the boy alone.”
