Page 28 of At Your Mercy

Fuck. My palms felt damp against my thighs.

When the wine arrived, he poured for both of us, his motions steady. He slid my glass across the table. “You’ll like this.”

I took it, though I wanted to snap that he didn’t get to tell me what I would or wouldn’t like. But when I tasted it, smooth and rich on my tongue, I had to admit—it was good.

Wes’s lips quirked, just slightly, like he’d read the thought right off my face.

“Such a good boy,” he murmured.

The stem of the glass nearly slipped through my fingers.

Soon after, the first course came—a small plate with something delicate and green, dressed with vinaigrette I couldn’t name. I stared at it, then at Wes.

He gestured to my fork. “Try it.”

I rolled my eyes, muttering, “I was going to.”

“You’ll be polite even if you don’t like it, Ronan.”

My chest gave an involuntary jolt. I stabbed the fork into the fancy salad just to break the tension, shoving a bite into my mouth. It was crisp, sharp, with a citrusy flavor, and annoyingly good.

Wes didn’t say anything, but the faint curve of his mouth told me he didn’t need to.

By the second course—a steaming bowl of onion soup, rich and fragrant—I was keyed up. The melted cheese stretched across the surface, gooey and golden. I blew on the spoon, feeling his gaze on me like a physical weight.

“You’re staring,” I muttered.

“I’m watching,” he corrected smoothly. “There’s a difference.”

I grumbled, then slurped down the spoonful a little too loudly just to spite him, but all it earned me was another flicker of that knowing smile.

When the main course arrived—steak with a buttery sauce I couldn’t pronounce—Wes cut his meat with clean, precise motions, while mine sat barely touched.

He looked at me over the table, his tone mild but firm. “Eat.”

Something about the way he said it made my hand move before my brain caught up. I sliced into the steak and brought it to my mouth, chewing slowly. It was tender, juicy, the flavor melting on my tongue. I moaned at the taste.

Wes murmured, sipping his wine, “You learn quickly.”

Heat crawled up the back of my neck. I shoved another bite in, like maybe that would drown out the twisting in my stomach.

By the time the plates were cleared, I felt strung out, every nerve wound tight from the push and pull between us. Wesleyset his napkin neatly beside his plate, then leaned back, studying me.

His voice cut quietly and sharply through the lull. “Tell me something, Ro. What exactly do you hope to achieve by following me around, joining me at my tables, and not even attempting another try at killing me?”

My stomach clenched. That was the opening. The line Elias had drilled into me echoed like a script in my head.

And so, even though I wanted to scowl and yell thathe was the one who kept dragging me into restaurants, I dropped my gaze and let my voice roughen just enough. “…I need help.”

Wes tilted his head, eyes narrowing in measured interest. “Help?”

The words felt like glass in my throat, but I forced them out. “I can’t get out of this alone. Elias, my… my handler—he won’t let me go. You’re the only one who can… who can pull me out.”

I hated how small it sounded, howtrueit felt as I said it. My fists curled tight under the table.

Wes didn’t speak right away. He just watched me, eyes dark, calculating, like he was peeling back each layer to see where the lie ended and the truth began.

Finally, he said, voice low and steady, “I find it hard to believe that you aren’t capable of destroying that man.”