Broken Mercy

Chapter 1

TALIN

I’m about to rip my shirt off.

It’s mid-August in Baltimore and this house is sweltering.

The Davis couple is ancient, and I mean that with all due respect: I’m pretty sure the husband is like ninety-seven and his wife is a few years older than that.

Their Fells Point townhouse is wildly stuffy and I swear they’re running the radiators.

Everyone’s sweating at this packed garden party, held at the height of day, and there’s no escape from the heat, but I can’t take it anymore.

The first chance I get, when Papa and Annie are distracted by mingling and laughing and doing the whole social thing to perfection, I slip away from the crowd and sneak up the back steps.

I find an office with its door standing ajar.

I storm in, already unbuttoning my cream silk blouse.

“Oh my god my tits are melting,” I groan to myself and gasp with delight when I spot a fan standing in the corner.

I run over, switch it on, and let out an erotic sigh of relief as the air blows over my exposed chest.

“Oh my god that’s heaven,” I say, tilting my head back with a groan of pleasure.

Sweat dribbles down my underarms. It’s sticky and gross, and I’m sure I’ll have big dark circles soon if I don’t dry off.

This fan is exactly what I needed; it blows through my thick, dark hair, the bane of my existence, even though Mama and Annie both say it’s beautiful and I shouldn’t complain about it so much, but I’d love to see them hefting all this around when it’s a hundred degrees and humid.

I fan my blouse, letting my bra dry. I’m aware this is not how a lady is supposed to act, but come on, it’s wetter than a dog’s dick out there and just as miserable.

Besides, Annie’s got enough perfection going for the both of us.

My older sister can walk into a room, flash one pristine smile, and have everyone fawning over her in moments.

It doesn’t hurt she’s blond, beautiful, outgoing, smart, and funny.

I love her to death, but those are some impossible standards right there.

She’s everything Papa always wanted in a daughter, and since Mariam got married and moved to Boston, and Tate’s out in DC and not really a part of the family anymore, it’s up to me and Annie to carry on the Sarkissian female legacy.

Which Annie does with grace and talent, while I stumble around behind her, the awkward youngest girl, neither good enough or willing to try much harder than I already am.

Once my boobs are sufficiently cooled off and my head’s starting to work, I put my hands on my hips, blouse still very much open, and look around the room.

Which is when I notice the man standing near the window watching me with a bemused smile.

I freeze. My mind goes blank. I rushed in here thinking it would be empty and didn’t bother checking the corners. I opened up my top, exposed my breasts to the cool breeze, and didn’t have a single care in the world.

While this guy got to enjoy the show.

“How… how long… have you been there?!” I’m stuttering and off balance.

“The whole time.” His voice is low and resonant. There’s not an inch of embarrassment in him, while I’m mortified. What would Annie do in this situation? She’d probably make some clever remark about how nice her tits are and how lucky he is, and everyone would forget this silly faux pas.

I’m not Annie.

“Who the heck are you?! And what are you doing in here?” I blurt my questions out with about as much tact as the floor fan blasting sweat from my ample cleavage. I don’t have much working for me, but at least I got my figure from my mother’s side of the family. Curves all the way down.

The man’s older than me. I’m guessing late twenties, so around my brother Gor’s age.

He’s got light brown hair beginning to grow out from a buzz-cut, a sharp jaw, a nose that looks like it’d been broken not too long ago, and eyes that seem to take in every inch of me all at once plus the whole room too.

His clothes are simple, a plain gray shirt tucked into dark slacks, the sleeves rolled above his elbows to show off his muscular and veiny forearms. He’s fit and athletic, but rangy in a way that surprises me, like any ounce of fat and softness he once carried got burned away in some vicious fire.

“My name’s Brenden. I came up here to see if there was anything worth stealing.”

His answer knocks me sideways a second time.

My jaw opens to snap out a sharp reply, to yell at him for not saying something right away when he saw me opening my shirt, but instead I’m too caught off guard to be angry.

He’s not moving and I’m trying to decide if I should scream or throw something at him, but instead can’t help making another bad decision.

“Well… is there?”

He considers like it’s a reasonable question to ask. “Not really.”

“What about the books?”

“Fakes, actually. Stage props.” He grabs one from a nearby shelf. “It looks nice and old, but the pages are all blank.” He fans through and tosses it aside.

I’m struck by the flippant way he makes a mess like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “You should pick that up.”

“Why?” He strolls over to an end table. “Now this lamp, it’s real Tiffany. Worth a decent amount of money. But can you tell me why I’m not taking it?”

“Uh, well—“ I plant my hands on my hips. “How would you get a lamp out of here?”

“Exactly.” He points at me, his gaze sliding down to my chest. “Your top’s still open.”

“Shit.” I grab the edges of my blouse and pull it tight over my breasts. I had forgotten in the shock of seeing him here and this bizarre conversation, and the breeze still feels incredible. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s sweltering in here. What kind of monsters keep the heat on in August? Don’t cover up on my account.”

“You’d like that.”

“A beautiful woman exposing herself? God, please have mercy, what a nightmare.”

I snort an ugly, undignified laugh. Annie always says I sound like a goat when I do that. I quickly cover my mouth, even more embarrassed, but Brenden doesn’t seem to mind. He walks to another shelf and picks up a small gold lighter.

“Now this is interesting. 18 karats and do you see this mark here?” He comes closer, holding it out. There’s a strange checkerboard-like pattern in the front and a scripted name across the top.

“S.T. Dupont, Paris. What’s that?”

“High end luxury lighter brand. This particular one is likely from the early 1940s. Any idea what something like this would cost?” He offers it for me to inspect. Without thinking, I release my blouse and take it. One half falls open.

“No clue,” I admit, hefting the lighter in my hand. “It’s surprisingly heavy.” I flip the top and flick a circular column on the side. The flame springs out with a distinct cling.

“My bet is anywhere from three to ten thousand, depending on the actual date of manufacture.”

I flick the lid shut and kill the flame, laughing in surprise. “Who has a ten thousand dollar lighter lying around their house?”

“Rich old people who love burning oil in August for no god damn reason.”

I hold it out but he pushes my hand away. “Keep it.”

“What? Are you crazy? Put it back, they’ll notice it’s gone.”

“No, they really won’t. Have you seen this place? The Davis’s are rich as sin and collect luxury bullshit like birds gather twigs for a nest. They won’t miss a lighter.”

I narrow my gaze, a strange thrill running into my core.

Could I actually take it? I mean, he’s probably right.

This office has a bunch of stuff lying around on the shelves, from a fancy model train to an obscene crystal inkwell.

The clock is Cartier and there’s a silver plate covered in diamond-stuffed cufflinks.

Plus, there are at least a half dozen other lighters scattered all over. Brenden’s got a point.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t steal from old people.” I try to put the lighter down, but Brenden gently takes my wrist. I’m very aware of his proximity now, the way he towers over me, the distracting slope of his handsome nose and the lean muscle under his clothes.

“Do you know how the Davis family made its money?”

“I’m guessing they didn’t volunteer to raise puppies.”

“Guns. Lots and lots of guns. They have one of the largest ammunition manufacturing businesses in the world.”

“Everyone’s got to make a living.”

“It’s blood money. Why should they keep it?”

“Why should I?”

“Because the gold looks nice against your skin.” His hungry eyes slip to my mouth and down to my neck. “And because you still haven’t buttoned up your blouse.”

A shiver rolls down to my toes. He’s right, my top’s still hanging partway open, exposing more of my chest than is appropriate.

“I don’t need the money.” I pull my wrist away. He releases me, but doesn’t step back. “And I don’t steal.”

“I don’t need the money, but I definitely steal. Sometimes it’s not about what the score costs, but more about the way the score feels.” He takes the lighter from my fingers and raises it up to press it to my cheek.

The gold is soft and strangely cool. God, it feels good in this horribly hot place.

He moves it down and I tremble, a swell of desire rushing through me.

This man’s attractive, absurdly good looking, and I know how wrong this is, having this charged moment with a complete stranger.

I’ve never done anything like this before, except he’s confident, in charge, and shockingly charming.

My mouth opens to tell him to stop, except nothing comes out, as he moves the lighter down my skin.