Page 61 of Built for Mercy

The thought caught in my throat, dangerous, unspoken. It wouldn’t take much before I fell—

No.

I shoved it down before I could even think about finishing that sentence.

28

Sophie

Imust be going crazy.

Maverick was so protective, so affectionate toward me. Worried about my well-being, vying after my heart by trying to understand the depths of my pain.

But if I was going crazy, then he was, too. Because it was evident in every touch, kiss, and word from him that he wanted this as much as I did.

Opening the door to his penthouse, I glanced around. I felt the same way about it as I did the first time I came in here—too sleek, too perfect, as though no one actuallylivedin it. The sharp lines of modern furniture, the tidy countertops, the floor-to-ceiling windows that let in a city view but no warmth. Cool-toned millennial-gray walls, character-less modern art. Everything was designed to impress, not to feel like home.

Standing in the middle of the open layout, I turned in circles, wondering if this felt like a home to him. I shouldn’t have beenas concerned as I was about him so early on. But I was. I fucking was. Because if he was as all in as me—and there was no if about it—then he was probably just as neurotic, too. And it just made me want him more.

I whirled on my heel and left, locking up and heading right back out into the world. If I sat inside, my thoughts would spiral again, and I’d start to feel guilty for eating such a big meal with Maverick. His words had comforted me and slowed the panic, but those feelings weren’t gone completely. I would probably always struggle with my body dysmorphia and anorexia nervosa.

What I’d told Maverick hadn’t been completely true. I had gone to a doctor before. Not by choice; I’d collapsed in the middle of a concert when I was eighteen, and not from being dehydrated. The doctor had lectured me about my low blood sugar and shoved a feeding tube down my throat. I spent days in the hospital, which was followed by severe hair loss and a flighty appetite, and stomach cramps like you wouldn’t believe.

That was the worst it had gotten. The doctor gave a diagnosis, handed me some pamphlets to help, and recommended I seek therapy. But I was ashamed, and I didn’t want anyone to know the position I’d put myself in. Just how dangerous it really was.

After my dad died, I was in a dark place for a long time. I still hadn’t completely recovered. Being bullied the way I had only made losing him worse. I no longer had anyone to hide behind; I was an easy target with my powerful father out of the way. My rose-colored world had black ink spilled across it from his death, and there was no avoiding the darkness that invaded my mind, my very existence.

Once the weight came off, I could never seem to feel like I was thin enough. I constantly felt like if I wasn’t thinner, I wasn’tworthy.Wasn’t worthy of love, or happiness, or desire, or somebody wantingme.After all, the only time people were niceto me in school was after I had lost the weight. No one wanted anything to do with me before that.

I carried those feelings well into adulthood, not having anyone to completely confide in to take care of me. Callie was the closest thing I had, but even she didn’t know how deep this sick disease ran. I couldn’t tell my mom; she’d be ashamed of me, and I didn’t want to see the disappointment in her eyes.

But for the first time in my whole life… Maverick made me feelsafe.Andbeautiful.Not even Dean could bring me those feelings; yes, he said I was beautiful all the time, but what we had were very superficial, lust-filled, heart-eyed, puppy emotions. He was too pure and couldn’t handle the void that lived inside of me.

I strolled through Target, feeling out of place and disassociated from myself, until I spotted fluffy blankets in the home section and remembered why I was here.

I wanted to leave a part of me in Maverick’s home, for the nights I wasn’t there. And to bring some life to his space—without incorporating color. Because he and I? We shared the same blackness in our souls.

Like calls to like and all that shit,as he once said. A saying that seemed to fit and had become our mantra.

The memory brought a smile to my lips as I put a plush, black blanket in my basket, followed by a gray sherpa one and a black-and-charcoal checkered one. Then I found myself in the candle section. I stood there for way too long, lifting the lids and smelling the candles, debating how to make his penthouse feel more like a home without making it too girly.

Because as much as I loved the smell of pecan waffles, I got the sense that Maverick would only enjoy therealsmell of that. I moved on until I settled on one called “Snuggly Sweater,” which was the perfect blend of flowers, vanilla, and musk. Forgood measure, I also grabbed a cypress-and-juniper candle and a cedarwood candle that reminded me of him.

Too much time later, I walked out of the store with several bags full of blankets, candles, fruit, whipped cream, and a bottle of lavender aromatherapy mist meant to make his bed smell like something other than expensive cologne and sex. I didn’t need any of it—Maverick had luxury at his fingertips and people to handle the details.

But maybe that’s why I bought it all.

Because it wasn’t about what heneeded. It was about leaving something behind. Small, tangible pieces of me woven into his space—blankets that smelled like me, candles that would make his space soft and warm instead of cold and clinical, sheets that carried the scent of lavender long after I was gone. Maybe it was stupid and reckless, but I didn’t care.

Maybe it was the feeling of being safe in Maverick’s arms, criminal or not, getting to my head but something had shifted. I wasn’t just falling for him—I was letting myself. And if this was a mistake, I’d deal with it later. Because right now? I wanted to wrap myself in it. In him.

And I wanted him to do the same.

***

I busied myself for the next few hours by grocery shopping. Spent some time laying out the blankets in a cozy way across his living room furniture; one across the back of the sectional, another draped over the armchair, and the third one rolled up and put in a black basket I’d found at Target.

Candles were lit on the dining room table, breakfast bar, and coffee table in the living room, and the lights were dimmed except in the kitchen, where I worked diligently on my mother’sareparecipe, something I’d perfected years ago. It kept myhands busy and my mind distracted from any lingering intrusive thoughts, until I heard the click of the front door unlocking.