She’s already fucking winning.
Grazing my knuckles down her cheek, I smirk. “I knew it would come to this—you begging me.”
“So full of yourself, Mr. Noire. This isn’t like last night. I already got mine. I will meet you in the middle though.” She licks her strawberry lips ever so slowly while the anticipation ofwhatever seductive promise she’s about to extend hovers heavily between us. “I won’t beg, but I will follow orders.”
“Jesus,” I hiss, right before a grating voice interrupts us.
“There’s the happy couple.”
Motherfucker.
Martina Nicholson stands in front of us in a slinky black dress, her dark hair too poofy and her cleavage toothere. She’s considered a hot commodity among many of our La Lune Noire guests. I’ve never bought it, but my disinterest won me the prize of never shaking her.
“I heard about thisengagement. Let me see that rock, Mercy.”
“Hi, Martina,” Mercy warbles, presenting her ring—the champagne one I held on to for years—with an uncharacteristic snarky finger dance. “Blinding, right?” She studies Martina’s incensed reaction, and a grin coasts up her cheeks, nearly revealing her venomous fangs. “It’s been forever. You look … well. What’s new?”
“Nothing this exciting.” Martina levels her with a glare before flipping her scrutiny to me and gliding her hand over my back. “This surprised me, Ryker.”
“Hands off,” Mercy demands, her features stony. “Now.”
Fuck. Me.That’s my goddamn queen, striking like a viper.
My dick salutes that dose of possessiveness, so I move my suit jacket to conceal it, kiss Mercy’s temple, and stare Martina down until she withdraws her hand.
“Shouldn’t be surprising. I’ve always been clear about my intentions.” I might not have vocalized my obsession with Mercy, but for a long time, I’ve made it damn clear I didn’t want anyone else.
Martina’s eyes grow cold, announcing the challenge in store. “I guess you were. That explains all those lawyers you found jobsfor in other states. Hell, you sent some to other countries. And they all had one thing in common, didn’t they?”
Shit. I may have—allegedly—incentivized anyone who sought a second date with Mercy ever since our French 75 night. She wanted to have her fun, remain unattached until she was well established in her career, and I simply ensured her aspirations were fulfilled. That’s what I told myself. There was initially no additionalconsciousmotive behind it. I didn’t know what the hell I wanted and wouldn’t have professed that she was my forever. I just knew I couldn’t bear the idea of her getting serious with someone.
Mercy ping-pongs her gaze between the two of us, probably slowly piecing things together.
Martina’s father is a judge—one who handles a considerable number of cases for our members. It’s not shocking that she’s onto me. Initially, I declined sleeping with her because she was inherently clingy and burning that bridge with her father would have been disastrous. I insisted I didn’t mix business with pleasure. Mostly true. But she couldn’t accept it. As the years went on, she became intent on finding other reasons. I’m guessing her father supplied one by divulging my scheme with the lawyers and suggesting I had a thing for Mercy.
The question of how long I’ve been waiting for my queen might get answered sooner than Mercy wanted.
My arm drapes over the booth behind her, scratching her shoulder in an unambiguous claiming. “I’m looking forward to seeing your parents next week, Martina. But you probably need to get back to your friends. Mercy and I are in the middle of our meal, so if you’ll excuse us.”
“Of course.” Martina catalogs the dissension building between us and smiles. “I’ll let you get to it.” She shifts her weight to leave, but stalls for one more bomb drop. “Too bad youdidn’t find Dalton a job elsewhere, huh? He was never willing to cooperate.”
“Enough.” I’m halfway to standing when Mercy clamps her hand on my wrist, tugging me down and shooting daggers at our unwanted guest.
“You’re in Ryker’s house, so you’ll show him some goddamn respect. If I have to climb out of this booth to get you to walk away, Martina, I swear to—”
“Mercy?” An ecstatic shriek slices through this shit show, absorbing whatever threat was about to blast out of my girl’s mouth. Across the restaurant, the woman attached to it rushes toward us. “Oh my God, Mercy Phillips!”
Mercy bypasses Martina and extends an enthusiastic wave as she scooches to the edge of our small half-moon booth. “Emma, hey.”
Emma Campbell was Mercy’s closest friend in postgrad. As much as I would prefer to clean up the mess that Martina just made, this is good for Mercy.
When Emma reaches us, her whole face is splotchy, tears streaming. She unapologetically launches herself at Mercy, hugging her like you would if someone returned from the dead. Because to Emma, that’s what this is. “Oh my God. I thought … there were rumors … and I was so worried. And you’re blonde now. And so beautiful.”
Mercy hugs her back, drops of her own heartache trickling onto her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m okay.”
Not wanting this reunion tainted, I glower at Martina, who is still hovering. “I’ve been polite for years, but that’s over. If you come at my soon-to-be wife again, you’ll be out of here for good. And yourdaddywon’t have anything to say about it.”
He’s in too deep with us now, and she knows it. She reluctantly retreats, with a smug grin for the damage she hopes she inflicted, and I return to my girl, only to meet Emma’s glare.
