Chapter 2 Mercy
MERCY
“Angel.” Cash’s gaze drops to the swell of my breasts. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. When his eyes meet mine, that pale green has darkened—hungry. “You sure you know what game you’re playing?”
The rational part of my brain is screaming at me to stop this. Walk away. This is Cash, a biker who’s six years younger and way more dangerous to my duct-taped heart than anyone has a right to be. He could shatter what’s left of me without even noticing. Could break a woman just by smiling.
The rational part of my brain can scream all it wants. It’s not the one in control right now. What’s in control is the part of me that’s been starved for a touch that isn’t a threat, for a look that sees me as desirable instead of deficient.
A wolfish smile takes over his mouth. He doesn’t look away from my chest. “Fine.” The word comes out gravelly, a promise. He reaches for the deck, movements deliberate. “But the secrets stay on the table too. You lose, I get a piece of clothing… and an answer.”
My chin lifts. “We’ll see.”
He smirks and deals. His hands move over the worn table, knuckles dragging slowly as he slides the cards toward me.
The air vibrates with whiskey and want. His gaze lingers on my collarbones, the lace edge of my bra.
Every breath between us sounds loud in the silence.
This isn’t a game anymore. It’s a negotiation, and I’m not sure what I’m willing to lose.
My fingers tremble as I gather the cards. A pair of aces. Hope flares. When I glance up, he’s watching me instead of his hand. I discard three.
He deals again, eyes never leaving me. I draw another ace. My pulse kicks. Three of a kind. Triumph sparks through me.
I fan the cards out. “Three aces. Surely that’s a win for me. Pay up, biker.”
He flips his cards one by one. A pair of nines. Not enough.
A slow smile curves my lips. I lean back, savoring the shift in power. “The cut,” I murmur. “Take it off.”
His eyes flash, then darken. No argument. He stands and shrugs off the heavy leather, drapes it over the back of the booth. Without it, he looks broader somehow, less guarded.
“All right, angel.” He settles back in. “What secret do you want?”
“Why are you always here?” I ask, nodding toward the bar.
“Stone wants someone keeping an eye on the place.”
“A prospect could do that.” I tilt my head. “Why you?”
He leans forward, the space between us shrinking to nothing. His voice drops, rough and quiet. “I think we both know the answer to that.”
The words hang there, a confession disguised as a challenge. My pulse kicks hard. He’s here for me. He doesn’t say it, but it’s in the heat of his gaze and the tension in his shoulders.
I swallow, throat dry. “Shuffle,” I whisper.
The word feels like a dare. His gaze flicks to my mouth.
For a heartbeat, I think he’ll forget the game entirely.
Instead, a slow, predatory smile curls his lips.
He picks up the deck and shuffles with deliberate grace.
The rhythmic whisper of cards matches the frantic beat of my pulse.
He’s playing my game. For now. And that knowledge is a heady, dangerous drug.
He deals. The cards slide across the wood, a cool contrast to the heat in his eyes. I pick up my hand. Garbage. A pair of threes and nothing else. I discard three, praying for a miracle from a god I stopped believing in long ago.
No luck.
My heart sinks as I lay the cards down. He doesn’t even need to show his. That smug, knowing tilt of his mouth tells me everything before he turns over a straight.
“My turn, angel.” His voice drops to a low growl that vibrates through the table. My fingers find the button on my skirt. Trembling slightly.
“Or,” he says, gaze pinning me in place, “you can tell me what you’re running from.”
“Who says I’m running?”
Cash laughs, low and rumbling. “Angel, the second I asked why you’re in Stoneheart, you started stripping. And while I appreciate the view, I can still think with the right head.” He taps his temple.
He’s right. The bastard’s right. He’s seen straight through the flimsy armor I threw up, and the realization hits hard. My secrets are mine—uncomfortable things I’ve fought to bury—and I’ll be damned if I dig them up for a biker with pretty eyes and a lucky hand.
He wants to know why I’m here? Too bad. Answering means resurrecting the woman who made herself smaller and smaller until there was nothing left. And I swore I’d never be her again.
My jaw tightens. Slowly, deliberately, I reach for the button once more. The zipper slides down, loud in the silence.
“I think I’d rather just take my clothes off.”
My choice. My body. My terms.
His eyes stay locked on mine as I stand. The worn denim slides down my hips and pools at my feet in silent defiance. I step out of it. Left in nothing but black lace.
The air hums, thick with something darker than desire. A challenge. A battle of wills.
He rises from the booth, movements fluid and predatory. Before I can brace, he’s behind me. Warm, calloused fingers trail over my shoulder. A shockwave shoots straight to my core.
“You agreed to the rules, angel,” he murmurs, his breath a ghost against my ear. “Why play a game of secrets if you’re not going to play fair?” His thumb presses into the hollow of my collarbone, a silent demand for the truth I refuse to give.
A shudder runs through me, equal parts pleasure and resistance. He wants my truth. Wants me to bare the parts I’ve spent years locking away. But that voice—the one that sounds too much like my ex, like my mother—whispers: You’re not good enough. You never were. You never will be.
I spent thirty years listening to that voice. I’m done. My secrets are scars, not trophies to be won in a poker game.
“Fair?” I breathe, tilting my head back to meet his gaze. “This stopped being about fair the second you cheated.”
His smirk is pure, unadulterated sin. “You’re right, angel. This isn’t about fair.”
Before I can react, his hand tangles in my hair. He fists the fiery curls and yanks my head back to expose my throat. His mouth crashes down on mine—bruising, demanding, stealing the air from my lungs. Staking a claim.
He lifts me easily and sets me on the edge of the table. His mouth breaks from mine. Hot, wet kisses trail down my jaw, my neck. He sucks hard just below my ear. A bruising possession that will leave a mark. Part of me revels in it.
As he brands me, his fingers find the clasp of my bra. It gives way with a soft click. The lace is tossed aside.
Cool air hits my skin, followed by the heat of his stare. I should cover myself, but I don’t. I hold his gaze, daring him to do more than just look.
“So fucking perfect.”
He eases me back onto the cool wood. His body presses down on me, a heavy, delicious weight, as his mouth continues its exploration.
His hands slide up my ribs, then cover my breasts.
Thumbs circling my nipples, coaxing them into hard, aching peaks.
A low groan escapes my lips—pure, unadulterated need.
I haven’t made that sound in years. His mouth finds one nipple.
He laves the peak with a hot, wet tongue.
A jolt shoots straight to my core. My back arches off the table as his hand slides down my stomach, scorching a path over my skin until his calloused fingers hook into the waistband of my panties.
This is mine. This moment, this heat, this want—all mine.
I’m choosing this, choosing him, choosing to feel good in my own skin.
The woman I used to be would have been ashamed of every flaw, every imperfection, every way she wasn’t enough.
But that woman doesn’t live here anymore.
This body is mine, and right now I’m giving it to a man who looks at me like I’m everything.
“God, angel,” he groans against my breast, his voice a raw, ragged thing. “I’ve been dying to know what you taste like.”
He kisses his way down my stomach, slowly pulling the lace from my hips. I’m ready, so ready to let him. To give him this and every other part of me.
Then a shrill, electronic chime shatters the charged silence. Immediately followed by a deeper, buzzing tone. Two phones ringing in jarring, insistent harmony—his on the table next to us, mine from the pocket of my discarded skirt.
We both freeze, the moment broken by the competing ringtones.
“Fuck,” Cash breathes. His grip on my panties tightens for just a moment before he steps back with another curse that would make a sailor blush.
The phones keep ringing, insistent. I scramble off the table, grabbing my bra and fumbling with the clasp as I hurry to answer mine. Cash is already reaching for his, jaw tight with frustration.
Caller ID flashes as I swipe my finger across the screen—Ginger.
“Ginger, what’s wrong?” I answer breathlessly.
“Mercy, thank god. Get to the hospital now. Poppy’s in labor—like, really in labor. Axel’s freaking out and we need all hands.”
“Oh my god. Of course.” I almost trip trying to step into my skirt and balance my phone at the same time. “I’m leaving now.”
I click the phone off. My fingers are clumsy as I shove it into my back pocket. My heart is still hammering, but for an entirely different reason now.
Poppy.
I snatch my T-shirt from the table and pull it over my head just as Cash says, “On my way,” and ends his own call.
He shoves his phone away, expression grim. The raw hunger in his eyes is gone, replaced by the cold focus of a soldier getting his orders.
“Poppy?” I ask, my voice still husky from his mouth and my own want.
“Yeah. That was Tank. You?” His gaze meets mine. For a second, the heat flickers back to life, a ghost of the fire we’d just been stoking.
I glance away. “Ginger. She said all hands on deck.”
“Let’s go then. I’ll take you to the hospital.
” It’s not a question. He grabs his cut from the booth and shrugs the heavy leather back on like he’s donning a suit of armor.
The man from moments ago is gone, replaced by the Stoneheart MC Treasurer.
The shift is so sudden, so complete, it gives me whiplash.
As we head toward the door, the weight of what just happened settles over me.
Five minutes ago, I was spread out on the table, ready to let him do whatever he wanted. More than ready—desperate for it.
And part of me wonders if that phone saved me or robbed me. Saved me from having to face the morning after, when the wanting fades and reality sets in. When he realizes I’m not just the confident woman behind the bar, but someone with baggage and scars and a past I can’t quite shake…
“Mercy.” His voice stops me at the door. When I turn, he’s right there, close enough that I can smell the whiskey and want still radiating from his skin. His hand cups my face, thumb brushing over my swollen lips. “This isn’t over.”
The old me would spiral right now—he’s just saying that, he doesn’t mean it, once he knows the truth about you, he’ll leave.
But I’m not her anymore. I left her behind in Ailington along with everything else.
So I meet his eyes and let myself believe him, just for tonight.
Even if that critical little voice is already reminding me that I’m setting myself up to fall.