Chapter 8 Zane
Zane
“This is a bad idea.” I watch as Kane hauls Mercy’s duffel bag into the back of Sam’s pickup truck.
A dried mud puddle stuck in the grooves of the truck bed flakes onto her bag, staining the dark fabric a lighter maroon color.
My nose crinkles. What an eyesore. Just like the rest of the rundown rust bucket.
Why a millionaire’s son is driving around this piece of junk is the question of the year.
No, actually—Kane’s obsession with Mercy, that’s the question of the goddamn year.
Because we wouldn’t be hauling her broken ass to a cabin retreat if Kane wasn’t losing his mind.
We’re on Wright Senior’s hit list. The last thing we should be doing is taking an expedited two-week holiday.
We should be running as fast and far away from this fucked-up situation as we can get.
Not “camping out,” as Kane cheerily puts it.
“This was your idea,” he reminds me for the fifth time, sliding his hand inside my front pocket and tugging me closer.
Yeah, before our world went to shit. I bite my tongue, though, because he’s right. I invited Mercy to the cabin. I just didn’t expect to see her so soon after last night—if at all. Truthfully, I’d hoped that she would become a thing of the past.
Maybe then she’ll stop haunting me every waking hour.
“Relax. We’re going off the grid. Wright won’t be able to find us.”
I can tell that Kane isn’t fully convinced, but he’s sure as hell pretending that he is.
As for me, I’m trying equally as hard not to panic.
Even with Kane pressing our bodies together, I can’t stop fidgeting.
Drumming my fingers on my thigh or against Kane’s wrist, tapping my foot until I kick up gravel dust, ignoring the urge to scratch the prickly itch trailing down my arms. If it’s not bad enough that a power-hungry sadist is plotting our deaths, I also have to face Mercy sooner than I thought.
Last night while I paced the apartment, I imagined what the morning might be like.
I thought I’d be happy, smiling to myself as I cook eggs and bacon, sneaking glances at Kane while he dozes on the couch after his night out, the two of us waiting for a sob story text message from Mercy about how she’d been broken in mind, body, and spirit—or something like that.
The details don’t really matter. The most important part is that she’d be out of my hair and out of my life, once and for all, once she was no longer a shiny new toy for Kane to play with.
None of my predictions came true, though.
I’m not at home making breakfast for my boyfriend.
Kane is physically with me, sure, but I can tell that something’s off.
His mind keeps wandering to places that I can’t follow.
The worst part of all, however, has nothing to do with Kane and everything to do with Mercy.
I thought I’d be eager to witness the carnage from last night—not the frat house, I don’t give a shit about that—but the tears.
The heartbreak. The ruin. I was going to drink in Mercy’s misery like a fine wine, savoring every last drop. But now that we’re here, I’m—
I draw in a breath and fight the bile rising to the back of my throat.
I’m not elated like I thought I would be.
My stomach churns as the version of Mercy in my head—a sad, broken girl peering up at me from beneath tear-soaked lashes—morphs into a raging hellcat trying to claw my eyes out.
I don’t know which I prefer: her anguish or her fury.
Neither sounds appealing, if I’m being honest with myself.
But that could be the anxiety talking. It ripples across my skin like the invisible threads of a spider’s web I’ve been trapped in my entire life.
I clench and unclench my shaking hands to fight the nervous tingles shooting through my fingers.
Calm down, I tell myself, repeating Kane’s words in my head.
Mercy doesn’t know that I was involved in anything that happened last night.
I was home all night. Scrolling on my phone, minding my own business, definitely not picturing a bullish bastard bending Mercy in half and slamming her tiny body onto his dick.
No, not at all. Not even once. I also never imagined Kane burying his cock inside of her bleeding pussy, baring his fangs like a wolf claiming his mate under a full moon.
Nope, I never thought of that, either.
Clenching my eyes shut, I take a deep breath and hold it, counting down from ten.
The problem isn’t that Kane and Mercy are horrible together.
It’s that they’re not. Polar opposites on the surface—him, golden and glowing; her, dark and dreary—but twisted inside.
They both have that tortured artist thing going for them.
What do I have going for me?
I blow out a breath and try not to fall down that bottomless rabbit hole.
Comparing myself to any of Kane’s lovers, deceased or otherwise, drives me crazy.
Lately, picturing Mercy in any capacity does the same.
It doesn’t matter if I’m remembering the silver glow of moonlight on her porcelain skin that night I crawled through her bedroom window or if I’m imagining a sharp-tipped blade kissing her pale thighs—if she’s in my daydreams, I feel the knot inside my chest winding tighter.
Today, the coil of nerves in my body is wound unbearably tight.
The lack of sleep makes things worse. I scrub my hand down my face and take another quick breath, knowing that it’s too shallow but unable to take a deeper one.
Fuck. Get a grip. This might be the worst day of my life, but it can easily drop even lower.
I’m actually surprised that Kane hasn’t lashed out about what allegedly happened to Mercy last night, unless whoever he killed took the brunt of his anger and saved me from it.
I have a feeling that the body our little trio of misfits burned in the Morningstar crematorium is the guy that the fraternity president convinced to play Reaper for the night, and if so, that’s the man that Kane killed.
He hasn’t told me as much, but it’s the only plausible explanation for the random murder on his rap sheet.
Kane doesn’t normally lash out like that because we keep to a schedule.
My schedule. I’ve meticulously crafted it over the years, refining it as Kane’s tastes evolve.
Mercy’s emergence as target forty-four, although annoying, isn’t entirely unexpected.
Just unfortunate. I’d hoped for a larger gap in between murders once we buried forty-three, Alejandro Carerra, but…
it wouldn’t have been a problem if we’d buried her with him.
Dragging a hand through my hair, I wonder how different our lives would be if Mercy hadn’t stumbled upon us in the graveyard on Halloween.
Where we’d be standing right this very instant.
Not here, that’s for sure. I can feel the protective streak radiating off of Kane as he eagerly stares at her front door, waiting for her to appear.
It’s reminiscent of Sam, really. The hero complex.
Funny how one bad decision can fuck things up so astronomically.
If Kane hadn’t gone to the party and found Mercy in a compromising situation with another man, he would have never transitioned from someone craving her pain to someone saving her from it.
In the end, I guess I’m the one who fucked everything up. I meddled in their relationship. I’ve never done that with Kane and his targets before. Not like this. Not so directly. Not so personally.
But what she’s doing to my relationship with Kane is personal… and unforgivable.
I won’t let her take him from me.
The front door to Mercy’s house creaks open, and my world narrows to the two square feet where Mercy is standing.
If it weren’t for the all black ensemble and the way she’s tucked delicately beneath Sam’s arm, I might not recognize her.
The bold, black eyeliner has been washed away and replaced with puffy, pink rims around her eyes.
The platform from her combat boots is missing, leaving at least an inch or two off of her normal height.
Her raven hair is down but damp, clinging to her shoulders like vines inked beneath her skin.
Sam releases her while another man—Mercy’s father—slips her arms into a knit sweater.
A scarf dangles from her neck, resembling a noose that’s been cut free, while an invisible one tightens around mine.
I can’t breathe.
Something sharp digs into my chest, radiating pain throughout my body.
I gasp in a breath, but it does nothing to ease the hurt.
This feeling is different than the burning I’ve grown accustomed to whenever Mercy is around.
It’s almost… cold. My head hurts as I try to dissect this new discomfort. What is it? What’s the trigger?
And how the hell do I make it go away?
Kane’s iron grip suddenly clamps onto the back of my neck.
His breath is warm on my cheek as he steps in front of me and blocks Mercy from view.
“Get in the car, Zane.” Not giving me time to protest, he pushes me away from Sam’s truck and to my car, nimbly pulling open the passenger door and pushing me down into the seat.
Once the door slams shut, he presses the lock button on the key fob and walks away.
My heart sinks, joining the rest of my body in silent agony.
It’s rare for Kane or I to upset each other.
If anything arises, it’s quickly resolved on account of how easily Kane forgives and forgets.
He doesn’t like to live with regrets or pent-up frustrations, so he lets shit go and moves on.
But the flip-flopping between passive and active aggression is new.
He’s not normally one to hold a grudge, especially if whatever is wrong can be resolved.
We’re in new territory, and I don’t like it.
Not one bit.