Page 7

Chapter 6

Merci

Two days.

Two fucking days.

Not that I’m keeping track or anything. That would suggest I’m clinging to some semblance of sanity, which . . . . yeah, no. Sanity clocked out around hour six when I pissed myself because King Dickhead McAsshole didn’t even bother to leave me a bucket.

It's not like I would've been able to use it anyway. My fucking hands are bound behind my back.

But the humiliation of pissing myself in some warehouse in the middle of Nope-ville? It’s a new low, and I've had some pretty fucking low moments.

Like that first night on the streets. Fifteen years old, scared shitless, with nothing but a backpack and whatever cash I could grab before bolting. The Amtrak to Chicago seemed like a good idea at the time. Figured it was far enough away that no one would look for me there .

I learned real quick that a pretty face and a tight ass would keep me fed. First time I ever got fucked for money was behind a 7-Eleven. The guy paid extra because I was a virgin.

Still, even this literal brink-of-murder plot is better than what my bio dad used to do. Goosebumps break out along my skin, the hairs on my nape standing up at the memory of the fucking chest freezer in the basement.

At being locked in, screaming until my throat was raw, until my nails broke off from scratching at the sides. Can’t remember when it started, but I know he’d been throwing me in there since I was six. That time, spaghetti fell off my fork and landed on my shirt, the sauce leaving a stain.

He'd left me for hours in darkness, the cold metal pressing in from all sides.

Don’t go there. Not now.

I roll my neck, taking in the current space. At least it’s big—small favors and all that shit. Even if I’m probably going to die here.

My stomach growls. Not that I’m hungry. My body’s just protesting out of habit. I’ve gone without food before, spent days rationing saltines and wondering how the hell I’d make rent.

That year on the streets after I ran away? Pure survival mode. Chicago winters are a special kind of brutal .

St. Louis was where things finally started to look up. I found work at a strip club and learned the pole. The owner taught me tricks, showed me how to work the crowd. It was the first time I felt . . . powerful.

In control.

He also taught me about Viagra. Turns out even twinky little me can fake my way through fucking women when the rent’s due. By the time I hit California, I was already numb to it all.

Raiyne calls it hustler resilience . I call it whatever gets me through the day.

My throat tightens, and before I can stop it, tears prick the corners of my eyes at the thought of his name. "Fucking traitorous snake."

The one friend I made since I ran away—or what I thought was friendship—down the fucking drain. Met him in California when I was eighteen. He got me onto the Obsidian Rabbit circuit, showed me the ropes, and taught me how to demand higher prices and how to stay safe.

I cannot believe the motherfucker sold me out.

The door creaks open, yanking me out of my spiral. My head snaps up, and I brace myself for another round of whatever fucked-up game Zach's playing.

But instead of his cold, dead eyes, I'm met with a sharp gaze that could cut glass.

A blonde woman walks in with the kind of confidence that screams don’t fuck with me—shoulders back, chin up, tailored coat flowing behind her like she stepped out of some high-fashion dystopia. She walks on her red heels with the grace of a predator. Bet she could push those things through someone’s neck.

She stops a few feet away, her piercing blue eyes zeroing in on me like I’m a particularly interesting bug under a microscope. “So, this is what my son has been up to.”

“Who the fuck is your son?” My voice comes out hoarse, probably from dehydration.

But she doesn’t have to answer. The only other prick who’s been here besides my stepbrother is the one in the nun mask. The one who tenderly touches Zach.

My jaw clenches.

Ugh, why does it bother me so much? Even the fact that Raiyne’s gotten with Zach doesn’t affect me the same way. Maybe because I’ve fucked around with the redhead too?

I wish I could bang my head against the concrete, knock some sense into myself because I’m seriously getting jealous over some prick who touched the fucking psychopath who wants to murder me.

The woman moves closer. Her predatory walk makes me want to crawl out of my skin. "Who are you? "

"Just some stripper your kid's friend decided to kidnap." I shrug, trying to ignore how my heart's racing. "You know, normal Tuesday stuff."

"Try again." She crouches to my level in her designer pants probably worth more than everything I own. Her eyes narrow as they rake over my face. “You look familiar. What’s your name?”

“Merci.”

Her eyes go wide, and she blinks. “Merci? Merci Laurent? As in Evelyn’s son?”

The mention of my mom's name hits like a punch to the gut. "Y-you know my mom?"

"We're friends." She straightens, pulling a phone from her pocket and swiping the screen. "She's been looking for you."

My chest tightens. "Is she . . . is she okay?"

“Quiet.” She puts the phone to her ear, tapping her foot impatiently as it rings. “Evelyn, I’m heading over. I have a surprise for you.”

An unfamiliar warmth blooms in my chest, my bottom lip trembling. She called my mom. She actually called my—

Every muscle in my body tenses.

I haven’t seen her in five years. Haven’t spoken to her. Haven’t been her son.

And when my mom finds out what I’ve done to survive . . . tears gather in the corners of my eyes. I shake my head, taking a shuddering breath.

The woman tucks it back into her pocket. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Like I’m going somewhere. Did she not see I’m chained to the fucking floor like a dog?

The woman returns a minute later with . . . bolt cutters. And while I’m nervous as fuck about seeing my mom, I can’t help the smile spreading.

Guess Zach’s murder plan is going down the drain.

“I’m Mrs. Novotny, by the way.” Once the chain is cut from my collar, she uses a knife and cuts the zip ties from my wrists. “Let’s get you home.”

My legs are shaky as I try to stand. “Anything you can do about this thing?” I pull on the metal collar around my neck.

She nods. “This way.”

I follow her to a room near the entrance of the warehouse. She makes quick work of the lock, and the collar drops. While I should be happy, part of me misses the sensation. I have a thing for collars. Not that I’ve ever met someone who’s wanted to collar me outside of occasional scenes.

“You smell like urine. ”

“Well, your son and my stepbrother kinda left me here tied up and without a bucket.”

"Those boys are in so much trouble." Mrs. Novotny walks to a closet and returns with sweatpants and a sweatshirt. There’s a #1 on the sleeves.

My brow quirks, and I hesitantly take them. Better than staying in my own piss. But then again. . . “Are these your son’s?”

She crosses her arms and glares at me. “Do you really want to see your mother for the first time looking like a stripper?”

I groan. “Fine. Can I have some privacy?”

She rolls her eyes, then walks out, closing the office door. I quickly change, wishing I could shower. At least this fucktard’s clothes will smell when I return them . . . and no way in hell am I washing them after what he did.

I step out of the office once I’m dressed. The clothes make me look like a little kid trying on his father’s attire.

Mrs. Novotny looks up from her phone and turns on her heels. “This way.”

I follow her out, then get into her Bentayga. Nothing like being back on Long Island. All high-end cars and houses. The North Shore elite.

The drive is quiet at first. I keep fidgeting with the hem of the sweatshirt before finally addressing Mrs. Novotny. “You never answered my question. Is my mom okay? ”

“No.” There's a bitterness to her tone. “How could she be when her child ran off?”

I look down at my hands as I fidget with the hem of the sleeves. Fuck. After what happened with Zach. . . "I just wanted her to have a good life. Without my issues. Without me fucking everything up."

“No mother is whole without their child. Especially when they don't know if they’re safe.”

I sink farther into the seat and stare out the window, trying to blink away the tears gathering. Fuck Zach for finding me. And fuck Raiyne for snitching.

We pull up to the Knight’s mansion, and my heart races. Five years. Five fucking years since I've been here.

I can't move. Can't breathe. “I can't—”

“Yes, you can.” Mrs. Novotny gets out of the car, walks to my side, opens the door, and holds out her hand. “Come on.”

I take it and step from the SUV, my legs unsteady.

The walk to the front door is agonizing. Each step is harder than the last. But Mrs. Novotny keeps her hand in mine, guiding me forward.

The door opens before I can even knock, and there she is.

My mom.

She looks . . . older. Tired. Her eyes, though—they're the same. Warm. Kind. Full of love .

"Hi, Mom."

She makes a sound—half sob, half laugh—then wraps her arms around me, squeezing me close, and I break. Full-on, snot-dripping, ugly crying.

God, I missed her. Missed her hugs and her laugh and just . . . everything.

Maybe running away wasn't the answer. Maybe it just caused more pain, more problems.

As I hold onto my mom, I can't help but think about Zach.

He’s not going to let this go.

I just hope I live long enough to make him regret finding me.