The door between kitchen and bedroom led to the bathroom, Larry explained. Indoor plumbing and everything, he said proudly, which made her realize, for the first time, that an outhouse was a real possibility out here in the swamp.
Larry and Evie had stocked the fridge and the open pantry shelves; they’d brought clean towels, new sheets and pillows and blankets for the bed, water, champagne, beer. Evie had thought of things for Ava that she herself hadn’t been able to pack on the bike: body and foot lotion, little scented candles, a new terry robe, slippers, and a small bottle of lavender oil. “He said lavender, over the phone,” Evie whispered in her ear. She laughed. “He was very specific.”
Larry helped Mercy carry their bags up, and Evie showed Ava the soup she’d left simmering in a big stone Dutch oven on top of the stove. “Let it cool completely, after you’re done eating, and this pot can go straight in the fridge.”
They offered to walk the O’Donnells down to their bateau, but Evie wouldn’t hear of it. “We’ll come by and check on you in a day or two. We’ve bothered you enough. Enjoy your dinner.”
She hugged Ava one last time, and as she pulled back, Ava saw Larry saying something to Mercy, a low murmuring she couldn’t hear. And then Larry and Evie were out the door, and they were alone together, in this fairy story cottage fit for the Seven Dwarves.
The exhaustion hit her like a blow to the face. She sank down onto the edge of the bed, hands in her lap, relishing the slow push of air out of her lungs.
Mercy leaned a hip against the high back of the sofa and folded his arms. He looked like she felt. “I’m sorry about them. They’re kind of–”
“Wonderful,” Ava finished for him. “Look at this place; what they set up for us. They love you, and that makes me want to love them.”
He made a vague gesture to the air, looking embarrassed. “Evie goes overboard, sometimes.”
Ava grinned. “But she takes instruction really well, apparently.”
He lifted his brows.
“The lavender oil. That you were ‘very specific’ about.”
His face darkened as he blushed.
She laughed. “So you like smelling like flowers, huh?”
“It just feels good. It’s got nothing to do with the smell.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.”
He gave her a long-suffering look, then took a deep breath and let the fatigue take hold of him again. “You wanna eat?”
“God, yes.”
Jambalaya. When Ava pulled the lid off the pot, the roiling steam brought with it a sharp smell of spices her mother never used in her kitchen. Rich, exotic scents, full of heat and color. She dipped the ladle into the glossy orange liquid and stirred up thick slices of sausage, celery, carrot. There was rice, and fat pink shrimp, corn and flakes of basil.
“This smells amazing,” Ava said as she dipped servings into blue glazed bowls. Her stomach howled for the food.
“Bread?” Mercy asked, pulling a baguette off the shelf.
“Ooh, yes.”
They tore off chunks of it and sat on the sofa while they ate, too hungry to utter a word to each other. They didn’t even make eye contact. Suddenly, she hit the bottom of her bowl, and she set it aside with the languorous slow reach of a very drunk person. Only then did she look at Mercy.
He studied his spoon like it was fascinating, brows plucked together.
She would have laughed if she wasn’t so tired. She was too tired to think about taking a shower, even undressing. She would strip naked and fall between the sheets. She’d cry if she had to do anything else. Knowing she had to put the jambalaya in the fridge was devastating. Her eyelids sagged and her pulse throbbed in her head.
“Mercy,” she said, “I know we haven’t had a real wedding night yet, and I want us to, you know I do, but…”
He grabbed her socked foot where it lay on the sofa at his hip and squeezed it. “It’s fine, baby.” Tired smile. “I’m so dead, I’d probably only embarrass myself.”
The relief was a balm.
She let her head fall back against the sofa arm. “We just gotta put the food away…just that…and then sleep…”
A scream woke Ava. She bolted upright in bed, and at first, she didn’t remember where she was, could only grapple with the sense that this was an unfamiliar place. Not home, she thought wildly. And there was an awful high screeching sound, coming from somewhere in the dense night beyond. It was so dark, she couldn’t see her hands, her feet, the soft sheets around her waist. The faintest moonlight illuminated the four-paned windows in thin silver, and it was counting them that helped her recall the cabin. Saints Hollow. The humanless middle of the swamp.
Her heart was still knocking, so she reached out a hand for Mercy beside her. He was snoring. She touched his bare chest. “Merc. Mercy, what is that?”
“…Huh?” He took one of those deep breaths people take when climbing up out of a dream; his chest lifted beneath her hand. His voice was thick with sleep. “What is it?”
“That noise. Someone screaming.”
But it was dying away, strangling off into nothing, and then the drone of the cicadas and crickets was filling in the space it had left behind.
“It sounded like…I dunno. It woke me up.”
Mercy took another deep breath and sat up beside her. His presence was instantly soothing. “A nutria,” he said.
“One of those big rat things?”
“Yeah. You’ll get used to it.”
“Why was it…doing that, though?”
He made a sound that made her think he was smirking. “Something got it.”
“How nice.” She sighed. “Well, as long as that something wasn’t human, I don’t guess there’s anything to worry about.”
“I don’t know a gator that can pick a lock,” he agreed. The covers pushed back. “But I can go look if you want me to.”
Ava caught at him, felt his forearm and wrapped her fingers around it in the dark. “No, the mosquitos would carry you off. It’s fine. I just…well, sleeping in a strange place, you know how it is.”
“I do.” The weight of his hand passed across the sheet until it found her thigh, and then settled there.
Beyond the cottage, the Hollow was alive with night sounds: things chattering, whispering, groaning, pushing through the undergrowth.
And they were both awake now.
“What time is it?” she asked.
The mattress creaked as Mercy leaned over the side of it, checking his prepaid cell in the saddlebag they’d left beside the bed along with their shucked clothes. “Five-eighteen,” he answered, clicking on the bedside lamp as he straightened. Its shade was a dark, heavy paper, so the glow was soft and unobtrusive, just a hazy brush of visibility over the bed that didn’t stretch beyond to the rest of the cottage.
The low light turned Mercy golden, his loose, rich black hair falling in straight sheets to his shoulders, framing his narrow face. When he turned to her, his eyes were tired, but soft. With the covers around his waist, he was all long arms and muscle-corded torso. The image of him like that would stay with her for a while, she thought, as the sight of him warmed her from the inside out.
“I just realized something,” she said, smiling.
“What?”
“You don’t have a ring.”
He looked at his left hand, as if to check. “I don’t carry one of those around with me.” He glanced up at her from under his brows, his smile teasing. “Do you care if I have one?” Smile widening, flash of teeth; he already knew her answer.
“Um, you better believe it.”
“Really?” he asked with fake innocence. “Why?”
“You know why.”
“But I want to hear why.”
“No you don’t. Your ego’s gigantic already.”
“I won’t argue about anything of mine being gigantic, but really, baby, I’m feeling a little insecure.” He couldn’t keep from chuckling.
Ava took his hand and pulled it into her lap, e
ncircling the ring finger with her pinky. “I want you to have a ring so random skanks know you belong to someone.”
He grinned. “If you want, we can get Ziggy to tattoo your name right up here.” He drew a finger across his forehead. “Then they’ll really know.”
She nodded. “Good.” And then dissolved into giggles and flopped back onto the pillows. “God, we got married. I still can’t quite believe it.” Her voice came out breathless.
“That’s because we haven’t had a chance to celebrate properly.” Mercy leaned over her, hands braced on the mattress, a jungle cat ready to pounce. His hair fell forward as he lowered his face over hers, tickling her throat. He slipped into his loverboy purr, the one that gave her gooseflesh. “Gimme a few hours, baby, and you’ll believe it.”
His lips were hovering above hers when she slid her hand between them, pressing at his mouth. “Wait! I was so tired before, I forgot to take my pill. Here, lemme up, and I’ll get the pack out of my bag.”
He frowned and shook her hand away. “Will one really make a difference?”
“It could. You don’t want to take the chance do you?”
He dropped down to his forearms, and was very still, and contemplative a moment, their chests together, just enough of his weight distributed across her that she wanted to lift up into it, but wasn’t being crushed. He kissed her, very softly, and then lifted his head again. His voice took on an unfamiliar quality, a quiet strain she interpreted as hopeful. “Don’t you want kids?”
She felt the emotion well up in her throat, that warm melting that his surprising, tender moments always inspired in her. She wanted to touch him, and framed his face with her hands. “I do.” Her voice quavered. “I really do. But I don’t know that right now is the best time.”
His brows crimped in question. It was adorable.
“I just started school,” she said gently, “and we don’t even have a place to live. Hell” – wry smile – “we’re hiding out in the middle of the swamp. Who knows how long we’ll be out here. What if–”
“What if I have to deliver the baby myself right here in this bed?” He made a considering face. “I can do that.” He grinned. “I’ve done messier things than that.”
She sighed. “Mercy.”
“Ava.”
Her throat felt tight, and her eyes were starting to sting. She didn’t have any fight in her when it came to this. Just hearing him say “kids” propelled her five years back, to the life that had been lost, their first chance bleeding down the insides of her legs. She wasn’t even sure she wanted children for any of the right reasons; she was convinced that a baby would be a way to reclaim some of that old grief, carry out what was always meant to be.
She didn’t know. There was just this empty, aching, yearning inside her, and she wanted to put a piece of Mercy inside it.
“But wouldn’t it be reckless,” she whispered, “wouldn’t it be selfish, to reach for that now, when we don’t have any right to?”
He kissed her forehead. “Baby.” He breathed a soft laugh through his nose that ruffled her hair. “How is it reckless or selfish?”
She hated the words that were building behind her lips, but she had to say them. She had to let her fear out into the open, at last, so they could deal with it together. “Because of who you are, and who I am, and we were so twisted – maybe we’re not supposed to be happy. Maybe it isn’t supposed to be as easy as houses and babies and being partners.” The tears were gathering in her eyes as she stared up at him. “I’m afraid to have a baby on purpose,” she admitted, “because look what happened when it was just an accident.”
His chest pressed against her breasts as he took a huge breath, and let it out through his nose, nostrils flaring. “You don’t believe any of that.”
“No. But I’m afraid to think that we could be happy, and not pay for it somehow.”
She closed her eyes as he kissed her cheek, nuzzled into her throat, breathed against her skin, kissed her neck. He murmured in French, long strings of lilting syllables. He kissed her mouth.
“Do you know when I wanted you for the first time?” he said against her lips.
The question made her toes curl. She threaded her fingers through his hair and held his head close to hers, so he couldn’t pull away. She wanted to feel his mouth touching hers when he spoke. She pulled the tears back, felt this new, sudden excitement pulse through her. “When?”
She could feel the shape of his smile against her lips. “You’d just turned sixteen, and you drove onto the lot all by yourself the first time, and you were so proud of that, grinning great big. You came up to me, and I remember it was hot out, and you had on these little Daisy Dukes, and a white tank top, and your bra was purple. I could see it straight through your shirt. You called my name, and I turned to look, and you were just – there. I thought, Jesus Christ, look at that. She’s all grown up, and I used to be able to put her in my pocket. I loved you like you were my very own, and all of a sudden, I wanted to bend you over my work bench and see what you tasted like.”
She made a wordless sound and pressed up into him. She felt the hard plane of his stomach against her sex, wanted to rub herself against him.
“That hadn’t ever happened to me,” he went on, his voice velvety and confident as he felt her reaction. “Loving someone so much, and wanting her at the same time. Never. Has it ever happened to you? Both at once like that?”
“Only with you. You know that.”
He kissed her again and she clenched his hair tight in her fists.
But then he pulled back again, close enough for them to be nose-to-nose, far enough that their lips weren’t touching. “Okay, your turn.”
“My turn for what?”
His grin was wicked. “When did you want me for the first time?”
Oh, this was a devious, awful, wonderful game he was playing with her, and it was working. She could feel the slickness building between her legs, her nipples contracting to tight buds. She shivered, and it had nothing to do with the temperature.
“I was fifteen, maybe fourteen. I don’t know; it all runs together, because it feels like it was forever. I don’t think I was even old enough to know what sex was. I didn’t understand it, anyway.
“You’d come over for dinner, and you were in front of the TV with Dad. Mom said to take you both a beer, and I did…I dunno why, but seeing you sitting there – you had your boots on the coffee table and Mom woulda killed you for that – I went from having a crush to…”
“What?” he prompted, still with the evil grin.
“I wanted something physical. I wanted to…bite your neck for some reason.”
He laughed quietly. “Because you were a teenage vampire?”
She felt her face color. “I just wanted to do it. And I remember I wanted you to put your arm around my waist, and I wanted you to kiss me, really kiss me.” She bit her lip. “I’d just seen Titanic, and that may have had something to do with it.”
He groaned. “Please don’t tell me I reminded you of that putz.”
“Oh no, never,” she assured, pulling her fingers through his hair. “But I liked the idea of the romance.” She reached to touch his face again, thumb against his lips. “I wanted to be special to you.”
“Fillette, you were always that.”
He just wasn’t going to be satisfied, apparently, until he’d made her cry and come all at once.
His smile softened, became more private and genuine. “Now tell me again why we shouldn’t have a baby, when I know you want one so bad, and I want to give you one.”
Layla’s words came back to her, the assertion that when you wanted it, you just wanted it, and logic played no part.
And she did want it. He had married her, and he’d left the club behind so he could protect her, and they were the only two souls in this corner of the swamp, and she wanted the thunderous knowledge that they could create something together that was just theirs, that no one could take from them.
; “Just don’t go get the pills,” he urged. “Let me be your husband, and we’ll just see what happens.”
She was lost. She parted her lips and reached for him; he came down and kissed her, passed his tongue into her mouth, and a deep, glad growl reverberated through his chest.
She was slippery wet, and when he entered her, her body welcomed him. There was that incredible stretching, the pressure, the way he filled her until her breathing was choppy and irregular. With one hand, he angled her hips, brought her up tighter against him, so that he was totally inside her.
She pressed her head back against the pillow as her spine flexed in helpless reaction, but he wouldn’t let her break the kiss. His tongue stroked deep inside her mouth as his hips began to move. Slow, rhythmic, forceful thrusts. Driving into her again and again. The mattress groaned. He was so heavy, and so powerful, and yet so careful with her.
Ava was anchored at two points: his mouth on her mouth, his cock so deep inside her. And everywhere else, she floated. Her Mercy, her man, her husband.
Her husband.
Husband…
Husband…
A chant in her head in time to the relentless plunging of his hips, the press of his hip bones as they left bruises on the soft insides of her thighs.
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