“No,” she protests. “I don’t think it was you. I trust you. Can you trust me?”
“No,” Saint growls, scowling. “Not when you’re sneaking out. Where were you, Mercy?”
I glance at him. We know where she went. Saint came clean about putting a tracker in her, and as soon as he showed us where she was, I knew what that meant. Femme Fight Friday is the only thing that takes place at the Slaughterpen that night. The only thing we couldn’t figure out is why she was there. Maybe she was checking out Salem Sincero, seeing what we’re up against, but it doesn’t sit quite right. She’s still hiding something.
“I don’t get why you’re making such a big deal of this,” she says. “I’m fine. I just want to get some sleep, okay?”
“We promised to protect you,” I point out. “You’re making that real fucking hard.”
“I didn’t ask you to do that.”
“Didn’t you?” I ask, cocking my head. “I seem to remember you barging into the gym and demanding protection from the Sinners.”
“I don’t remember that at all.”
“Hmm,” I say, stroking my chin. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s how it happened.”
“I’m going to bed,” Mercy says. “We can talk in the morning.”
She circles the bed and lifts the blankets, wedging herself in next to Saint, who’s on top of the covers.
“Your brother wanted to barge in and haul your ass out the second he knew where you were,” I say. “I told him to wait, that you’d have an explanation. But if you don’t…”
She looks like a trapped animal, searching for a way out.
“I guess next time we’ll pay you a little visit at the Slaughterpen,” I say.
“No,” she blurts, her eyes going wide as she realizes she’s caught.
“Let me get this straight,” Heath says. “You have someone leaving notes in blood on your door, letters coming with no return address—don’t think I forgot that one at Christmas—and now you want to be sneaking around with guys who run illegal shit on the bad side of town, and you’re not going to tell us any of it?”
“I thought you were leaving the notes,” she says. “In blood and on paper. Saint put the tongue there, right?”
He nods grudgingly, his arms crossed and a scowl on his face. The effect is ruined when Mercy’s cat jumps up and curls up on his lap, purring instantly. I admit, I’m a little jealous. I want it to tell Mercy I’m the good one.
“Yeah,” Saint says. “I figured that was message enough. I never wrote anything.”
“I didn’t either,” Heath says, and I nod in agreement.
“Well, then I don’t know,” she says. “It was probably the Sinners. They’ve been bugging me since day one.”
“Stop fucking around,” Saint growls, dumping the kitten off his lap and flipping over onto Mercy, straddling her and pinning her arms.
Mercy lets out a mewling cry, tears filling her eyes as she sucks in shallow breaths through her teeth. The grey cat stalks over to the desk, looking gravely offended, and hops up to perch on the surface, surveying us all with severe scorn.
“What the fuck, man,” I warn Saint. “Don’t hurt her.”
“I didn’t,” he grits out.
“She looks pretty hurt.”
“I’m fine,” she says quickly, her voice strained.
Saint yanks the blankets down from her, moving backwards. She tries to grab them with one hand, her other hand covering her side. His eyes light on the movement, and he tears her hand away and yanks up her shirt. A bloody bandage is sloppily taped to her side, and whoever did it, they didn’t clean up around it very well. Smears of dried blood paint her skin, going down under the top of her pajamas.
“What the fuck?” Saint roars.
“Fuck, M,” I say, hurrying to the bed and sinking down beside her. Her belly heaves with each shaky breath, and she rolls her eyes up, refusing to meet my gaze. I can tell she’s trying not to cry again.
