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A mix of emotions—rage, relief, horror—flashes across his handsome face as charges toward me. “Mercy.” All he says is my name as he falls into the booth seat, curling his palm around my nape, his forehead falling against mine. The bags under his eyes are dark, like he hasn’t slept in days. His clothes—normally fresh and well-fitting—are rumpled as if picked off the floor and thrown on, his hair tousled, likely from countless finger strokes. It brings me an odd sense of reassurance to see him so disheveled, that both Bane and Vic were wrong about him, and that I was right.
Gabriel has another side to him, even if none of them have seen it.
But that tiny voice in the back of my head can’t stop asking what side they’ve seen that I haven’t. Is it the side that hires men like Bane to capture wives of their enemies?
I can’t dwell on that right now. If I do, I’ll break.
I inhale the delicious scent of soap and cologne. “I’m a mess. I need a shower,” I whisper, and it comes out sounding like an apology. The last one I had was in our Vegas hotel room, back when I didn’t really understand what it meant to be dating Gabriel Easton, when I didn’t truly comprehend the danger, beyond threats from an FBI agent. Now I’m wearing layers of dried sweat and dust and blood, poorly masked by a murdered woman’s clothing.
“You’ll get one as soon as we get you home.” His thumb strokes the cut in my lip, his concerned gaze leveling on what I confirmed in the restroom mirror is an impressive bruise across my cheekbone. I’ve earned plenty of stares since I stepped through the diner’s door. At one point, the night waitress offered to call the police for me. I begged her not to, told her she’d only make things worse if she did.
He curls a hand around mine, testing the dark purple ring around my wrists where the handcuffs dug into my flesh with the gentlest touch. The muscle in his jaw ticks before the curse slips out. “If he weren’t already dead, I’d go out there and kill himself.”
“It’s nothing that won’t heal.” I say that as much for my own comfort as his. “Are you going to try and find his place?” I told him about Bane’s little desert homestead—and all the trophies I discovered during my escape—on his drive here.
“They’re on their way there now.”
I have no idea who “they” is—probably some of Farley’s guys. “I don’t know if the directions I gave you are any good.” I only made three turns and I wrote them down on the scrap with Gabriel’s number, along with approximate minutes driving, in case I did find myself at the edge of a cliff and needed to backtrack.
“Don’t worry, they’ll find it.” He sounds so sure.
“And they’ll clean up?”
He pulls back a touch, his steady eyes meeting mine. “They’ll clean everything up so there are no questions, no police, no need for explanation. They’ll make it like you were never there.”
Make it like I didn’t kill a man.
I nod. Oddly enough, I don’t feel guilt for killing Bane. It was in self defense, and he deserved it a hundred times over based on the evidence that tumbled out with me when I fell through the ceiling. Still, I can’t seem to shake the click-click-click sound of the gun chamber as I pulled the trigger and nothing fired.
But, as I sat here, waiting for Gabriel to arrive, feeling all the pitiful glances cast my way, I realized that I can never explain what happened. Because to answer any questions would open doors that need to remain shut—about Gabriel, about our relationship, about my father.
In this life, there is no room for answers to questions that shouldn’t be asked.
I get that now.
“Where’s Bane’s phone?” Gabriel asks.
“Here. Plugged in.” I fish it out from the corner of the booth. “How long before your father calls it, do you think?” Gabriel was adamant that I not answer any call that comes through.
“I don’t know. Hours? Days? I don’t even know if this is the phone Bane was using for calls with my father. But the longer he thinks Bane is alive and holding you, the better. At least until we get your father better protected. I’m working on getting my guy Chops switched to his cell but it’s not easy, not with my father in the mix.”
“Otherwise, Vlad will try to use him to get to you,” I say, my voice hollow.
“God, Mercy, I’m so sorry.” Shame morphs his features. “This is my fault.”
I can’t bring myself to ease his conscience by telling him it’s not. I’m no fool. If not for Gabriel’s help, my father would surely be dead by now. But it is Gabriel’s fault that he tracked me down in the parking lot that day and made me a twisted and depraved offer I couldn’t refuse. He knew who he is and what world he was dragging me into.
