Saint (Mercy Book 2)

by JB Salsbury

  “All good?” he asks in Spanish.

  “Yeah.”

  I turn on the radio and zone out for the hour-and-a-half drive home. The closer I get, the more anxious I am to get to Mercy.

  I know she’s well protected. I know Mikkel Vanderburg is no longer a threat, but a sense of doom lingers over us like a dark cloud, as though at any minute, someone from her past will swoop in and steal her away in the night. The only thing that calms me is the weight of my foot on the gas pedal as I speed toward her.

  When we get to the compound gates, the guard lets us right in. I drive into the underground garage and slide out before Sancho gets a chance to waste my time with small talk. The sun is already coming up and I need my girl in my arms for a few hours before she wakes up.

  The mansion is quiet for now, but in an hour or so, it’ll be busy with activity. Servants live on property, some with their children, and before meals, the kitchen here is the closest thing to home I’ve seen since before I lost my mom.

  You mean before el Jefe murdered her.

  I grind my teeth and jog up the stairs, taking them two at a time until I’m at the double doors of our bedroom. I push inside slowly, quietly, my eyes hungry for Mercy. The moment her sleeping form comes into view, I exhale a breath it seems I’ve been holding the entire time I was away. I should go shower, but tonight was fairly mess-free and I can’t bear wasting valuable time. I close the door. The whisper of the lock has her shifting in bed, her pale white legs tangled in crisp white sheets. It’s hard to tell where her skin ends and the decadent bedding begins.

  I undress quickly and tug back the sheets. I pause with one knee on the bed to study Mercy. Her long hair is a mess across the pillows, white eyelashes fanning out against her pale cheeks, and those lips parted as she breathes easily.

  Safe.

  I tuck in next to her, and she mumbles something and scoots to the far end.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” I whisper as I hook her around the waist and drag her into my arms.

  She nuzzles my neck, and I tilt my head, allowing her to get close to the Blessed Virgin that’s inked there. Feeling her breathe against my skin, her warm lips pressed against throat, is a reminder to my soul that she’s alive and safe.

  “Did you just get home?” Her voice is sleep-heavy.

  “Sí. I didn’t mean to wake you, mi alma.” I run a hand through her long hair before firmly rubbing her scalp. “Shhh, go back to sleep.”

  Her arm tightens around my middle and my lids slide closed. All my worries of the future dissolve when we’re like this. All my regrets and concern about my brothers, every bit of self-hatred for what I’ve been forced to become, all of it disappears when she’s in my arms.

  Mercy may be convinced she’s no longer an angel.

  I disagree.

  No other woman could bring me this close to heaven.

  Mercy

  I’M SMILING BEFORE I even open my eyes.

  Pressed against Milo’s chest, his hand tangled in my hair as he holds me close to his throat, I breathe in the fresh outdoorsy scent of his skin. Milo is warm and his pulse is slow and steady against my palm that’s splayed on his chest.

  I could lie here all day like this, safe in his arms. Unfortunately, my bladder insists I get up, so I pull away, and he rolls to his side, mumbling something incoherent. He got in early this morning. I frown when I see his clothes in a pile at the side of the bed. He must’ve been too tired to put them in the hamper.

  The Saltillo tile is cold under my feet despite the eighty-degree weather outside.

  I tell myself not to inspect the bathroom countertop, not to search for Milo’s wet towel to see if it’s stained with blood, but I do it anyway and find a clean surface and a dry towel. I finish up, wash my hands, and move quietly toward the bed to pick up his clothes. I scoop them off the floor, and something heavy falls and cracks against the tile.

  I gasp and clutch Milo’s clothes to my chest as I stare at the black gun. Then something else pulls at my attention. The scent coming off his shirt is distinctly feminine and stings my nose with a bitter punch of smoke and alcohol.

  My stomach lurches when I consider what he was doing last night. I think back to Carrie, the beautiful blonde from school, who couldn’t seem to keep her hands off Milo. Not that I blame her—he’s very handsome with his dark hair and light brown eyes, his firm jawline, and full lips. Surely other women find him attractive. Other beautiful women.

  I toss his clothes into the hamper and catch my reflection in the mirror. I look nothing like the women here in Mexico. I look almost boyish in comparison to the curvy, full-figured females I’ve seen here. Mexican women have skin the color of toasted caramel while mine looks sickly. And it’s not just my skin—my hair, lips, even my eyelashes are the color of milk. I used to think that my coloring confirmed I’m special, but staring at my reflection now, I’ve never felt more ordinary. Plain. Boring. Lacking in every way.

  I pick up Milo’s gun and go to place it in his nightstand where I don’t have to look at it. Living here in the compound, I’ve become used to seeing firearms on the guards and the few people who’ve come for meetings with Milo’s dad, Esteban, but I’ve yet to see one this close to where I sleep. I slide the weapon into the bedside table—

  “What are you doing?” Milo’s voice scares me, and I drop the gun into the drawer with a thunk. “Careful.”

  “I’m sorry.” I hold up my hands. “I wasn’t snooping.”

  His frown deepens. “It’s okay. I should’ve put that away before I came to bed.” He rubs his eyes. “I don’t like you touching that shit.”

  I nod and worry my hands into the front of my T-shirt as he pushes up to sit. “Where were you last night?”

  He stills for a few seconds before he sits back against the hand-carved wooden headboard and looks at me through puffy, sleep-deprived eyes. “Working.”

  “Doing what?” I find it impossible to hide my nerves and I fidget.

  “Work stuff.” He hooks the side of my shorts and pulls me to the bed, where I straddle his hips and brace my hands on his shoulders. With a long sigh, he brings me close to rest his forehead at my neck then kisses the sensitive skin around my collarbone.

  I run my fingers through his thick hair and grip the messy strands, making him groan. “What kind of work stuff?”

  He tilts his head back and stares at me for so long that it takes a lot of strength not to look away. “I don’t want you to worry about what I do—”

  “I can’t help it.”

  “Doesn’t concern you.”

  I flinch at his dismissal. “Everything you do concerns me.”

  “Well it shouldn’t—”

  “You carry a gun.”

  “Don’t worry, I don’t use it.”

  “I can’t control my worrying about—”

  “Mercy, I was out and now I’m back home safe and sound. That’s all you need to know.”

  “Who’s the woman?”

  His gaze is steady on mine, so I’m able to watch guilt darken his eyes. I shove back and scurry off the bed only to have him follow and wrap me up from behind.

  “No,” he growls in my ear. “Stop it. Don’t let your mind go there. It’s not what you think.”

  “You were with another woman.”

  His grip tightens. “No, I was absolutely not with another woman.”

  “Then why do your clothes smell like one?” My voice borders hysteria and my hands ball into fists. What is this that I’m feeling?

  “You smelled my clothes?”

  “No, I picked them up.” I pull out of his hold and he lets me go. “You come and go at all hours of the night. Your clothes smell like a woman or are splattered in blood—” He reaches for me, but I bat his arm away. “Tell me why you’re hiding this part of your life from me. I won’t continue to live like this.”

  Now it’s his turn to step back. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means I’m scared!”
<
br />   “You’re safe here, you know that. Nothing can hurt you—”

  “Except you.”

  He flinches as if I’ve slapped him. “I would never hurt you.”

  “Losing you would kill me.”

  My words shove him forward, and he wraps me in his arms. “You’ll never lose me, Güera. That is one thing I can guarantee. Never, you hear me?”

  “What about the blood I found on your clothes?”

  The tension returns and he doesn’t answer.

  “It wasn’t your blood.”

  “That was weeks ago.” His chin rests on my head and he huffs out a breath. “I can’t tell you everything, you know that. But I can promise you I was not with a woman last night, not in the way you think. There was an American girl alone and she was drunk. She slipped and I kept her from face-planting, that’s all. I promise. The second she was standing upright, I put her in a car to the border.” His lips press against my head. “You have nothing to worry about when it comes to me and other women, Mercy. You’re the only woman for me.”

  I want to ask again about the blood, but I know, like always, he won’t tell me. He says what he does for Esteban has nothing to do with us, but he’s all I have. I can’t lose him. I won’t.

  “I worry that you’ll give another woman the same thing we share.”

  His muscles stiffen.

  I close my eyes and continue to confess my fears while I still have the courage. “I don’t like how it feels, not knowing where you are, strange smells on your clothes. I can’t explain the feeling I get in my stomach. I don’t understand it.”

  He says my name on a soft exhale.

  “Just tell me what I need to do.” The heat of tears burns my nose and the backs of my eyes. “I know I don’t look like other women. If you’d—”

  “That’s enough.” He grips my shoulders and holds me back to catch my eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with you.” His gaze moves over my face, and he frowns. “You’re perfect. So sweet, and beautiful, and . . . pure. What you’re feeling is normal. I feel the same way at the thought of another man touching you.” The end of his statement vibrates with a growl. He closes his eyes and breathes through his nose before refocusing on me. “It’s called jealousy. It’s what happens when you fall in love with someone to the point that the thought of them being taken away from you makes you crazy. I worry about it too. Every fucking day I worry something . . . someone . . . will take you away again.” He cups my cheeks and stares into my eyes. “I love you, mi alma. Never question that.”

  “I love you too, but—”

  “No. No buts. You are the only woman I want. There will never be another for me.” He groans and drops his hands from my shoulders to slide down and grip my fingers. He runs the pad of his thumb over my ring. “Did you not understand what this ring meant when I gave it to you?”

  I stare at our joined hands as regret slumps my shoulders. “I’m sorry.” I lean forward and press my forehead to his chest. “These feelings . . . everything is so new. I don’t . . .” I shake my head, unable to find the right words.

  “I know. Things are intense right now, but I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Show me.” I press a kiss to his bare chest, and he moans. “I need to feel it.”

  He grips my hips and slides his hands up under my shirt, tracing his fingertips along my sides in a slow tease until they stop just beneath my breasts. I tilt my head up as he comes down to claim my mouth. His thumbs brush against my sensitive nipples. I wiggle against him, anxious for more of his touch, and he rips his mouth from mine.

  He’s breathing hard, his eyelids heavy. “I need to take a shower.”

  A slow smile curls my lips.

  He grins, does a quick squat, and scoops me into his arms. “I think I might need some help.”

  I wrap my arms around his neck and nuzzle his tattoo, bathing it in kisses and smiling.

  I’m such a stupid girl, I think as I catch the light’s reflection off my ring. Milo loves me. Rather than worry about the time he can’t give me, I’ll enjoy every second of the time he can.

  Mercy

  WEEKS HAVE PASSED, and I’ve managed to leave Milo alone about what he does when he leaves most nights. He still comes home smelling like smoke and alcohol or the lingering scent of perfume, but with his ring on my finger, I overcome the urge to ask him where he’s been.

  To keep my mind occupied, I’ve thrown myself into researching the muti. I no longer fall back to sleep in Milo’s arms once he crawls into bed. Instead, I wait for him to sleep, then I go down to the pantry to feed my insatiable need for information.

  This morning is no different.

  Girl lured by her boyfriend to be murdered for muti.

  In dark letters against a shining white background, multiple articles cover the story and I’ve read each one at least a dozen times. A seventeen-year-old boy murdered and mutilated his albino girlfriend because a traditional healer promised him doing so would make him wealthy.

  I imagine holding the hand of the man I love as he leads me into a dark, secluded field. I wonder what she thought as other men jumped out from the darkness to throw her to the ground. What must she have been thinking when she looked up into the eyes of the boy who had told her he loved her, his hands squeezing her neck until he forced the life from her body? She probably wondered how she hadn’t seen her own death on the horizon. She most likely beat herself up for being unaware of who he truly was.

  A shiver of dread skates down my back, and I curl around the device. Did he have a moment of regret as he hacked off her arms, legs, and head? When he doused what was left of her body with gasoline and lit her on fire, did he ever wonder if maybe he’d made a mistake?

  Tears fall freely down my cheeks, and I tremble with fear and vulnerability. Can someone in my position ever really trust anyone? I sniff back the emotion and touch another article, reading it once again while—

  The pantry door swings open. Light pierces my eyes, temporarily blinding me.

  “What the fuck are you doing with that?”

  Before my eyes adjust, the device is ripped from my hands. Esteban towers over me. I duck my head in my arms and cringe, waiting to feel the heavy blow of his fist. Instead, he grasps my upper arm and drags me to my feet.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  My bare feet stumble behind me as he drags me into the kitchen and shoves me into cabinets, the only thing that keeps me standing. I don’t turn around but keep my face down to the countertop, afraid to look into his eyes, and continue to apologize.

  I hear Maria’s hurried Spanish from the kitchen doorway. I can’t understand what she’s saying, but it carries the same cadence of my apology. Esteban roars at her, and I wince as the sound crashes over me.

  “Stop, please,” I hear myself say through my fear.

  When they don’t stop, I stand and find Maria, her face pale as she braces herself in the doorway against Esteban’s violent tirade. I turn slowly to face him and see he has the tablet in his hand. His face is bright red with anger, and he lunges toward me.

  I recoil, but stay facing him. “It’s my fault. She didn’t know. It’s my fault, I took it.”

  “You’re a fucking liar and a thief!” He slams the thing against the tile and it shatters into a million pieces.

  Something inside me dies as all the slivers of glass scatter across the floor. “Why did you do that?”

  Esteban seems surprised by my question, and his eyes grow tight with tension. “Are you communicating with the cops?”

  “Cops?”

  “You’re a fucking snitch!” He raises his hand.

  I turn to block my face when barking outside the window draws his attention. A car pulls up to the front door.

  He drops his hand and scowls at Maria. “Limpia esta mierda!”

  She scurries to the supply closet to pull out a broom, and he steps in close to me, so close his hips dig into my stomach and my lower back aches against the countertop. The fragile
glass crunches on the tile under his booted feet.

  He smells of cologne and sweat as he brings his lips to my ear. “If cops show up at my gate, I’ll make you watch him die before I throw you out into the street. Tell me you understand.”

  I suck in a stuttered breath. “Yes.”

  “Good. If you tell Milo about this, I’ll keep him for myself and make you disappear. Got it?”

  I nod, and the movement makes me light-headed. My fingers ache on the countertop behind me as I hold myself upright. Esteban backs up, grabs a fistful of my hair, and shoves me out of the kitchen. Tears burn my eyes, and as soon as he releases me, I run up the stairs and close myself in my room. The sound of the shower from our bathroom helps me get ahold of my emotions.

  “It’s okay. Milo didn’t hear.” I take a few shuttered breaths and calm my racing heart. An emptiness fills my chest that I’ve lost the ability to learn more about the muti, but a bigger fear has me sliding down the door and crashing on the floor.

  He threatened to kill his own son.

  My lungs squeeze, and I fight for a full breath as a sob crawls up my throat. I knew Milo’s dad wasn’t a good man, but I didn’t know he was capable of murdering his own blood. The tears come even faster, and when the shower turns off, I scurry into bed, throw the covers over my head, and pretend to sleep. Milo can’t find out about his father’s threats.

  I pinch my eyes closed and will my eyes to dry.

  Mikkel. The muti. Esteban.

  There is so much evil in the world.

  No matter what I do, I can’t seem to get away from it.

  Milo

  I RUN A comb through my hair and put on a quick swipe of deodorant, excited to go downstairs and find Mercy. My morning shower provided some good thinking time and I came up with an idea that would keep her busy on the estate, but I want to run it by her first.

  I tighten my towel around my waist and exit the bathroom to see a Mercy-sized lump beneath the covers. Worry chips away at my mind, and I circle the bed to see she’s pulled the covers over her head and her breathing is slow and steady. She must’ve gone back to sleep. I tug back the comforter and push hair out of her face. Her cheeks are flushed. I check her forehead. She seems a little warm. I replace my hand with my lips and kiss her softly, not wanting to wake her.