Chapter 21 Mercy #2
He doesn’t pull back, doesn’t try to take it back.
His arms just tighten around me, like he’s bracing for me to bolt.
“I know it’s too soon. I know we’ve only been official for a couple of days.
But fuck, Mercy, I’ve been in love with you since the first time you told me to fuck off when I tried to flirt with you at Devil’s. ”
A laugh bubbles up in my throat, half-hysteria, half-something that feels dangerously close to joy. “That was literally the first thing I ever said directly to you.”
“I know.” His voice is rough against my hair.
“You were so busy, bar was packed, and you’d been serving me and my brothers all night.
I decided to shoot my shot, and you looked at me like I was just another asshole trying to get in your pants.
You shut me down without even blinking. I was gone right then. ”
I shift so I can see his face. His eyes are red-rimmed, vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache.
This man, who just had a nightmare so bad it left him shaking, who let me see him at his most broken—is choosing this moment to tell me he loves me.
Not in some perfect romantic setting, but here, in the aftermath of trauma, when he’s raw and exposed and completely defenseless.
That’s how I know it’s real. That’s how I know he means it. Because he’s not waiting until he has his armor back on. He’s not waiting until he can be strong and impressive and put-together. He’s saying it now, when I’ve seen everything—the fear, the shame, the pain he usually hides from the world.
He trusts me with all of it. And that’s everything.
“I love you too,” I whisper, because what else can I say?
It’s the truth. Maybe it’s been the truth for longer than I want to admit.
Maybe since that first night he followed me home to make sure I got there safe.
Maybe since he started showing up at Devil’s just to check on me.
Maybe since he threw his helmet in a parking lot because Gabriel called me a whore.
His whole body goes still. “You mean that?”
“Yeah.” I cup his face, feeling the rough stubble under my palms. “I mean it. I’m terrified of it, but I mean it.”
“Why terrified?”
“Because the last time I loved someone, he used it to control me. To hurt me.” I swallow hard. “And I know you’re not him, I know that, but my brain keeps waiting for the catch.”
“Angel—”
“Let me finish.” I press my thumb against his lips. “I’m scared. But I’m also done running from things that scare me. Done letting Gabriel win even when he’s not in the room. So yeah, Cash. I love you. Even when I’m shaking. Even when I feel broken and don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
His kiss is gentle this time, soft and tender. I cling to him, drowning in the warmth of our shared breath and the reality of what we’ve just admitted. My heart races as the uncertainty pools in my stomach, warping the joy of his confession with the fear that shadows everything I do.
“You’re not broken,” he says, like he can read my mind. “Neither of us is. We’re just—”
“Survivors,” I finish. “With matching baggage sets.”
He laughs, and the sound is so unexpected, so genuine, that it makes me laugh too. We’re both crying and laughing in this ridiculous guest apartment at three in the morning, tangled up in sheets that smell like sex and soap, and somehow it’s the most real thing I’ve ever experienced.
“Stay here,” he says suddenly, sitting up. “Don’t move.”
He disappears into the bathroom, and I hear water running. When he comes back, he’s carrying a warm washcloth and a glass of water. The tenderness of it—the simple act of taking care of me after I took care of him—makes my throat tight.
He wipes the tears from my face with gentle efficiency, then hands me the water. I drink it while he climbs back into bed, pulling me against his chest.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he says quietly. “The nightmare. The…everything.”
“Don’t.” I press my palm over his heart, feeling the steady thump beneath my fingers. “Don’t apologize for being human. For having trauma. I’ve got my own nightmares, remember? You’ve held me through enough of them.”
“It’s different.”
“No, it’s not.” I tilt my head to look at him. “We both got hurt by people who should have protected us. We both survived. And now we’re here, together, trying to figure out how to be whole again.”
“Together,” he agrees, pulling me closer. “I like hearing you say that.”
“Well then I’ll keep on saying it until you understand you don’t have to be the only strong one in this relationship,” I add.
“Fuck, we’re a pair, aren’t we?” His laugh rumbles through his chest. “Two broken people trying to make something whole.”
“You said it just before—we’re not broken,” I correct. “Maybe a little dented.”
“Dented.” He tests the word. “I can work with dented.”
“Besides,” I say, fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. “Dented things fit together better. All those rough edges hook and line up in ways smooth, perfect things never could.”
He catches my hand, brings it to his lips. “Is that your way of saying we’re compatible?”
“I’m saying we’re perfect for each other. You want me real, scars and all. Same as I want you.” I meet his eyes. “That’s why this works.”
We lie there as dawn starts creeping through the curtains, neither of us able to go back to sleep but not ready to face the day either. His heartbeat under my ear is steady now, calm. Real.
“Mercy?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for not running when you saw me like that.”
I press a kiss to his chest, right over the DEAD INSIDE tattoo. “Never. I’m your angel, remember? Any demon that’s coming, I’m gonna be right here, fighting beside you. Whatever you need.”
His arms tighten around me, and I know we’ve crossed some invisible line. There’s no going back now. We’re all in, damaged goods and all.