“Who did this?” Heath demands, standing over her, knife already in hand. “Give me a name, and I’ll happily carve a smile in their throat from one ear to the other.”
“She’s dead,” Mercy whispers, a tear leaking down her cheek.
“Damn,” Heath says. “You killed ‘em?”
“No,” she cries, yanking her shirt back down.
“What happened?” I demand.
“It’s just a scratch,” she says. “Your cousins took care of it.”
“The bastards,” I swear. “They could have told me.”
“They didn’t know who I was,” she admits. “That I was… Yours.”
My mom used to read usHow the Grinch Stole Christmasevery year, and in that moment, I swear I feel the guy, because my heart definitely grows two sizes bigger, or maybe twenty. I’ve never wanted a girl to be mine, but hearing Mercy call herself that is about the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I need to be near her, so I climb onto the bed on her other side, sliding under the covers and pressing my lips to her head.
“Damn right you are,” I say.
“Now, can I go to sleep?” she asks. “It’s been a long night, and I’m tired and sore.”
“We’re going to have to look at that tomorrow,” Saint says, but he grudgingly relents and covers her with the blanket. Heath turns off the light and squeezes in on Saint’s other side, and the cat hops up on the bed a few minutes later and settles down into a ball at the foot of the bed. Mercy’s breathing goes deep almost immediately, and I cradle her in my arms like a fragile baby bird. Maybe she’s not so fragile. I make a mental note to ask my cousins about the girl they stitched up last night, maybe find out how the fuck Mercy ended up getting cut. Even if she went to the Slaughterpen to watch Salem, and there are plenty of fights there even outside the ring, Mercy’s not the type to get involved in one.
That means someone there must have done something to her personally—probably some guy grabbed her. But he wouldn’t have cut her, even if she refused him. He’d probablyjust call her a bitch and say she was ugly anyway, or maybe, if he was a real piece of shit, he might have pushed or even hit her. That would explain why someone considered the offense worthy of death. But who avenged her that swiftly, and why?
I’m for damn sure talking to Maverick about it as well as Hemingway, and probably Colt Darling while I’m at it. We went easy on Mercy tonight because she’s injured, but we can’t let her manipulate us with her tears and get out of answering questions. If she’s really my girl now, she owes me that much. I don’t want any secrets between us.
And it might be time for me to hang up my strap at the club. I don’t want to be dancing with other girls when I have the one I’ve waited for all my life right here in my arms.
eleven
The Merciful
“I can’t help but feel like you’ve been avoiding us,” Annabel Lee drawls in her monotone, arranging her long, black lace skirt around her ankles as she crosses her legs and sits sideways across her chair. “I’m hurt.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, since I can’t tell if she’s kidding or not. I glance at Manson and Ronique, but they offer no help. Manson is taking a mirror selfie in front of Annabel’s closet door, but somehow I can tell he’s more focused on us. Ronique watches us, but her expression gives nothing away.
In truth, I’ve been taking it easy for a few weeks, letting my body recover from the wound in my side, and enjoying my time with the guys. It’s such a small injury, I feel a little guilty for letting them dote on me, but in truth, I’ve enjoyed it. Even Heath has softened, bringing me pain pills and only breaking into my room to kidnap me once. When he did, instead of dragging me to the basement to threaten me, he took me to his room, where he and Angel pushed their beds together and made a nest for us. The worst thing they did was make me stay for a John Wick movie marathon, which I didn’t really mind, although I playfully protested by the fourth installment.
Annabel Lee examines her short, almond shaped black nails, several studded with tiny red gemstone crosses, with her usual air of bored indifference. “Did you think it would be awkward to hang out with me now that you’re banging my cousin?”
“I’m not—no,” I say. “I wasn’t trying to avoid you.”
“The alternative is that you’re too busy with your boyfriend to spend time with your friends, which is a dick move, in case you didn’t know.” She waves an elegant hand lazily through the air.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I didn’t mean to.”
“She’s just giving you shit,” Manson says. “We’ve all been there. Including her.”
“Liar,” Annabel Lee deadpans. “I would never put dick above you.”
“I would,” he says. “Above, below, beside… Dicks all around.”
“Bring on the dicks,” Ronique says. “One in particular.”
I try not to hurl.
“Anyway,” Annabel Lee says, picking up Edward Gorey. “I will not be bringing a dick to the party. In fact, I’ll be bringing a pussy. And not this little guy, either.” She leans down and bumps her nose against her black cat’s nose. He squirms away, jumps down, and stalks over to me, flopping down at my feet.
