Chapter 13 Mercy
MERCY
Somewhere between Steel’s awkward ‘ma’am’ and the kitchen’s babble of clinking mugs and sarcasm, I stop being Mercedes Rogers and start being Mercy again.
Not the ex-cop’s wife, not a missing person on the Ailington PD board, not the girl who hid quivering behind a deadbolt and called that safety.
Just Mercy: bartender, chaos-magnet, and now, apparently, a biker’s old lady without any of the cultural prerequisites.
The kitchen is loud. Ginger plays conductor of the chaos, refilling mugs and smacking Steel’s hand away from the food she’s preparing.
Kya’s perched on the edge of the counter, legs swinging, eating a slice of toast and glaring at her phone.
Maggie, looking every inch the biker matriarch in ripped jeans and a Pearl Jam tee, is swapping gossip with Andi, whose young twins attempt to run amok every time she looks away from feeding baby Adam.
“—and that’s when Duck realized he’d ordered five hundred patches with ‘Motorcyle Club’ instead of ‘Motorcycle’,“ Poppy finishes, and the whole kitchen stops what they’re doing and erupts in laughter.
I’m just drinking it all in, sitting across from Poppy, who has Rose dozing on her chest and a mug of coffee in one hand, managing to juggle both motherhood and sarcasm with the sheer force of her will.
She’s been regaling me with the story of her and Axel’s first unofficial date.
The one where she challenged him to pool, he cheated by distracting her on the winning shot, so she retaliated by pointing out none of them can spell ‘motorcycle.’
It’s been an hour since Cash disappeared into church with the other officers, and I’m starting to feel less like an intruder and more like I might actually belong here as I cradle my second cup of coffee.
“The booty shorts were the best part,” Kya adds, wiping crumbs from her fingers. “Glitter and everything.”
“Premium booty shorts,” Ginger corrects. “With rhinestones.”
Baby Rose fusses, and Poppy automatically starts rocking while continuing to eat her eggs one-handed. The casual efficiency of it, the way the other women automatically shift plates and cups to help her, speaks of a routine developed over months.
“So Mercy,” Andi says, expertly preventing Adam from flinging banana at his sisters. “How long have you and Cash been together?”
“Oh, we’re not—”
“Few months, give or take,” Ginger answers before I can explain the situation.
“It’s been painful to watch. Like getting a root canal at a strip club—technically you’re supposed to be enjoying it, but the pain is real.
” She glances at me, eyebrows prepped for the afterburn.
“I have never seen two people so committed to each other without fucking like bunnies.”
I almost snort coffee through my nose, but Poppy just grins. “Cat and mouse, babe. It’s classic. I think Cash is the only man in North America who’d rather win a woman by attrition and weird acts of service. I don’t think he’s even looked at another woman since Mercy started working at Devil’s.”
“That’s a lie,” I protest. “We’ve been little more than friends this—”
“Bull-fucking-shit,” Ginger says loudly, laughter in her voice.
“That man has been following you around like a puppy, and the moment there was even a whiff of danger coming your way he was into Stone’s office putting a claim on you.
If that isn’t a man head over heels committed to getting you naked, I’ll eat my patch.
” She cocks her head. “And I like my patch, Mercy.”
I laugh, despite myself, because the worst part is it’s true.
Cash has been less a casual workplace flirt and more like some biker-adjacent emotional service animal.
I can still feel the weight of his palm on my jaw, anchoring me when I wanted to fly apart.
That’s not just chemistry, that’s… something else.
I don’t know if it’s better or worse than the codependent disaster I escaped, but at least it’s real.
Kya leans in, her expression turning serious. “Let’s be real, the only reason you’re not already shacked up with him is because you refuse to accept you’re allowed to want something that wants you back.”
“That’s not true,” I protest. “It’s more that I left a really intense situation. And everything about Cash is—”
“Also intense,” Ginger finishes for me.
“Very. And I didn’t want to drag him into my shit. He didn’t ask for any of this. None of you did.”
I take a breath.
“Yesterday I had a bag packed,” I admit. “Plan was to leave before Gabriel could get his claws into anyone I care about. Just go. Disappear.”
The words hang in the air. They all exchange glances, quiet.
“Cash found out. And he was pissed—but not like Gabriel would’ve been. No screaming. No guilt-tripping. He just… told me how much it would wreck him. And then he held me.”
I swallow.
That’s the part I don’t know how to process.
Because I’ve never been wanted like that before—not as decoration or convenience—but wanted in a way that demands nothing but exactly who I am in the moment I exist.
And that kind of wanting is terrifying.
“Cash scares me,” I say quietly. “Not because I think he’s dangerous. Because he looks at me like I’m… real. Like the way I am is exactly who he chooses. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
No one interrupts.
Even Ginger goes still.
And I realize they all know this terrain.
That particular brand of fear that shows up only when something good does.
There’s a quiet beat—just the hum of the coffee machine and kids babbling—then the kitchen door bangs open.
Nitro walks in, a scar-slashed monolith in a sleeveless Stoneheart cut, arms so packed with muscle he looks like he uses Harleys for bicep curls.
He’s the only guy I’ve ever seen make Tank look scrawny.
His beard is a riot of dark brown and auburn, and there’s a fresh purple shiner blossoming under one eye.
He scans the room, assesses the breakfast situation, and makes a beeline for the percolator. Ginger flicks her eyes at him but stays silent. When Nitro’s got his mug full, he finally looks at the table. Looks at me. Whatever calculus he’s running behind those eyes, it’s not subtle.
“Who’s the fresh meat?” he asks, words direct as a punch.
Ginger grins like she’s been waiting all morning for this. “Nitro, meet Mercy Rogers. Or Cash’s girl if you don’t want to get shanked before lunch.”
He doesn’t react except to drag a chair out and plant himself at the table, the wood creaking under his weight, his eyes never leaving my face.
“Back off, Nitro,” Ginger warns.
“What? I’m being friendly.” He leans against the counter, eyes still on me. “Just wondering if she needs someone to show her around. Give her the full tour. My room’s got the best view.”
“She’s been claimed,” Kya says flatly.
Nitro doesn’t budge. “Don’t see a patch on her.” He grins. “No patch means you’re free to explore your options, right sweetheart?”
The room goes quiet. Even the twins stop chattering.
“I said back off,” Ginger stands, and despite being several inches shorter than Nitro, she looks dangerous. “Claimed is claimed, patch or no patch.”
“Since when?” Nitro challenges. “Club rules say—”
“Club rules say you respect what’s been claimed in church,” Stone’s voice cuts through the tension. He’s standing in the doorway, Cash right behind him, and the temperature in the room drops ten degrees.
Cash’s expression is murderous. He walks past Stone, straight to Nitro, and without warning drives his fist into Nitro’s face. The crack echoes through the kitchen.
Nitro staggers back, hand going to his eye. “What the fuck—”