Chapter 11
Kane
Picking my head up off the pillow is impossible. Drool clings to my cheek as I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling fan spinning, spinning, spinning… My stomach cramps and I quickly roll onto my side.
I’m gonna throw up.
Except the floor isn’t where it’s supposed to be.
I reach out to grab the side of the bed and touch hardwood instead.
In fact, I’m not even in bed. I’m on the fucking floor.
My back is killing me as much as my head, and I have to swallow whatever threatens to come back up the wrong way.
“Zane,” I groan, dragging my gaze around the room. “What the fuck happened last night?”
My boyfriend is nowhere to be found, but Sam is passed out on a padded bench seat.
He doesn’t fit with such a large body; all four of his limbs dangle over the sides as he sleeps facedown on the seat.
Another cursory glance around the room reveals that we’re not even in a bedroom; we’re at the bar overlooking the lake.
Did we stay up all night? My head throbs as I try to catch the memory slipping through my fingers.
Everything from last night is a blur after dinner.
That blur turns into a void the later into the night I pry.
“Sam.” Wetting my lips, I force myself to sit up.
The room spins, and I have to shut my eyes or risk blowing chunks.
Fucking hell. I went back to the fridge for Mercy’s leftovers once it was clear she wasn’t interested in finishing them, but clearly that was a mistake.
What time was that? One? Two? The hours blur together like the half-empty bottles on the bar.
Oh. Yeah, that could be part of the problem. The alcohol.
Sam and I had waited for Zane to stop throwing a hissy fit and join us for drinks, but he never showed.
Frowning, I wipe my mouth on my forearm and squint to gather my bearings.
When Zane gets in one of his moods, he normally wants to brood alone, but I rarely let him.
Why did that change last night? Because Sam was with me?
Or because I’m still mad at him?
Groaning, I rub my forehead. I’m not going to get any answers sitting on the floor.
“Sam!” Standing takes way too much energy, but I force myself to my feet.
There’s no way in hell I’m crawling to Samson fucking Wright, no matter how unexpectedly chummy we are as drinking buddies.
“Get the fuck up,” I hiss, jabbing him with my fingertips.
Jeez, even unconscious, he’s ripped as fuck.
The muscles on his back have a little give, but not like other guys. Damn.
It’s no wonder Mercy salivates over getting him naked. Not that she’s said as much, but I bet she does.
A smile curves on my lips as I think of our perfect little gloom girl.
Even while on vacation, she clings to the color black like she’s allergic to anything else.
I wonder if she’d let me paint her in vibrant violets and radiant reds or if I’d have to tie her down to stroke a brush across her skin.
A shiver of excitement runs down my spine. That’s not a bad idea.
When I kick Sam’s makeshift bed, he jolts awake, toppling over and hitting the floor with a grunt. “Shit,” he groans, holding his head. I bet it’s pounding as much as mine. “What the hell, Kane?”
At least he’s using my real name now.
“Get up. Our people are missing.”
“Where—” Sam holds his hand up to block the sunlight from hitting his face. “What happened last night?”
Yeah, it’s fucking weird.
“Dunno,” I answer honestly. “I’ve never passed out like that before.” From the pensive expression on Sam’s face, I’d guess that he hasn’t, either. Swiping the closest bottle on the bar, I flip it around and dump its contents into the sink. I’m not tempting that devil again. “Shit must be strong.”
Sam remains silent as he picks himself up. Shirtless, he rolls his shoulders back and shakes his head, scrunching his face once he realizes how much of a mistake that is. “Whatever. I’ll find Mercy.”
He doesn’t wait for me to reply, but I do anyway.
“I’ll find Zane,” I call out, frowning as I think of my lover all alone in a massive bed.
I may not have gone to check on him last night, but he never came to check on me, either.
That’s like… boyfriend 101. We keep up with each other. Make sure we’re safe and shit.
After drinking water straight from the tap, I clear my throat and make my way through the house.
We’ve never been to this cabin before, and since our plans were escalated with the impending threat of Sam’s dad, we couldn’t stay at the one we’d actually rented for Thanksgiving week.
Instead, we snuck into one whose owners have been away for a few months.
It should provide enough coverage to keep us off Wright Senior’s radar for a few days, at least. Maybe to get through the holiday, if we’re lucky.
But what that means for me this morning is that it’s easy to get turned around in a new place.
The floor plan is circular for some goddamn reason, and I end up back at the bar before I round enough corners to find my way to the master bedroom.
Opening the double doors, I grin at the lavish bedspread and white-curtained canopy.
It’s a perfect little nest for love birds like us.
The best part is that it’s large enough to fit four people.
My smile freezes in place as I stare at the bed. Huge, fluffy, comfortable…
Empty.
No one slept here last night.
“Zane!” I call out, smacking the door frame.
“Where’d you go?” A low-simmering panic creeps up my spine, all thanks to the bug Zane put in my ear about how well-equipped Samuel Wright is.
If he wanted to sweep in unannounced and kidnap someone, he could.
But I doubt that’s his style when he wants to make a statement, and that’s what Zane, Mercy, and me are to him—a direct statement to his rebellious son. Or our deaths will be.
If Zane’s theory is right, but I’m not convinced—
A whimper reaches my ears from somewhere nearby. I hold my breath as I listen for another one, zeroing in on the source after a few missteps to the master closet and bathroom first. There’s an attached suite through another set of doors, and I push my way inside without a moment’s hesitation.
“Zane—” My gaze locks on a bundle of black fabric curled around itself. Dark hair covering their face. A knit blanket twisted around their legs. Sitting all alone in one of those swivel barrel chair things.
Not Zane.
Mercy.
“Siren,” I whisper, carefully maneuvering around a coffee table to swoop in on her.
She’s unconscious but muttering in her sleep, her eyes rapidly darting back and forth behind closed eyelids.
Are you supposed to wake someone from a nightmare, or does that make it worse?
I puzzle over the best way to approach her when she inhales sharply, her mouth hanging open.
No sound comes out, but her eyes squeeze tightly shut, and she stops breathing.
Fuck this bullshit.
“Mercy,” I call out, quickly scooping her up and cradling her in my lap.
The chair hasn’t held her body heat, and she shivers the moment she comes into contact with my chest. Fuck.
How long has she been here? All night? Why didn’t she sleep in a bed?
There have to be a half dozen scattered around this place.
I’d made a mental note to check how many places I could enjoy her company this week, and the list was long.
Brushing my hand over her forehead, I grimace at the cold layer of sweat at her hairline.
“Shhh, sweetheart. It’s okay. I’m here.” I don’t know what she’s dreaming about, but it must be bad if she won’t wake up.
Dark circles linger beneath her eyes, like she’s had trouble sleeping for a while.
It’s not like I watch her twenty-four seven, but one of us has to have been paying attention while she was sleeping.
Surely, someone knows that she gets nightmares.
Which means that someone knows the best way to wake her.
I grit my teeth as she trembles like a leaf. Is she cold? Scared? Shit. What do I do?
The only other person I’ve comforted is Zane, and that’s not the same… or is it?
Carefully, I wrap her snugly in the blanket and haul her against my chest, brushing my fingers through her hair until she takes steadier breaths.
Even then, she doesn’t wake up. This is normally when Zane nervous talks himself to sleep to block out the roaring thunder shaking the windows, but there isn’t a storm outside—it’s inside Mercy’s mind.
I swipe my thumbs over her cheeks and lean in to brush my lips over hers. A silly flare of—I don’t know—something light and bubbly in my chest makes me smile. “I’ll be your Prince Charming,” I murmur, “just this once.”
The kiss is gentle, but the explosion of sparks inside my heart isn’t.
I vibrate from head to toe as it overwhelms my senses, creating a buzz in my ear and a pitter-patter thump of my heart.
Deepening the kiss, I swipe my tongue over Mercy’s lips and hum into her mouth, craving more.
Needing it like I need oxygen. This isn’t healthy, whatever this is.
A fuzzy feeling surges through my veins and crackles like candy, all from a single taste of her mouth.
It’s not like this when I kiss Zane—that’s a different kind of crescendo, starting in the marrow of my bones and building into an unbearable heat. I’m used to that with him: the slow burn that’s as addictive as it is painful.
But kissing Mercy feels like… the softest shade of moonlight on a canvas, whose beauty sneaks up on you over time.
It’s always been pretty, but the longer you stare, the more you see its depth.
A hint of lavender or a brushstroke of a royal blue.
Subtle, majestic, captivating. Until all of a sudden, you’ve been staring at it for so long that you need more.
One canvas isn’t enough. You create a dozen, two dozen, five dozen.
All with the same color palette. As excited for this painting as you were for the last. Dreaming of the composition, falling in love over and over again as you bring each one to life.
That’s what kissing Mercy is like.
Realizing that you’re falling in love.