There’s another tense pause. “Fair enough. Fare thee well.”
And that’s where and how it ends. Merc just walks out, and there’s no slamming of the door, either.
Left to my own, I start to shake, so I go back to pacing, thinking of more things I should have said, want to say—none of which are conciliatory, all of which revisit me kicking him out. But then I move beyond myself.
I can’t get the maid out of my mind. And even if I have to let Merc go eventually, I can’t do the same to her.
I need him one last time.
With a curse, I march back over to the exit and yank open the door, prepared to hunt for him—
Merc is standing right outside, his pack on the floor at his feet, his body leaning against the gray wall. If his brows were down any lower, his belly button would be glaring, and as he turns his head and stares over at me, I don’t know what I’m feeling.
No, that’s a lie. I don’t like anything that I’m feeling.
“You don’t have to wait for the latch anymore,” I mutter.
“Habits die hard.”
As he bends over and picks up his pack, I can see down the corridor—and at the head of the stairs, the woman with the red bed has stepped out of her room. She’s wearing a low-cut, black silken robe that reminds me of the colorof Merc’s eye, and it brings out her long, pale hair. Her lean against the doorjamb is an invitation if I’ve ever seen one, and her attributes are as obvious as mine feel invisible.
She’s turned toward Merc—to us, now—and she’s clearly prepared to catch him on his way out.
“You’re right,” I say.
My words stop him as he starts to walk away, and I find myself staring the other woman down—even as I remind myself I have no right to any of the aggression I’m feeling toward her. Too bad that logic is utterly irrelevant as I remember him coming out of her room.
Opening my own door wider, I step to the side. Merc narrows his eyes on me.
“What,” he demands.
Swallowing my pride, I say in a low voice, “I need your help.”
“What’s changed. In the last three moments since you kicked me out.”
There are so many ways to answer that, many of which are anger-based and will only drive him away, the rest of which I don’t want to say out here.
“I’ve decided…” I clear my throat. “As much as it pains me, I have to be honest about my limitations.”
His brows lift, and I expect him to gloat. Instead, he just nods once. “Fair enough.”
Merc’s big body moves by me, and I look down the hall.
The working woman smiles slowly and then inclines her head, as if she’s deferring to me and the claim I’ve staked. I wait until she’s disappeared back into her room.
Before I turn away and go into mine.
Fifty-TwoThe Awakening.
As I close the door and lean back against it, I remind myself of how far Merc and I have traveled and all the things we’ve battled and bested by working together. These memories fight for the forefront of my mind against the image of that pale-haired woman in her messy bed—but neither the things Merc and I have shared nor what he did with her matters.
“It’s not about me,” I hear myself say.
Merc stares down at me, and I swear I can feel his exasperation. And the confirmation of his annoyance is the way he tosses his pack on the table.
“I thought you said Lena was all right.”
“It’s not her, either.”
