Chapter 14 Mercy
MERCY
“Now you’ve got a matching set of shiners,” Cash says calmly, flexing his already-bandaged knuckles as he backs away from Nitro. “Anyone else need a reminder about respecting what’s mine?”
The room is dead silent. And I can’t help but notice that Andi and Poppy have left with the children.
My stomach drops. Not from fear—that’s the strangest part. When Gabriel lost his temper, my body locked down and I braced for the fallout I’d pay for. Cash isn’t like that. No high, no gloat. Just the hard exhale of someone who did what needed doing and would’ve preferred not to.
He hit a man because of me, and the old wiring tries to twist that into my fault. But his face is tight with restraint, not triumph. This isn’t a man who hurts to feel powerful. It’s a man who hurts so other men can’t. That difference matters.
I just hope my trauma-brain remembers it when guilt comes knocking.
“She didn’t have a patch,” Nitro protests, but he’s backing toward the door, his eye already swelling.
“She doesn’t need one.” Cash turns to face the room, making eye contact with every man present. “Mercy is with me. Anyone who disrespects her disrespects me. And next time, I won’t stop at one punch.”
Stone steps aside to let Nitro stumble past. “Steel, get him some ice. Then find him something useful to do. Far from here.”
“Yes, sir.” Steel escorts Nitro out, who’s muttering curses but not stupid enough to retaliate.
Cash moves to me then, everything about him gentler as his hand settles on my lower back. “You OK?”
My pulse is still in the rafters. Not from fear, but from the awful, dizzy relief of someone stepping in instead of stepping back. I always assumed this kind of intensity would feel like a trap. Instead it feels like oxygen and I don’t know what to do with that.
“I’m good,” I say, wishing I sounded steadier.
He bends down to check my face, eyes searching for signs of distress. I expect him to lecture or apologize, but instead he tilts his head down, lips brushing my ear. “You want me to knock his teeth out too?”
I laugh, because the image of Nitro gumming hamburgers for the rest of his natural life is therapeutic. “Only if he tries to grab my ass,” I whisper back.
Cash’s eyes glint, sharp and amused. For a second the whole room just falls away.
It’s stupid—a joke about dental damage shouldn’t make my knees feel weak—but here we are.
His thumb ghosts down my spine, a tiny territorial brand, and instead of shrinking, my body leans into the heat like it belongs there.
“Moving on,” Stone says, brushing past the weird energy of the room. “Mercy, no surprise after the display we just witnessed, but you’re officially under club protection. Anyone gives you trouble, they answer to all of us.”
“Even without a patch?” I ask quietly.
Stone’s expression softens slightly. “Patch is tradition. It’d help if you’d wear one—at least until everyone gets used to seeing you around.
But you’re family now. And I doubt anyone will try and mess with you.
Especially after word gets around about why Nitro has two black eyes.
But…” He holds his hand out toward Maggie, who quickly reaches into a bag at her feet and pulls out a leather vest—a cut, black and butter-soft, smaller than the ones the men wear but just as substantial.
Already sewn on the back are two rockers surrounding a Stoneheart MC patch.
PROPERTY OF CASH
STONEHEART MC
My mouth goes dry, because seeing it stitched—not theoretical—makes all the breath leave my body in one sudden rush.
Maggie hands it over with both hands, like she’s passing something sacred. Stone takes it, then offers it to Cash. “For when she’s ready.”
Cash takes the vest from Stone, his jaw tight and eyes cautious. He runs his fingers over the patch, the gesture almost tender. Then he looks at me, equal parts challenge and invitation, like he’s asking if I want this or if I’ll grab my bag and bolt over the idea of chaining myself to another man.
I swallow hard, because I’ve been around the MC enough to know what this means. The vest isn’t a wedding ring, but it’s the closest thing this world has. It’s a public declaration. It’s him standing on the roof and screaming that I’m his, and he’ll burn anyone who looks at me sideways again.
All I’ve done is push him away. For months. I was literally packed to leave yesterday, ready to disappear without a word. And his response to that is... this? A hand-stitched vest with his name on it? A public claim in front of his entire family?
How is he so sure? What does he see that I can’t?
Because when I look at myself, I see a woman who ran from one man and is about to drag another into a war he didn’t sign up for. I see someone who’s better at leaving than staying. But when Cash looks at me, he sees someone worth fighting for. Worth claiming. Worth keeping.
I don’t understand it. But maybe I don’t have to. Maybe I just have to trust that he knows what he’s choosing.
But I hold his gaze. I want this, and I want him, and I’m so fucking tired of pretending I don’t. Tired of running before I’m proven not worth staying for.
“Can I see?” I whisper, holding out my hand as my eyes lock with his.
Cash sets the vest in my outstretched hands.
The leather is unexpectedly supple, warm where he’s already handled it, and heavier than I would have guessed.
The back of my throat burns. I turn it over, feeling out the seams, the fat block letters stitched in a certainty I don’t remember ever getting for myself.
‘PROPERTY OF CASH’ is so blatant, so possessive.
Gabriel used to introduce me as ‘my wife’ with the same possessive weight, like I was an acquisition.
A thing he owned. But this feels different.
This feels like Cash is saying ‘mine to protect’ not ‘mine to use.’ I’ve seen the way this club treats their ‘old ladies’.
They’re held in such high regard, worshipped even.
Still, the words make my hands shake. What if I’m wrong?
What if all that was a facade, and at the end of the day all men who claim ownership eventually show their true colors?
Fuck. This is so hard. I want to trust my gut. But after everything I’ve lived through—can my gut be trusted?
“You know,” Duck clears his throat, “Maggie stayed up all night finishing that. Hand-stitched every letter herself.”
Maggie shrugs, but I catch the way her eyes don’t quite meet mine. She’s trying to act like the hours of careful work mean nothing, like she didn’t lose sleep making something for a woman she barely knows.
“Maggie, this is beautiful.” I run my fingers over the neat embroidery, the quality of the leather. “Thank you.”
She waves me off, but there’s a pleased flush to her cheeks. “Every old lady needs a proper cut.”
But it’s not just a cut. I can see that in the way everyone’s watching, waiting.
I think about the country club Gabriel used to drag me to twice a week.
Tennis on Tuesdays, luncheons on Saturdays.
There were rules there too—unspoken ones about which fork to use, which wines to order, whose wife ranked where in the invisible hierarchy.
Breaking those rules meant whispered gossip, cold shoulders, Gabriel’s fury in the car ride home.
Those rules were about making people smaller. About fitting in by shrinking down.
This cut, these people. They’re not asking me to be less. They’re offering to stand between me and anyone who tries to make me small again. The patch isn’t about ownership the way Gabriel’s ring was. It’s a shield with Cash’s name on it.
At least, that’s what I’m choosing to believe.
I slip it on. The fit is perfect—Maggie’s a wizard for guessing my size—and the weight of it settles around my torso.
Cash’s hands rest lightly on my upper arms, like he’s making sure I don’t tip over from the shock of all this belonging.
Kya whistles, slow and appreciative. “Now that is an upgrade. You look badass, Mercy.”
“I always knew a cut would suit you.” Ginger smirks, but there’s something proud and pleased underneath it. “Now if only you’d let Cash rip those mom jeans, you’d complete the aesthetic.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Cash murmurs near my ear, low enough I doubt anyone else hears. “My name looks good on you.”
“Damn right it does,” Ginger announces. “Welcome to the club, sister.”
Kya raises her coffee mug in toast. “To Mercy—newest member of the ‘I’m sleeping with a criminal’ club.”
I open my mouth to remind her I’m not sleeping with anyone, but I decide not to. Because who am I kidding? Cash and I are inevitable. Pretending otherwise just made things hurt more.
“Soon,” I whisper, more to myself than anyone else. But Cash’s hands tighten slightly on my shoulders, and I can practically feel his smirk without looking. He bends to kiss the side of my head, barely grazing my temple, but it’s enough to make my eyes sting.
For the first time since I left Gabriel, I don’t feel like I need to be ready to run at a moment’s notice. The threat at my back feels further off. I want to stay.
“All right, enough,” Stone says, but there’s amusement in his voice. “Some of us have actual work to do. Cash, I need those books balanced before noon.”
“On it,” Cash says, but he doesn’t move away from me immediately. Instead, he leans down, his lips near my ear. “We’ll talk later, angel. Get you properly settled in.”
After the men file out—Stone to his office, Cash reluctantly to deal with the books—the kitchen feels lighter somehow.
“So,” Ginger says, sliding into the seat beside me. “How does it feel? The cut?”
I run my hands down the leather. “Like I just joined something I don’t fully understand.”
“None of us did at first,” Andi says gently. “But you learn. The rules, the traditions, the family dynamics. It becomes second nature.”
“Plus,” Kya adds, “now Nitro and any other idiots will see that patch and know to keep their distance. Cash’s name carries weight around here.”
“Because he’s the treasurer?”
The women exchange glances, then laugh.
“Because he’s got a reputation,” Poppy explains.
“Because it’s known he doesn’t back down.
Ever,” Ginger finishes, sipping her coffee.
“He once rode to a rival club’s clubhouse alone to get Tank out of a…
situation. Didn’t even hesitate. Just walked in, picked up Tank like a toddler off the playground, and told their president he’d return with backup if they tried that shit again. ”
“Did they?”
“Nah.” Ginger shakes her head, smirking. “They thought they were flying under the radar. But no one wants to openly take on Stoneheart—not if they expect to live to tell the tale, anyway.”
“Cash is so—” I struggle for the word. “Controlled. Patient.”
“With you,” Maggie says pointedly. “That man’s been a saint waiting for you to come around. But with threats to the club? With anyone who might hurt the people he considers family? Different story.”
I think about how quickly he moved to hit Nitro.
No hesitation, no warning. Just decisive violence.
And I should be scared. I should be seeing warning signs.
Gabriel was violent too—with me, with suspects who ‘resisted.’ I’d heard the stories about what happened in interrogation rooms. Violence was always his answer to feeling disrespected.
But this feels different. Cash just... ended the threat and walked away. There was no satisfaction in his eyes afterward, just a grim acceptance of what he’d had to do.
I’m probably rationalizing. Making excuses for him the way I used to make excuses for Gabriel.
That’s what the critical voice says, anyway.
But Kya and Ginger and all these women aren’t running.
They’re not making excuses. They’re just..
. living their lives without fear of their men. Maybe that means something.
“Is knowing this supposed to scare me?”
“I don’t know. Is it working?” Ginger asks, looking slightly amused as she studies me.
I knit my brow as I consider it. Wait for the spike of fear that should come. “No. Weirdly, it makes me feel... safe.” I let out a somewhat hollow laugh. “Or maybe I’m just really good at lying to myself about dangerous men.”
Ginger’s expression softens. “You’re not. Cash isn’t Gabriel, Mercy. I know you’re still figuring that out, but trust me—we’d know.”
“We’ve all got radar for that shit,” Maggie says firmly. “Now, who wants to give her the real tour? Show her where everything is, introduce her to everyone properly?”
“I’ll do it,” Kya volunteers. “I need to stretch my legs, anyway.”
As we head out of the kitchen, my new cut feeling foreign but not unwelcome on my shoulders, I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror.
PROPERTY OF CASH.
A year ago, those words would have sent me running. Hell, twenty-four hours ago they might have sent me running—when I was packed and ready to flee to god-knows-where.
But Gabriel showed me something when he unpacked my escape bag. He showed me that running doesn’t work anymore. He’ll always find me. The only way through this is forward, with people who’ll stand beside me like a family instead of me trying to stand alone.
So these words—PROPERTY OF CASH—they mean something good.
The letters are a brand-new map where my old scars used to be directions.
They mean belonging.
They mean family.
They mean I’m worth fighting for.
I’ve never had that before.
If I’m wrong about this, it’ll ruin me. But if I’m right?
Then maybe I finally get to stop running.