Page 33 of At Your Mercy

9

Ronan

Stupid.

I muttered it in my head with every step I took. Stupid for listening to him, stupid for following orders that weren’t Elias’s, stupid for not having killed him yet.

And yet here I was, spending the first half of my day searching for him. I checked the waterfront first, then that bookstore he liked, the market, then the cafe tucked under the awning with the peeling blue paint.

And when none of those turned up anything, I should’ve taken the hint and gone home. Should’ve told myself I was free from whatever invisible choke chain he’d looped around my neck.

Instead, I kept looking.

And when I finally saw him—tall, calm, perfectly put-together—my gut twisted hard.

My feet slowed, my pulse drumming unevenly against my ribs. His back was to me at first, the fall of his jacket clean and sharp, his hands resting in his pockets.

Elias wanted me to play the game, and I’d promised myself I would. Smile softly, voice unsteady; sell the story of wanting out, building on our last talk. But I already knew the second Wes turned those steady eyes on me, the words would twist and get stuck in my throat.

Because Elias had never looked at me the way Wes did.

I hung back for a beat, half-hidden by a crowd of tourists with maps of the city stretched out in their hands. My chest felt too tight, like I’d swallowed glass, sharp edges pressing outward every time I tried to breathe.

What the fuck was I doing?

Every time I saw him, my chest rattled with something I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t lust, not exactly, but it wasn’t fear either.

It was the way his voice stayed calm while he bent me with a single word. The way his hand had brushed the back of my chair, just lightly enough to feel like possession without pressure. The way my body had leaned into it before my brain could screamno.

Elias had never needed to be subtle. He’d used fists, chains, the kind of cold praise that left you hollow after. He called me “good boy,” but what he meant was “obedient tool.”

His deadly marionette.

But when Wes praised me, it felt like the world tilted on its side. It felt like my heart would burst.

I knew better. God, Iknewbetter.

Still, when he turned just slightly, starting to walk off from the coffee stand on the corner, his profile cutting sharply against the crowd, I felt my breath stumble. My knees buzzed, restless, like they remembered what it felt like to be under his gaze and wanted more. Much more.

It was terrifying.

My life had been so much easier without this never-ending ache in my chest.

I forced my feet to keep moving, following behind as he leisurely strolled through downtown.

If I could only finish the job, maybe I could stop the ache.

Stop these feelings.

Fuck Elias’s plan. It was time to end this. And this was my chance. He was away from the crowd now, slipping into one of the narrower side streets that spiderwebbed off the main road. Tourists never strayed this far. The vendors thinned out, the noise died down, and soon we were left with the quiet slap of our footsteps against the damp pavement.

My pulse drummed in my ears.This is it. Do it. Now.

I quickened my pace. My knife was warm in my palm, thumb brushing the familiar grooves in the hilt. One clean strike between the ribs, and order would snap back into place. I’d be myself again.

I lunged.

But he spun fast—too fast. My blade cut across his side instead of sinking deep, a too-shallow slash that bloomed red against his shirt. His hand clamped my wrist before I could adjust, grip iron, twisting. Pain shot up my arm, but I snarled and slammed my shoulder into him, shoving him back against the brick wall.