SWNOVELS Lords of Mercy: Chapter 30
I’ve always had a nebulous concept of what a family is. My mom was family. When I think of her, I think of Sunday mornings in the garden, getting muddy until she yelled at me. She wasn’t an angel or anything. She almost always smelled like one sort of alcohol or another. She never wanted to go places with me. She cooked and cleaned, but she always let everyone know how unhappy she was about it. But she’d play games with me. She’d tell me I was handsome and strong and smart, and when she smiled at me, it felt like a ray of sunshine. For a short time, she was the only thing in life that didn’t seem unbearably bleak.
My dad was family. Maybe the hardest pill to swallow is that he wasn’t the devil. He loved me, in whatever twisted, fucked up way he was capable of, more than anyone else in this world. It was a burden to be that—the one thing he held close and worth caring for—but I coveted it almost as much as I resented it, because I figured I’d never be that to anyone else.
My blood family was never much, but it was all I had.
Until it wasn’t.
One day, there was Ms. Crane. She was the first person I met who was as pissed off as I was, the first one to really understand and confront the crazy napalm filling my chest all the time. And then Rath appeared, and just…never went away. He was the first kid to look me in the eye and say he wasn’t impressed. That’s scary as fuck for a ten-year-old who didn’t have anything to offer the world except two fists and a legacy to follow, but Rath? He stuck to me. That’s the only word for it. Tristian came along soon after, with his quick wit and icy grins, and he wasn’t like Rath. I had nothing to give Tristian. He already had it all. The name, the money, the legacy. But while our dads were deciding they liked the idea of us growing connections—for business, for our family’s interests—we were setting shit on fire and making our own decisions.
And now there’s her.
We’re perfectly still as the water beats down on us, foreheads pressed together. I’ve already forgotten why. I think after she washed her hair, I meant to kiss her, but ever since that night she let me into her room, I need to stop, and just… warm myself in front of this new reality.
Against all odds, and on account of nothing that I can see, Story Austin loves me back.
If I had a morsel of optimism inside me, I might even say I was happy.
“Brr,” she says, giving this little shiver I can feel down to my marrow.
With a start, I realize the water is going cold. Shooting the showerhead a useless glare, I reach out to turn it off, swiping the wetness from my hair. I’m surprised Tristian and Rath didn’t come in to join us. They could have—I wouldn’t have minded sharing, packing us all up in here like sardines as we pressed against Story’s wet, naked body.
Fuck, how am I already getting hard again?
I grab two towels from the rack, watching idly as Story wrings the water from her hair, accepting a towel with a grateful smile.
“I like it when you’re like this,” she says, shooting me a quick glance.
I wrap the towel around my waist. “When I’m like what?”
She seems to think pretty hard about the answer as she dries herself. “Nice,” she answers, ducking her head to hide the bloom of pink on her cheeks. “Sweet. Not a jerk.”
There’s a pang in my chest at her words, knowing that I’ve caused hurt. I’m not stupid or anything. I know I’m a hard person to care for, let alone love. Chances are, I’m going to blow it at some point. Maybe that’s why it has to be this way—the four of us. Because when that crazy napalm knocks me off course, Tristian will be there to guide me back. Rath will be there to sneeringly inform me that I’m not hot shit. Ms. Crane will be there to slap me upside the head and demand more of me.
And maybe then, Story will stay.
“Hey,” I say, taking the towel from her hands, tucking it around her chest. “I’ll keep being like this, so long as you keep being like that.”
She peers up at me, head tilting curiously. “Like what?”
Bending down, I rumble into her ear, “Mine.”
She gives a soft, silent laugh, palms warm as they land on my chest. “Okay.” She accepts my kiss while battling a smile. “Can I be yours while I’m wearing underwear?”
I let out my best put-upon sigh as she slips away. “Can I take them off later?”
She raises an eyebrow, stopping at the bathroom door to say, “If Dimitri doesn’t get to them first.”
Story laughs, leaving my room and crossing the hall to her bedroom, the light from the open door casting a glow into the hall. I get dressed with little ambition, figuring it’s going to all come off soon, anyway, slipping into a hooded sweatshirt and sweats. I imagine warming her against me when we climb into bed again. That’s when I hear her door snick closed across the hall.
I look over my shoulder, through my doorway, a sourness settling on the back of my tongue at the sight of her closed door. I’m not sure what propels me to it. An old, lingering hurt, perhaps. A scab I can’t help but pick at. But it’s more likely that, when I reach out, touching the knob, it’s more of a test. I just can’t tell who it’s for; her or me?
Both of us fail.
Locked.
My hand balls into a tight fist, but I rap it softly against the door, listening carefully for a response. When all I hear is the grandfather clock down the hall, I swallow down the growl building in my throat. “Come on. Seriously?” I give the knob another try, irritation flaring through me when it doesn’t budge. “Story? We’re doing this shit again?”
I grab either side of the door frame, propping myself up there, because I just don’t get it. She loves me. She’s said it. She’s shown it. But this fucking door still feels like a rejection. Locking me out is the single worst thing she can do to me. Actions speak louder than words and all that shit.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, knowing I’m probably overreacting. Maybe the lock slipped. Maybe she just needs a minute to compose herself after hours of getting fucked repeatedly by three horny guys. Space, I think. She just needs a little space. She needs to feel in control for a few. That’s what Tristian would say.
Of course, then he’d go check the camera after saying it.
All of these thoughts buzz through my head, and I find myself staring daggers into the door, fighting the urge to force it open. But then what? She spends the rest of the night, week, month pissed off and avoidant?
Not worth it.
That’s why I step away—because I’m growing. As a person. Possibly.
The stair behind me creaks, and I turn. “Finally. Story’s in there—”
The sucker punch comes from out of nowhere, snapping my head to the side. I stagger back, falling into the wall so hard that it feels like my bones rattle. It’s not enough to knock me out, but it’s enough to steal my footing and knock me off balance for the second hit. This one is a hot jolt of electricity that detonates through my chest and neck. That growl I’d swallowed back earlier tears its way up my windpipe. The pained yell explodes through my clenched teeth before my vocal cords seize, muscles cramping. It’s like being struck by a NFL linebacker who’s harnessed lightning. I fall to the floor in a breathless, rigid heap, not even getting a look at the attacker.
But I still feel him. Hear him.
First, his footsteps, heavy and solid against the hardwood floor. Then his hands grabbing my wrists and yanking them high. I hear his low, soft grunt as he plants his feet and begins dragging me down the hall. The muscle in my right shoulder pinches and twinges—and old injury from varsity—as it takes all my weight, sliding me in wrenched tugs down the hall.
I try to get my jaw to work around a warning for Story, to get my ankles to move my feet, to flex my arms, to propel this motherfucker forward—anything. But it’s all I can do to suck in these small, ragged breaths, because my pulse is jerky and my vision is a blur of black and red, and my muscles just won’t fucking work. It’s even worse than when Ray strapped me down to that bed after being shot, a powerlessness that’s wound so tightly around a precise hurt.
And that’s before we reach the stairs.
This piece of shit, whoever he is, rests for a moment at the landing. I can hear his hard breaths, my wrists loose in his grip, which is when my body begins slowly coming to life. My fingers twitch and I can almost get my knee to bend, and I’m feeling pretty good about it, because this guy’s almost out of stamina, and I’m going to break his fucking neck.
And then, in one quick, brutal motion, he gives my wrists a violent yank that heaves me right down the stairs.
I tumble down like a sack of bricks, feeling every skull-rattling step as I roll. I smack face-first into one of them, get my arm caught awkwardly beneath me on another, and end up landing at the bottom in a tangle of bruised limbs and furious breaths.
His heavy footfalls come down the stairs as I’m struggling to get my feet beneath me, slipping in something wet and infuriatingly inconvenient. I can’t even manage much more than some ineffectual bucking when he grabs my wrists again, spinning to drag me down another hall. It takes a few for me to realize we’re going to the parlor, and going by his strained breaths, it’s a super fucking necessary location. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be going through the trouble of hauling my heavy ass all this way. That’s information that I keep close as he finally drags me into the room. I’m just not sure it’s useful—especially when he maneuvers me to my stomach, wrenching my arms behind my back to secure my wrists.
Whoever he is, he’s not that big. He grunts as he lifts me to a sitting position against the wall. I stare into his eyes as he arranges my limp limbs, trying to suss out who’s behind the mask, but all I see is blank darkness. Nick would be my first suspect, but this guy’s physique is all wrong. Too narrow and compact. Plus, Nick wouldn’t hide his face like this.
So if not him, then who the fuck?
When he moves, I get a broad, if darkened view of the parlor, and it takes a dozen blinks for me to make out the shape of the person sitting across from me, head bowed.
Ms. Crane.
Her arms are bound behind her, too, blood caked down the side of her face, and she looks lifeless. Drained. Meat and fragile bones. When the man passes, she lifts her head just enough to glare at him, and the tight ball of grief in my chest falls away, because she’s alive. And she looks almost as pissed off as I feel.
It takes me a minute to get past that swell of relief, but when I do, I realize she’s not alone. Rath is right beside her. His eye is almost swollen shut, and there’s a smear of blood up his left arm, but he’s conscious, looking exactly as he did when he left earlier. Shirtless, pantsless, and most notably, stormy-eyed as his gaze bores into mine.
“Goddamn it,” he mutters, jaw clenched as he looks me over. “Guess that’s that.” That’s all he says, but it’s enough to understand.
I was their hope.
“Stun gun,” comes another voice, and I swing my eyes around to find Tristian slouching against the wall. He doesn’t look much better than Rath and Ms. Crane. His T-shirt and neck are streaked in an alarming amount of blood, but I can’t find a source for it. That means there’s only one of us left. My eyes hold Tristian’s, but his are droopy and glazed. Years of football have taught me the early signs of a concussion. I’m hoping like hell he understands the panic that must roll off me in waves, anyway. I dart my eyes up to the ceiling, and then back.
Story.
She’s up there alone, completely unaware. Even if she has her gun, these odds are absolute shit.
The man paces back and forth between us, looking out the door twice like he’s waiting for something—or someone. He’s got this antsy, jittering buzz about him. Bouncing on his toes. Fists clenching and unclenching. I’ve seen Avenue tweakers more relaxed than this shithead. It brings me a little pleasure to see the limp in his gait. He’s favoring his right arm, and every now and then, he’ll reach up to push his palm into his side.
My boys fought back.
I stare at his shoes as he passes. They’re clean. New. Expensive boots. I try to make my brain work, to get the gears moving. Whoever this is, he’s too boujee to be South Side, and not nearly tough enough to be a Royal. This is someone else.
Tristian gives me a single, slow nod, and I know we’ve come to the same conclusion.
Rath, however, has no issue voicing this aloud. “So, am I wrong, or is this the Ted fucker we’ve been waiting for?” He looks unimpressed as his eyes rise, taking him in. “I was expecting someone taller. Scarier.” His shoulders shift, and it doesn’t matter that he looks half naked and sort of above what’s going down here. Ten bucks says he’s working his wrists out of the zip ties. He mastered that shit back in middle school. “This guy’s a total bitch. Did he sucker punch you, too?” Shaking his head, Rath declares, “You’re never going to get her like this, dude. She likes her men tall, competent, and vaguely sane. You aren’t hitting any of her checklist—”
“Shut up,” he snaps, slamming the toe of his fancy boot into Rath’s jaw.
Rath’s head jerks back at the force of it, but when his chin comes back down, heavy against his bare chest, his shoulders give another twist.
Ms. Crane cries out, “For Pete’s sake, Dimitri!” and watches on as he spits out a glob of bright red blood. “Grow a goddamn brain cell and keep your mouth shut for once!” Below the sharpness of the words is a flash of alarm I didn’t think Ms. Crane was even capable of.
Tristian and I share a grim look.
“That’s for the little mark you left me!” the man barks, hitching his shirt up to reveal a small gash. The guy spends a moment inspecting the blood sluggishly bubbling from the wound, which is when I realize Rath fucking stabbed him. I don’t know how deep it is, but I know from the brief flash of his sweaty, pale torso that he’s probably lost a good amount of blood. If he weren’t tweaking so hard, it might even do us some good.
Instead, the man drops in front of me, those dilated pupils drilling into mine. “It must drive you crazy, Killer. Incapacitated and out of the game. Bested by someone half your size. You’re a heavy guy, I’ll give you that. I had to use the highest voltage to make sure it took you down.” He lets out a rabid laugh, nudging my knee with his foot. “Look at you now! You’re like a big, dumb rag doll.” He presses his palm to his wound as he turns, asking Ms. Crane, “Not much different from how he usually is, am I right?”
I take a breath through gritted teeth, forcing the words from my chest like a growl. “At least I’m not hiding my face like a pussy.” Every muscle in my jaw fights to lock me down, but I struggle through it. “At least I fight like a fucking man.”
“Oh, I’m man enough,” he says, jerking his chin at the others. “I took down all the Lords in,” he rucks up his sleeve, darting a glance at a sleek luxury watch, “Jesus, under an hour. Pathetic.”
Even though he looks a little out of it from that kick, Rath’s shoulders are squirming more deliberately now. I get a surge of adrenaline when the guy’s eyes zero in on him.
“Yeah, we’re the pathetic ones.” Tristian gives a low laugh, getting his attention. “While you were slinking around down here, trying to figure out how to avoid an evenly matched fight? The three of us were upstairs giving your woman a gold-star dicking-down.” His blue eyes narrow, making his smirk look chilling. “But hey, if that’s the kind of work it takes for you to get some tail…”
The man lunges forward, taking a thick fistful of Tristian’s blond hair. “You know nothing,” he snarls, “about my woman.”
Tristian’s throat strains at the angle, head bent back to stare up at him. “I know what it’s like to have her want you back. Something you’ll never know.”
The guy pulls out a knife, brandishing it high. From the gleam of the blade in the low light, I can see that it’s already bloodied. This is the knife Rath probably used. Maybe even one of his own. But even though the guy’s back flexes, arm raised, he doesn’t bring it down. He shoves Tristian away. “She’d be mad if I killed you,” he mutters, thrumming with that manic energy as he stomps back. “But she never said anything about this one.”
All three of us snap to attention as he reaches down to snatch Ms. Crane to her feet. But despite the lava running through my veins at the pained sound she makes, my limbs still won’t work.
Rath’s body doesn’t look much better, still out of it from that kick, but he tries—frantically, he tries. “No, no, wait!” He struggles clumsily to his knees, then feet, face slack with horror as the man clutches her to his chest, wrenching her head back. “Wait!”
But the guy already has the point of his blade to Ms. Crane’s neck, snarling, “Watch me cut your sweet little grandwhore from ear to ear.”
All three of us get tangled in the panic, poised halfway between rushing him and knowing that, if we do, she’s sure to die. It’s only when Delores meets my gaze that I freeze, understanding the quiet in her eyes. This was never meant to be her life—cleaning our dishes by day, hiding out in our basement by night. It’s not her life, and it’s sure as fuck not her death. She’s hated it, but she’s done it, because just as much as I understand her, she understands me. This last year she’s spent with us was borrowed time. After a childhood spent under her guiding hand, it was the only gift I had the power to give her, and there for a while, she let me.
But her gaze is telling me, in no uncertain terms, that she’s done being our duty.
That millisecond of stone-cold serenity in her eyes is gone in a blink.