Chapter 3 #2
Grabbing a bottle of wine, Sam’s mouth twists into a grimace as he sets it beside me and claims the one I left open on the floor.
He picks up the metal folding chair one-handed and sits backwards, facing us as he untwists the cap of his wine.
His gaze doesn’t leave mine as he takes a swallow.
I can’t see the fire blazing in the oven behind him, but I can see one raging in his eyes.
Flashing bright green as he licks his lips and takes another sip.
“You shouldn’t touch her,” he murmurs moodily, frowning.
Kane hums in the back of his throat. “You’re right. I shouldn’t.” That doesn’t stop his hand from roaming my waist, his knuckles teasing the underside of my breasts. “But she likes it when I touch her. Right, Siren? You said so.” His lips brush the shell of my ear. “And I’ll never forget it.”
Grabbing the bottle resting against my thigh, I crack the top and bring it to my lips, taking as many gulps as I can before the air rushes from my lungs and I gasp for air, nearly choking. I get a head rush, the edges of my vision going fuzzy as I catch my breath.
“Jesus, Mercy. Take it easy.” Sam’s brows pinch together and he takes a much slower, controlled sip from his bottle.
I watch as a cut in his lip pulls, threatening to split open, and stare at the blackened ring around his eye.
Swollen. Undoubtedly painful. Possibly my fault or, if you ask Kane, Sam’s own fault.
“What happened to you?” I ask Sam, nudging Kane until he takes the bottle from me. He drinks just as greedily as me while we wait for Sam to answer my question.
Sam’s jaw clenches and his gaze turns steely. “The fraternity thought I needed saving.” He tips his head towards me. “From you.”
“Me?” My chest aches as an old wound festers inside my heart. I shouldn’t be surprised that people think the worst of me—like I’ve performed some kind of love spell to get Sam to like me enough to invite me to a party—but the assumption still hurts.
“Everyone was so friendly…” Shaking my head, I cut myself off, knowing that appearances can be deceiving.
It doesn’t matter how nice someone seems on the surface; they can be hiding ugly intentions behind practiced smiles.
“Nevermind. It doesn’t matter.” I turn my face away to keep Sam from seeing how much this un-shocking revelation hurts.
The one time I step out of my comfort zone—meeting new people, trying to be social, having a good time—everything blows up in my face. Maybe it’s like I told Sam before: I’m meant to be alone.
My chest caves in, and my next breath hurts.
I wince. Both men notice, Kane’s arms wrapping tighter around me while Sam quickly falls to his knees at my feet.
Grabbing both of my hands, he peers up at me with such love in his eyes that it becomes impossible to breathe.
I barely hear his voice over the sound of my own heartbeat.
“Don’t waste a second thinking about it, Mercy.
I promise, you are not any of those negative things running through your head right now.
” He squeezes my fingers gently. “I will always choose you, no matter who or what we’re up against. You are my number one priority. ”
Guilt tugs at my heart as I stare at the man who’s always tried his best to give me what I want.
Back rubs. A sleeping partner. Distance, even, when I ask for it.
Aside from my siblings, I spent my childhood alone.
When Sam appeared in my life and decided to stay, I never knew how to navigate our friendship.
To this day, I doubt I fully comprehend the extent of his sacrifices to remain by my side—and knowing this, I’ve likely been taking him for granted.
I’ve been a shitty friend and, quite possibly, a terrible girlfriend, if we put a label on it. Not quite friends yet almost lovers. More than what we used to be, but not enough for either of us to be satisfied.
I don’t know how to put this feeling into words.
A disgusting cocktail of regret, guilt, shame, and embarrassment make my stomach churn.
The bruises on Sam’s face darken into shadows before my eyes, and I see them for what they are: a physical manifestation of both his feelings for me and others’ wicked refusal of it.
He shouldn’t have to suffer on my behalf.
I bite my lip and pull my hand from his to run my fingertips over the swollen flesh above his eye. Gently, I graze every inch of bruised flesh on his face, and he allows it, clenching his teeth against the pain but never asking me to stop.
“Does it hurt?” My voice hangs in the air between us. What I really want to ask is “Does it hurt to love me?”
I have a feeling that the answer would be yes.
Sam would never admit that loving me is like willful drowning. He could come up for air, but then he would miss the ocean’s deadly caress. That’s likely what Sam craves—the darkest parts of me intertwined with the darkest parts of him, like drinking poison until you’ve become poison.
A better woman would pull him out before it’s too late.
Sacrifice her needs for his. Ensure that he lives and thrives in the light rather than suffer in her shadows.
But I am not a better woman. I caress Sam’s bruised cheek with the edge of my thumb, sweeping gently across the bone, knowing that his pain is proof of his devotion to me. It shouldn’t excite me.
And yet.
I’ve never been someone’s first choice. A priority. Something to shelter and love and pour your heart into. But with Sam, maybe that’s what I am. What I’ve become.
His first choice.
His only choice.
Cupping Sam’s cheek, I dip my head and brush my lips over his, the split in his bottom lip scraping against mine. I swipe my tongue over the wound and shiver at the taste of his blood. “Thank you, Sam.”
He clutches my wrist and keeps me still as his eyes search mine.
“Mercy.” Sam’s next breath cracks inside his chest. He wheezes through the pain.
“Don’t thank me. I’m—” His emerald eyes shimmer with regret.
“I’m so sorry.” He kisses my wrist rather than my lips.
“Everything that happened tonight is my fault. I should have—I shouldn’t have—” Whatever he’s trying to say gets lost in translation, and he clenches his eyes shut.
“I should have been there when he—this is all my fault.”
I don’t blame Sam for what happened. I wish he wouldn’t claim it all for himself, either.
Kane grunts, idly tapping my thigh as he enters the conversation.
“Or,” he murmurs, “there’s more to it than Pretty Boy’s failures.
” Sighing, he closes what little distance remains between us and digs his forehead into my shoulder, his chest tightening against my back as he works through whatever is on his mind.
“Tell her what happened upstairs, Sam, in your room. Besides you getting your ass kicked.”
The heat swirling in the air suddenly cools. I shiver. “What do you mean?”
Swallowing hard, Sam sits back on his haunches and creates some distance. “They had a video of us.” Opening his eyes, he grabs his wine bottle and clutches the neck so tightly that his knuckles turn white. “At your house, before the party. We were outside.”
It takes me a second to remember the conversation, but then it comes rushing back. Sam’s pickup truck. Leaves swirling around us. The way he begged me not to make him watch me and Reaper together. How I asked anyway, knowing that it would hurt Sam but unwilling to compromise.
I wince. That was a shitty thing for me to ask.
After a few tugs on the wine label, Sam successfully tears off a corner and flicks it to the floor. “They heard us talk about Reaper. They assumed it meant that—” His scowl deepens. “That you—”
“That I wanted it.” The words taste like ash in my mouth. “They thought I wanted to get fucked by The Reaper.”
He sweeps his hand out in a small arc. “Yeah. But I don’t know where that guy came from or who he is, Mercy, I swear. Or how anyone got the video. I didn’t even know there was a video!”
Neither did I. I’ve adjusted to being monitored in my bedroom, but anywhere else?
Are there cameras in the kitchen or living room or—I frown, picturing my grandmother minding her own business as she wanders the tombstones in the afternoon, or my father playing piano by himself late at night.
Those are private moments. My conversation with Sam was personal.
No one should be intercepting those—no one.
Reaching behind me, I weave my fingers through Kane’s blonde hair and tug hard enough that he hisses, flecks of his spit hitting my shoulder. “Is the camera yours?”
Dread weaves through my ribs as I consider Kane’s culpability in my assault.
Would he have done this to me? My eyes narrow.
No, that doesn’t make sense. He would have bent over backwards if it meant getting in my pants.
And he was so angry when he arrived at the frat house, he threw punches before he asked any questions.
But who else would have a put a camera outside my house? Who else—
The answer rips through me like a bullet, leaving me gasping for air.
Our little trio is missing its fourth person.
The man who sticks by Kane’s side like his shadow.
Who said he’d murder me if I got intimate with Kane.
He fingered me so that Kane wouldn’t find out I was a virgin.
I clench my jaw at the same time Kane clenches his. I feel, rather than hear, the name that grinds past his teeth.
Zane.
The cameras are fucking Zane’s.