Page 102 of Built for Mercy
“How do you think he’d react if you put some of those rebels in there with him?”
He pulled back and regarded me. “Let them stew together?”
My own devious grin spread. “Exactly. A man who killed Eddie Reyes and believes in your father’s cause only to be stuck in asmall, dark room with men who still support a dead man. It’ll be Chavez’s version of hell’s waiting room.”
“God, you’re diabolic. I fucking love it.” He kissed me once but didn’t deepen it. “I fear I’ve corrupted you.” Was that remorse I heard in his voice?
My smile faded as I leveled with him. “You’ve met your match, darling.” I pushed his chest hard enough for him to take a step back so I could sashay past him.
“Where are you going?”
I winked at him over my shoulder as I slid the door open. “To shower. You can join me, or I can use one of those toys in your top drawer. Your choice, but I’m getting off either way. You sure know how to turn a girl on with talk of revenge and power plays.”
He followed me. “Only because I know what makes my queen tick.” He caught me by the waist just inside the door, hauling me back into him. His hands moved down to my thighs, fingertips teasing the hem of my slip. I sagged against him.
“Keep this up, and I might have to reconsider leaving home at all today,” I breathed out.
“Is that so?” He chuckled, the sound vibrating against my neck as he placed a possessive kiss just below my ear. “Guess I’ll have to make it worth your while then.”
“Always so generous,” I quipped, my laughter lightening the dark turn our conversation had taken. But even as we bantered, a part of me relished the thought of our enemies squirming. We were a team, united in love and retribution, and nothing—absolutely nothing—could stand in our way now.
“Always, baby,” he promised, his lips brushing mine in a tantalizing tease. “Now, not so fast, woman. We eat first, then I’ll do whatever you want me to do to you.”
***
After breakfast, a newfound, almost foreign energy coursed through my veins. Like answering my body’s needs for more than just sex renewed my confidence and made me feel fulfilled in a whole new way. It would be a lifelong struggle, but at least eating three meals a day was a step in the right direction in feeling more like myself.
Wednesday had joined us, drinking cream and eating more food than I would’ve expected a kitten to eat. But she happily licked her paws while we put the dishes away. Then she jumped off the counter and attacked her toy mice and launched herself off the furniture. Her energy made us both laugh.
With a playful sway in my hips, I sauntered down the hallway. I could feel his eyes on me, but I didn’t look back at him.
“Time’s ticking, Detective,” Maverick said nonchalantly, a note of mirth in his voice that brought a grin to my face. “The movers will be here before you know it.”
“Not a detective any more,” I called over my shoulder, thinking about the resignation email sitting in my drafts. I’d hit send once I cleared out my office.
Once in the bedroom, I slid open the top drawer of his dresser, where he stashed his collection of pleasure and pain. But as I peered in to view my options, I paused, my fingers hovering in midair. Nestled among the whips, vibrators, ropes, and other goodies, was a smattering of photographs—dozens and dozens of them, a visual story of me and my everyday life. I blinked, the images registering slowly. There I was, laughing over coffee with Callie, jogging down the streets of Newark, on dates with men who were not Maverick, drinking in a bar, sitting in my work vehicle on stakeouts, interviewing suspects… each a stolen moment from my life.
“Those are quite the collector’s items,” Maverick drawled from the doorway.
I turned towards him, a mix of bewilderment and curiosity churning within me. He filled the threshold as he casually leaned against the door frame with his arms crossed.
“I wondered when you’d find them,” he admitted.
“Tell me,” I whispered.
He pushed off from the door frame and came closer, his hands sliding into his pockets as if restraining himself. I hated it. “It was right after we met,” he started, his voice carrying an edge of vulnerability. “I couldn’t help myself; I became obsessed with capturing you—every fact, every expression, every interaction. All under the guise that I was convinced you suddenly showed up in my life to take your family’s empire back.”
My throat tightened, but not out of fear. I traced some of the photos with my fingers, lifting a few of them and seeing myself from a third person’s view. I could understand how someone could grow increasingly obsessed from afar just by seeing another person live candidly.
“I mean, you knew I had my men on you. You just didn’t know about this.”
It was an odd sense of being cherished, however twisted the method. I was careful to school my features and noted the flicker of nerves that danced behind his own stoic facade. Like he was afraid this would be the thing to send me running for the hills.
Fuck that. Not this time. Not again. I was in this for the long haul now.
“Say something. Please,” he pleaded, that mask slipping.
“I’ve always felt that what we had was an intense, raw connection. But really, obsession is a two-way street,” I said coolly, retrieving my phone from the nightstand on my side of the bed. I pulled up the familiar app, the one that had gotten a lot of use early on and then again this week as I watched his every move while I lay in a hotel room bed.