Page 82 of At Your Mercy

He wanted me to come for the “show.”

That meant Wes was still breathing—for now.

I forced one long inhale, then exhale, grounding myself in the motion. My hands still shook, but I could think again.

I snatched the phone off the counter and hit Ichabod’s number. He picked up halfway through the first ring.

“Who is this?”I may have taken his number from Wes’s contacts without either of them knowing.

“Elias has Wes,” I cut in, words tumbling over themselves. There was no time for introductions. “He took him—I don’t know how long ago. He called me—he’s at the house, I’m going there.”

“What?” Ichabod’s voice rose, sharp and alarmed. “Is this Ro?”

“Start the plan,” I said. “Start it right fucking now.”

“Ro—”

I ended the call and shoved the phone into my pocket. My hands moved automatically—drawer, holster, gun, clip. Check the chamber. The sound of metal sliding into place was grounding, a small mechanical rhythm I could rely on.

The electric knife lay on the counter beside the ruined dinner—don’t judge how I store my weapons. I stared at it for half a second, then grabbed it too.

He wanted me tocome home.

Fine.

It would be the last time.

I was already moving before I knew it, my boots pounding against the floor. The front door slammed behind me, the evening air hitting my face. I ran down the building’s steps two at a time, not stopping until I reached my car in the parking lot.

The car keys bit into my palm as I slid into the driver’s seat. My pulse was still hammering, but the panic had turned into something sharper—focused, burning.

It was telling that he hadn’t sent a driver.

* * *

The drive was a blur of red lights and screeching tires. My hands ached from how tight I gripped the wheel, the steering column trembling under every swerve.

Elias’s house sat at the end of a long, winding road that cut through the hills like a rotted scar.

The front gates were already open when I drove up.

That wasn’t right. Elias never left the gates open.

He liked control. He liked barriers.

Every door, every lock, every inch of that mansion was designed to make people feel trapped.

I parked crooked in the drive and didn’t bother turning off the car.

Gun in hand, I went to the front entrance. The doors were locked at least. I pounded against the frame with my fist, a little too worked up to calmly go back to the car and grab my keys.

“Open the door!” I yelled. “Open this fucking door!”

It didn’t take long for an attendant to swing the door open, wide-eyed and scared. When he saw my gun, he gasped and took a step back. I pushed past him, running through the illustrious halls, dodging shocked staff at every turn.

“Where is he?!” I stopped in the sitting room, spinning on my heel to face the poor man who’d followed me from the door. “Elias? Or a man named Wesley? He’s older, has a beard, dark hair—”

“Sir, p-please,” the attendant stuttered, his hands up in a placating motion. “Mr. Craig hasn’t been home since he left after breakfast this morning!”