Page 10 of Cold Mercy

I take a sip of my drink, let the burn settle, then turn back toward the bar, shoulder angling away from her. She believes power is something you carry openly, like a knife on your hip. What she doesn’t realize is that real control never announces itself. It waits, watches, and finally tightens when you stop paying attention.

She thinks she’s holding the reins. Cute. I’ll be the one to make sure she learns the truth, the hard way.

“You’re wrong about one thing,” I say lightly, like I’m correcting a minor detail. “I wasn’t asked to babysit.”

One eyebrow lifts, slow and deliberate.

“I volunteered.”

I am not here by accident or obligation. I am here by choice. My choice. I control this interaction, not her.

Her lips twitch, hovering between amusement and irritation, like she hasn’t decided which reaction I deserve.

“Of course you did,” she says. “Men like you always do.”

“And women like you,” I reply without missing a beat, “always assume it’s about them.”

Her green eyes narrow under the bar lights, something flaring there that wasn’t present a second ago.

“Careful, Reed.”

I lean back against the counter, relaxed to the point of arrogance.

“Relax. I’m here for the wedding.” I pause just long enough to let the next part sting. “You just happen to be part of the scenery.”

She studies me for another second, clearly looking for a fracture she won’t find, then turns back to her glass.

“We’ll see,” she murmurs.

Yeah, we will. Be my fucking guest. She has no idea how easy she’d be to break.

She orders two more drinks for James and Elizabeth. Meanwhile, to her left, two guys start arguing. One smashes a whiskey glass, then pulls a pocketknife. I don’t interfere. Not my case, not my job tonight. Then, I feel a tug at my back.

Before my brain can catch up, the weight at my lower spine is gone.

Moreau is already moving, my gun in her hand. She moves, planting the barrel at the back of the guy’s head, steady as someone who’s done this before.

My own fucking gun is pressed to a civilian's head because of my complacency. Unacceptable.

“One more move and I’ll run your fucking face across the glass you just broke,” she says, clicking the gun off safety.

“But Moreau, you know what he’s like,” the guy stammers.

She doesn’t even respond. One look from her, and he folds, backs off, and walks away without testing her twice.

She turns back to me, sliding the magazine out to check the chamber before sliding the gun back into the front of my jeans. Her hand brushes my stomach, lingering for a fraction of a second. The heat of her touch burns through the denim, and for a split second, my body betrays me, reacting to her proximity before my brain can shut it down.

She leans in, lips brushing my ear.

“Don’t bring a gun to my club again. Next time, we’ll have a problem, pretty boy,” she whispers.

She walks away with the drinks, leaving me standing there with adrenaline spiking for the first time tonight.

Sophia Moreau disarms me without breaking a sweat, handling a weapon like she was born with it. That wasn’t a lucky move; that was muscle memory.

Who taught you that, Sophia? Mercer? Or did Sterling pay for your education?

I watch her walk back to the table, hips swaying and head held high. Grace worried I would be charmed, but she was wrong. I’m not charmed. I am convinced.