Saving Mercy

by Abbie Roads

  Funny. She’d believed him. It had been something in his eyes. A sincerity she’d recognized even as a child. And now that they were both twenty years older and he was a lot grayer, his eyes still held that same sincerity and kindness.

  “You feeling well enough to tell me what happened?” Mac leaned forward a little, like he really wanted to know.

  One of those sardonic smiles tipped her lips. “You’re going to have to be more specific. What happened that I ended up at the Center, or what happened that I ended up here?”

  “How about all of it.”

  So she told him everything she’d just told Cain. About the cops, the men in white coats, and Dr. Payne overseeing it all. Then what she remembered from waking a bit ago and what Cain had told her.

  Mac listened without interrupting, his eyes bright, his attention completely focused on her and her story. “So Dr. Edward Payne was there the day you were taken to the Center.”

  She nodded. “Yeah. That was the first time I saw him. He’s hard to forget.”

  “And there’s nothing, no reason at all, that you should’ve ever been put in the Center.”

  She expected this sort of question. Battling the crazy label wasn’t easy—she’d been fighting that war for the past two years. “I can see if I was suicidal or homicidal. I could understand if I was out of my head, but I was none of those things. I was just living my little life and then got thrown in there.”

  Mac’s attention went beyond her to the window facing the driveway. He sucked in a deep breath and wiped a hand over his mouth. “Ah…shit.”

  “What?” She whipped around to see Dr. Payne-in-Her-Ass jogging up to the door of the cabin. Her world stopped. The only thing moving was Dr. Payne. Getting closer and closer.

  “I won’t let him take you. I promise.” Mac headed over to the door. “Hide,” he whispered.

  She tossed back the covers, started to get out of bed, and saw she didn’t have any pants on. Only an oversized sweatshirt. Now was not the time for modesty. Her eyes scanned for a back door. But there wasn’t one. The only way out was past Dr. Payne.

  Mac pressed himself against the wall next to the door. Mercy ducked down and hid on the far side of the bed in case Dr. Payne peeked in the window.

  The sound of the doorknob rattling jangled her nerves. She couldn’t seem to remember how to breathe. Either that or somehow all the oxygen had gotten sucked out of the room. The doorknob twisted again.

  She poked her head out from beside the bed to see Mac. He caught her eye. Held his finger to his lips and shook his head. The plan: pretend they weren’t here. She slid back into her hiding place.

  A crack of sound startled her, and she nearly leaped out of her skin. Her brain couldn’t immediately categorize the sound, it seemed to be on a two-second delay. The door. The door had burst open, and then there was silence. Complete, smothering, I-can’t-stand-it silence.

  She peeked out from behind the bed to see Dr. Payne with a gun aimed at Mac. “Mercy. I need you to come out where I can see you,” he said, his tone an order, not a request.

  On hands and knees she crawled out from beside the bed.

  “Good.” He moved toward her, his gun still aimed at Mac. “Now, here’s what I want you to do. Take off your shirt and kneel before me.”

  Dr. Payne’s words bitch-slapped her. She just stared at him with utter disbelief.

  “You son of a bitch. You leave her—” Mac’s tone was angry.

  She lost the rest of Mac’s words. Her early warning system caught the scent. Images flashed in her mind of what Dr. Payne really wanted. He wanted her on her knees, begging him. He wanted her completely submissive. He wanted her mouth on him. But those images didn’t scare her as much as the other thing he wanted. The one thing she couldn’t afford to give.

  He wanted her sanity.

  He could force her body to do his bidding, but she refused let him have her mind. She’d known from the first moment he’d taken her that this day was coming. Somehow, she’d managed to avoid it until now.

  She pulled the sweatshirt over her head. Let him think of her as cooperative. Let him drop his guard. And if he tried to put anything in her mouth…biting down would be a pleasure. But there was no way she’d give him her sanity. Her body could recover from anything. Her mind was what needed protecting.

  “Jesus Christ.” Mac’s words barely penetrated her mind. He lunged at Dr. Payne. The gun fired. Mac fell. But it was like she saw it all in the periphery of her vision. She was about to battle Dr. Payne for her sanity. And she needed every ounce of concentration to win.

  He came up to her, wrapped his hand in her hair, and yanked her head back. She stared into his shark’s eyes, refusing to show him any fear. Not one damned ounce of fear.

  And then she felt something cold against the skin of her neck. Against the scar Killion had put there.

  “Can you hear your mother screaming?” Payne asked, his voice warm with the thrill of his actions. “Can you see your brother crying? Do you feel the blade on your neck?”

  And all her intentions of saving her sanity vanished under the weight of her past.

  * * *

  Only two things existed for Mercy. The monster that dominated all her nightmares and her. The world wasn’t big enough for both of them. One of them had to die. It wasn’t going to be her.

  Killion crawled toward her. Beads of blood, small enough to be red glitter, speckled his face. Larger drops splotched his shirt. Great smears of it covered his neck and chest. His right hand raised toward her, a fat teardrop of red dripped from his open palm, falling, falling, falling. The sound of its splat soft and yet strangely sonic.

  His eyes glowed as if backlit with hell’s fire. And yet she wasn’t afraid. There was a place that resided beyond fear, a place where perfect numbness lived. A place where emotion didn’t cloud decisions and only logic ruled.

  Her heart beat a slow, sure rhythm. A certainty settled in her bones. He’s either going to kill me, or I’m going to kill him. I’ve already been his victim once. Now it’s his turn.

  She raised the gun.

  His mouth moved. He spoke words, but his words didn’t matter. No words mattered. The only thing that mattered was retribution. Justice. Revenge.

  He sat on his knees, straightened, and opened his arms wide in an invitation she wouldn’t refuse.

  Her finger tightened on the trigger.

  Ppgglll. The gun bucked, almost jumped out of her hand.

  That place beyond fear—the numbness—vanished, and she was back in Cain’s cozy cabin. Beside her on the floor, Mac laid unconscious and bleeding. And Cain—Cain, not Killion—stared at her, his gaze intense and unyielding despite the blood dripping from the wound near his clavicle and the one on his arm. His eyes went unfocused, and he listed to the side, then toppled over.

  Time exploded into fragments, each piece containing an image she didn’t want to see.

  Cain, his eyes locked on hers, betrayal and stoicism shining bright.

  Cain, lying so quiet and oddly fragile-looking on the floor where he fell.

  Blood everywhere—on her hands, on the floor. Pouring out of Mac, drizzling out of Cain’s wounds. Wounds he’d gotten trying to save her. One of those wounds caused by her.

  Time coalesced again and plopped her smack in the middle of the horror that was all her fault.

  “Cain?” She sounded like a scared little girl. The girl she’d once been. She tried to drop the gun, but her muscles had locked around the weapon, too tense and too tight to release it. She flapped her hand wildly—the way someone tries to shake off an insect—until the gun loosened and flew from her hand, catapulting across the room.

  She scrambled through blood—Mac’s blood, Cain’s blood—to where Cain lay. Blood flowed from a bullet hole in that fleshy part between his neck and shoulder. Farther down his arm, hi
s shirt had been torn away by the bullet when she’d shot him. More blood. Thank God her aim sucked. She’d been going for his heart.

  “Cain.” She gathered his head in her lap and brushed the hair from his forehead, the strands satiny and smooth as they whispered against her fingers. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I… Oh God. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I’m sorry seemed to be the only words in existence, and yet they were puny tokens for the amount of guilt ripping through her.

  “Cain?” She stroked his cheeks with her thumbs, smearing blood on the left side of his face.

  His eyes opened and slowly—so slowly—shifted toward her. But his gaze never met hers. It got locked on her breasts dangling inches from his face. “Sorry.” She wrapped her arm around them, covering her nipples but not much else. His eyes shifted to meet hers.

  “I want to wake up like this every day. See those beautiful nipples waiting for my mouth. Taste them. I bet they taste like peaches and your cream.”

  Heat zinged down to her girlie parts, her body understanding the words before her brain could process them. Of all the things he could’ve said…she hadn’t been expecting that. Not that she had an expectation beyond his anger and blame.

  Logical thought struggled to the forefront of her brain. “We…uh…need an ambulance. Do you have a phone?”

  “Let me see you again. I tried not to look when I cleaned you up, but now it doesn’t matter.” He lifted his hand and tugged at the arm covering her nipples. She could resist him, but she didn’t want him straining and bleeding more.

  “Give me your phone, and I’ll let you look all you want.”

  He let her go to reach into his pants pocket and then held out the device to her. She dropped her arm, trying to ignore the satisfied smile on his face and the way her skin warmed pleasantly under his gaze. She punched 911 into the phone.

  Beep, beep, beep. “No signal.”

  “I know.” An ornery, little-boy smile curved his lips. “You have to walk down to the edge of the driveway to place a call.”

  “Okay, I’ll go—” She started to push back from him, but he caught her wrist, his grip impenetrable, his eyes stone-cold serious.

  “Don’t go anywhere without me. It’s not safe.”

  Her gaze darted to Dr. Payne, lying in an unconscious, bloody heap on the other side of the cabin. For the first time since she’d met him, the doctor posed no threat.

  Part of her recognized that Cain’s concern about her safety might just be him not thinking clearly, but the other part believed him. She had fought an uneasy sensation from the moment Cain walked out the door. Maybe he’d felt the same way.

  “I need to be wherever you are.” He spoke with a profound seriousness that resonated through her as if his words were her truth.

  A stupid smile bloomed across her face. This was so not the right time for smiles and butterflies. “Come on. I need you to sit up so I can check on Mac.” She reached under him and tugged upward on his shoulders. He used his uninjured hand to help push himself upright.

  “Mac.” The way he said the word—voice rough and full of anguish—sliced across her heart. His friend was injured because of her. This whole mess was because of her. Dr. Payne had shot Mac because of her.

  Cain slid through the blood to Mac and lifted the sweatshirt she’d pressed over the wound. He looked under the material, then tilted his head back and stared toward the ceiling. She couldn’t tell if he was praying to or cursing at whatever entity might be up there.

  He turned and faced her. “This place is so remote that the nearest emergency services are a half hour away. Add another half hour to get him to the hospital, and that’s too long. We need to get him out to the car.”

  “I need clothes.”

  Cain pointed at the cupboard.

  She was across the room, grabbing material, yanking it over her head and up her legs. She didn’t give a thought to what she wore. She might’ve used pants as a shirt and have her legs threaded through a T-shirt. Didn’t matter. She needed to get them both to the hospital.

  Cain bent low over Mac. He pulled Mac upright by one arm and carefully draped him over his uninjured shoulder.

  He meant to carry him. “You shouldn’t—”

  “You got another idea, sweetheart?” The way he said sweetheart had bite to it. “’Cause I don’t see a lot of options here. You weigh half of what he does. No offense, but you wouldn’t be much help unless we had a wheelchair. Which we don’t.”

  Cain raised up on both knees, then got one foot under him. Paused. Breathed. Then got the other foot underneath him and stood, shaking and swaying until he found his balance.

  He was doing all the work, but Mercy was the one sweating, just watching the exertion it took for him to stand with Mac dangling limp and lifeless off him.

  Blood raced from the wound in Cain’s shoulder and arm, splattering against the wood floor. Mercy had heard that same sound as her family died. Cain could die. He was losing a lot of blood. “You’re bleeding.”

  “No shit.” He wobbled on his feet, his eyes aimed at the door. “You gonna get that for me?”

  “Of course.”

  She opened the door, then darted to the cabinet, grabbed a wad of towels and followed him outside. The rough gravel of the drive bit into her bare feet, but she ignored the pain. It was nothing compared to what Cain had to be going through. But he hadn’t uttered a grunt or a groan. The only sounds from him were loud huffs of exertion.

  She ran in front of him, past the sports car to the car parked behind it.

  “Get…the passenger…door open.” His breathing was so heavy he almost couldn’t speak.

  She opened the door for him. He leaned in and gently settled Mac in the seat as if he were a precious babe. “Gimme one of those towels.”

  She handed him the towel, and he pressed it against Mac’s side. He backed out of the car door, closed it, and then stumbled. She inserted herself underneath his good arm to steady him. His weight was staggering, and she nearly went to her knees, but if he could carry Mac, she could help him around the car to get in the other side.

  “You…get in…backseat.” His words were more breath than sound.

  “No. I’m driving.” She leaned him against the car while she opened the door.

  “You…don’t know…the way.” His breathing went into the Darth Vader zone. His skin turned an ugly shade of gray.

  “Then you better tell me before you pass out.”

  * * *

  Mercy stared at Cain sleeping in the hospital bed. His dark-caramel hair brushed his forehead. She longed to sweep it back off his face. She longed to do a lot more. She longed to apologize. Longed for him to forgive her. Longed to go back to those moments in the cabin before Mac arrived when everything had seemed—so briefly—okay.

  Thankfully, none of Cain’s wounds required surgery. He’d gotten numbed up and stitched up, and by the time the nurse let her back into his room, he had fallen asleep. She wasn’t going to wake him. It had been a flat-out miracle that Dr. Payne hadn’t killed him. And something a bit more extraordinary than a triple rainbow that she hadn’t killed him either.

  He slept without a shirt, and for the first time she saw the damage that had been done to his body from his childhood. His arms were lined with white scars. His chest covered with puckered dime-sized wounds that looked as if they’d still be tender, even though it had been decades since they’d healed. And more of those slashing white marks. Her gaze locked on a crude line of scars that crisscrossed over his heart like a primitive crucifix. In a way, it was the ugliest reminder of his past. In another way, it was divine.

  Slowly, gently, so as not to wake him, she settled her hand over the scar. The raised ridges reminded her of Killion’s mark on her neck—cool and smooth and full of memories. She lifted her hand from him, then reached under her shirt and settled her palm on the f
iligreed cross she’d had burned into her flesh. How strange that they both had that symbol over their hearts.

  To her, the symbol meant victory over sin and death. His had probably been placed there by his father and had no special meaning beyond the pain he’d endured.

  Why was she looking for special meaning between them? She was being ridiculous. If ever there was someone she should run from, it was him. For his own safety.

  She tore her gaze from Cain’s sleeping form and looked out the window. The sky was colored in a gray scale ranging from the palest of pewter to the darkest iron. It looked hard and angry and sad at the same time. Exactly how she felt.

  There was something about Cain. Maybe it was that he saved her from Dr. Payne. Maybe it was the hurt little boy she’d glimpsed in his eyes. Maybe it was their shared experience at the hands of his father. Whatever it was, she really liked him. And what had she done? She’d shot him. In that moment when she’d pulled the trigger, she’d intended to kill him. Didn’t matter that she was lost in a flashback.

  A tear tickled its way down her cheek. She didn’t bother brushing it away. For the first time in two years, she could allow herself to feel something other than disdain. She preferred disdain. This sucked.

  She’d never thought she belonged in the Center, but after today, she wasn’t so sure. She’d lost track of reality long enough to shoot an innocent man, a man who’d saved her and protected her.

  “What’s wrong?” Cain’s voice was thick and throaty and full of concern.

  She didn’t look at him. Didn’t want him to see her tears, didn’t want or deserve the sympathy he might offer her. She wiped her cheeks dry with her palms, took a breath, and faced him. “How are you feeling?”

  “Is it Mac?” His eyes reminded her of a sad spring sky.

  “No. Oh no. Sorry. They took him to surgery an hour ago. I haven’t heard anything since.” He dipped his chin in a gesture that meant that he’d heard her but wasn’t going to say anything. “Cain. You have to know… I didn’t mean to… I thought you were Killion.” She blurted it all out there.