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CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

MERCY

I sob into the duct tape, my eyes sticky with my tears. I keep expecting to run out of them somehow, like I’ll sob so much that all the moisture will leach out of my body. But of course that doesn’t happen. I keep weeping.

Tires scrape against asphalt. I’m in the back seat of Ambrose’s ancient sedan, still bound in duct tape and wrapped up in the blanket from the cabin. Static-laced country music plays softly in the background. Max is curled up next to me, his body warm and soft and comforting. I don’t understand it.

I’m not going to hurt you , Ambrose keeps saying, but he already has.

He’s the demon that tormented my home. He’s the killer.

I’m so, so stupid.

I close my eyes. My weeping is mostly silent now, just an endless river of tears and an all-encompassing web of despair that wraps around me like a blanket. Ambrose hasn’t said anything since he got in his car and started driving. I don’t even know how he got off the compound without anyone seeing. He never stopped and talked to anyone. Just laid me in the back seat, got behind the wheel, and drove away .

This is what you wanted, some small, vicious voice whispers in the back of my head. You wanted to abandon Reverend Gunner. Now the devil’s stolen you away .

The devil also stopped Deacon Price, another thought I can’t bear to consider.

I let out a soft sob against the duct tape, my body shuddering. Max lifts his head and whines a little. Then he licks my face. I shouldn’t trust Ambrose’s dog, should I? But I think Max is the only thing keeping me from losing my mind.

“Is she okay back there?” It’s the first thing Ambrose has said since we left the Church of the Well.

Max barks once.

“Good.”

I lay still, holding my breath. I feel like a little girl hiding from a monster. If Ambrose doesn’t hear me, he’ll forget I’m here.

“I’m taking you west,” he says, shattering the illusion. He sounds exactly as he did before I knew what he was, his voice low and rough with that reassuring Texas twang. “Got a place out in the flatlands. It’s nice. You’ll like it.”

“Take me home!” I scream into the duct tape, although it doesn’t sound anything like that. But somehow, Ambrose seems to understand.

“Yeah, I can’t do that,” he says. “Can’t risk you telling them what I am.”

I scream in frustration, kicking my legs out. Max whines and nudges at me, but I roll away from him, trying to flip onto my other side. I can’t, though. The back seat is too narrow.

“We’ll be there in about an hour,” Ambrose says. “Just try to relax.”

My vision floods with tears, and I slump against the seat, my tears wet and choking.

“You’re completely safe,” he says, as if he hasn’t carved my heart out a million times over.

My eyes flutter open to dusty, hazy sunlight. There are a few seconds where all I feel is a vague stir of confusion— How did I oversleep? I never oversleep —and then the memories of last night come slamming through me.

I jerk up to sitting, shocked when I realize my hands aren’t bound. Neither are my feet. I’m also in a bed, the blankets tucked around me. I’m still naked, through.

Terror courses through my chest, and I scramble up to standing, dragging the blanket up to cover my nudity. I’m in a small, tidy bedroom, the furniture dated but clean. There are thin curtains across the windows and a chest of drawers in the corner, my dress lying across the top.

I scurry over and grab the dress and slide it back on, along with my underwear. I’m not sure how to feel about it, that Ambrose—if that’s even his name—left my clothes for me. I don’t see my shoes, though.

I have to get out of here.

I go to the window first, shoving the curtains aside to get a look outside. All I see is pale, fluttering grass rolling out from the house and a few twists of mesquite trees. I try to open the window, but it only slides up about four inches before it jams. Hot, dry wind blows across my face.

I whirl around and eye the door. He didn’t leave me bound and gagged, but he’s still a psychopath. A monster.

And suddenly I’m thinking about what he did to Deacon Price, slamming his head against the floor while blood splattered up against the wall. I keep hearing the sound of it, crunching and wet, and my stomach lurches, bile rising up in my throat. I swallow it back down.

Don’t fucking touch her.

Ambrose’s voice swirls around in my head. More images come flooding in: The way he chanted Don’t touch her while he brutalized Deacon Price. The way he broke down the door to get at me. Max running up to lick my hand when he was done. He’s the reason I even knew you were in trouble.

I suck down a deep lungful of air, my whole body trembling. I stare at the doorknob. I know it’s locked. Ambrose is a murderer?—

But is he the murderer? Did he kill Raul? Burl?

I sit down on the bed, my whole body vibrating. Of course he’s the murderer. Who else would it be? I saw what he was capable of. I watched those hands that brought me so much pleasure rip the life out of another human being.

My stomach lurches again, and this time I can’t stop my sickness. I lean over and retch across the floor. When I’m done, I stare up at the door again, tears streaming out of my eyes, my mouth burning.

I have to try it. I know it’s going to be locked, but I have to try it.

Moving in a panic, I surge forward, yanking hard on the knob.

It turns.

I’m so shocked that I release it and stumble back. The door swings open, revealing a dim hallway outside.

I jerk back, frozen with a new fear. This is a trap. A test.

But there’s nothing even close to a weapon in my room. Why would there be? And it’s not like I can fight against Ambrose, anyway. I know firsthand how strong he is. How easily he can pin me down and overpower me.

How easily he could kill a grown man barehanded just for touching me.

I sniffle back tears and take a hesitant step toward the doorway, straining for any sounds in the house—footsteps, breathing, anything. But nothing waits for me on the other side. Just a dim hallway, the walls covered in a faded floral wallpaper from the ‘70s .

I creep out, shaking so badly I can barely walk. The house is quiet save for the persistent hum of an air conditioner. My room is at one end of a hallway; at the other are two entranceways, both glowing with dim sunlight.

Something moves in one of the rooms.

I scream and bolt forward, my fear calcifying into a need for survival. But I don’t get far, because a dark shape leaps out of one of the bedrooms and slams me up against the wall. I scream until I realize it’s a dog—it’s Max, actually, and he’s not attacking me. He’s licking my face.

“Let me go!” I sob, trying to push him away. He whines and wags his tail, wanting to play. I scramble out from under him?—

And run straight into Ambrose’s strong, unyielding chest.

“You don’t need to do that,” he says softly.

I scream again and try to jerk away from him. He’s faster than me, and stronger, and he grabs both of my arms and pulls me up to him, never letting go even as I screech and thrash against his grip.

“Let me go!” I scream. “Let me go, you devil!”

“Can’t do that,” he says softly. “But I told you I’m not going to hurt you, and I meant it.”

He drags me into a living room filled with the same old-fashioned furniture as the bedroom. A couple of ancient recliners. A velour sofa. Bookshelves covered in dust. Thick curtains that block out most of the sun.

“Sit,” he tells me, forcing me down on the sofa. I do, lifting my gaze to take him in.

He towers over me, looking nothing like a preacher. He wears a tight white tank top and cut-off black sweatpants. Faded tattoos crawl over his biceps and shoulders, a melange of shapes that bleed together into smoke. I let this man inside me and I didn’t know he has tattoos because he was always completely covered up. A wolf in sheep’s clothing .

“You’re not a preacher,” I whisper, the first thing I think to say even though it’s stupid.

Ambrose stares at me for a long moment, his eyes black as pitch. Why didn’t I see that before?

“No,” he says. Then: “Not anymore.”

We stare at each other. My breaths come out shuddery and ragged and I keep waiting for him to grab me by the neck the way he did Deacon Price and slam my head against the wooden floorboards.

“Is your name really Ambrose?”

He tilts his head, frowning. I don’t expect him to answer.

“Yes,” he says. “Actually, it is.”

Then he crouches down in front of me, putting us closer to eye level. I jerk away on instinct, twisting my hands up in my skirt. Ambrose keeps drinking me in. It reminds me too much of our first night together. I had been afraid then, too, but for different reasons. It never even occurred to me he could be what he is.

“Why?” I whisper.

“You’re gonna need to be more specific.”

For some reason, that sends a new wave of fear shooting through me. I press myself against the back of the couch, eyes darting around. Ambrose shakes his head.

“Don’t try to escape,” he says. “I’m faster than you. Stronger than you. I can sense things you can’t. I have every advantage over you.”

I choke back tears. Choke back at my fear. “Why?” I scream it this time, and he sighs, pushes one of his hands through his hair. His tattoos ripple across his muscles.

“I’m the fucking boogeyman,” he says.

I stare at him in disbelief—because of all the ways he could answer, that’s what he goes with?

His face is as handsome as it was the first time I saw him, but now I recognize the darkness lurking there. I see the devil in his sharp features. A devil that dragged me to hell with him.

“You killed Raul, didn’t you?”

It’s not until the question is out, hanging in the air between us, that I hope the answer is no. But Ambrose flicks his gaze away from me, and I know it was too much to hope for. Blood pounds through my head, and I drop my mouth open and wail, a long toneless sound I barely recognize as coming from me. Ambrose says nothing. Does nothing. Just watches me, his eyes glittering.

Max clicks into the living room, hops on the sofa beside me, puts his head on my lap. I want to push him away, but I’m too afraid. I’m too afraid to do anything but cover my face and wail out my terror.

Ambrose lets me.

I sob into my hands, trembling and shaking. When I finally lift my gaze, Ambrose is still there, watching me with a predator’s gaze.

“Why me?” I whisper. “Why did you do this to me?”

Ambrose sighs a little, his shoulders hitching. “I didn’t—” He drops his gaze to Max. “What I am. Why I did this. It’s complicated.” He lifts his gaze to meet mine. “You probably won’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me,” I snarl.

Ambrose rises to his feet, his eyes never leaving mine. “You wouldn’t,” he says, more firmly. “Which is why I’m going to show you instead.”

Fear surges through me again, and Ambrose sniffs the air, his eyes burning the way they did when we were in the bunker together. I press my thighs together, hating that my body floods with a sudden flare of lust.

He’s a killer. He killed Raul.

“I’m fond of you,” he says roughly. “Which is as unsettling for me as it is for you. ”

I curl into myself, sinking my hand into Max’s fur for support. Ambrose’s cut-off sweatpants don’t leave much to the imagination, and I can see the outline of his erection, which sends another wave of black lust surging through me.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he says, walking over to the dusty bookshelf. “Don’t want to kill you.”

He picks something up. I shiver, digging my fingers into Max’s fur. Max nudges at me with his wet nose, but I don’t dare take my eyes off Ambrose’s lean, muscular back.

When he turns around, he’s holding an enormous hunting knife. I stifle a scream.

“I’m not going to kill you,” he says calmly. “But I’ve got to show you I’m not human.”

Then he shoves the knife into his belly and drags it sideways, splitting himself open.