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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

AMbrOSE

I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

“She’s human,” I mutter to myself that night while I stroke my cock in the shower. “She’s human. She’s human .”

But all I’m thinking about is her blood-covered cunt, her wide and fearful eyes.

I groan and shudder as cum splatters across the shower tile, then step back with my eyes closed to let the water run over me. I send my senses out to pick up on her—she’s still in the house, her body calm with sleep. I’m honestly surprised she hasn’t tried to escape, and I’m not sure what it means, exactly. If some part of her really does want to be here with me or if I frightened her enough to stay.

The fact that I hope it’s the former, even just a little, is a testament to how foolish she’s made me.

I cut the water off, get out of the shower, and towel down. The whole time I can sense her in the background, a human heartbeat pounding through the walls. It’s unnerving, truth be told. Being surrounded by humans at the Church of the Well was one thing—that was temporary, and I had a purpose. But this house is my home . I don’t bring humans here except as meat. Matthew, my delivery driver, has, up until now, been the one exception, and I don’t let him inside. He knows his place, knows he can live as long as he’s useful to me. As long as he obeys.

I learned years ago the benefits of keeping a few humans around on a long but undeniable leash. They can connect me to the human world and ensure I don’t have to worry about details. But that’s not what Mercy is.

She’s something dangerous.

I get dressed, pulling on the same shorts and tank tops I’ve been wearing. It’s abominably hot, and the house’s creaky old AC unit can barely keep the heat at bay. I ordered similar outfits for Mercy this afternoon—sleeveless tops, loose cottony shorts, a handful of sundresses. I didn’t want to see her in any more loose-fitting bags.

If I could convince her to walk around naked for me, I would.

I check on her before going back to my bedroom—she is asleep, lying on top of the covers. Max is curled up on the floor beside her bed, and he lifts his head when I come in, tail wagging.

“Good boy,” I whisper to him, and he settles his head back down on his paws. I like that he’s keeping Mercy company. I also like knowing I’m not the only fool in this house.

Roxi, of course, is waiting by my bed, just like she does every night. “You’re the smart one,” I tell her. “Not a good move, fucking around with humans.”

She tilts her head, ears perked up. I scratch her head and sit down at my desk, where I’ve got my laptop and Charlotte’s adoption files. I haven’t called her about them yet, mostly because I want to see if I can figure out who these people are. Give her a little something more to go on.

I flip the files open and stare down at the two names: Julia Medina and Johnny Dobsals. I still think there’s a good chance Julia’s the human and Johnny’s the Hunter.

Still, I type both names into Google and click around, trying to see what I can find. There’s not much, not for either of them, and it’s hard for me to focus anyway. I keep thinking about this afternoon, Mercy staring in horror at Sterling Gunner on the TV. It is a little concerning that he’s finally got the cops involved. Maybe I should have taken a page out of Sawyer’s book and tried to make it look like Mercy was dead. Because it seems obvious to me that Gunner doesn’t think she is, which puts the heat on me.

On us.

I sigh and click through to one of those people finder websites. Julia Medina’s on there—last known address in Kansas. No Johnny Dobsals, though. Or John Dobsals, for that matter.

Something shifts in the house, like lungs filling with air. Mercy’s awake.

I force myself to focus on my search, even though her being awake is distracting. Her body becomes louder. I can hear her heart echoing with mine.

“Johnny Dobsals,” I mutter, like my voice might drown her out. “Who the fuck are you?”

The floor creaks outside my door, and there’s no ignoring Mercy now. She’s lurking around in the hallway.

“You can come in here!” I call out before I can stop myself, smiling when I feel the jolt of her surprise and embarrassment. She really thought she could sneak up on me.

“Told you—” I push out of my chair and fling the bedroom door open to find her standing sheepishly in the hallway. “You can’t hide from me.”

“I wasn’t trying to.” She sounds defensive, though.

“You were trying to do something.” I cross my arms and lean in the doorway. She looks rumpled and pretty right now, her hair mussed from sleep. She almost looks the way she does after I’ve fucked her.

“I just wanted to see if you were awake,” she says darkly.

“So you can sneak out?”

Her cheeks turn red. “I don’t even have shoes.”

“You could stolen some of mine.”

Mercy toys with her hair, wrapping it around her finger. “What are you doing?” she asks, not quite meeting my eye.

I hesitate, putting out my senses. As much as I like the idea of her sniffing around for sex, I don’t think that’s why she’s here. I know what her lust tastes like, what it smells like, and I don’t sense it now.

Could it be she’s just… lonely?

“Trying to find out more about Charlotte’s parents.” I step away from the doorframe and hold out my arm, inviting her in. “I could use some company.”

Mercy peers up at me, the light from my bedroom lamp turning her eyes to stars. “So could I,” she says softly.

She steps cautiously into my room, taking it in. Max trots in behind her. Big surprise.

“So Charlotte is real?” she says dully, her gaze settling on the files and laptop, still open to my people search. “You really were trying to get the names of her birth parents?”

“Yeah, I told you. All of that was true.” I drag my office chair over and gesture for Mercy to sit down. She stares at it for a moment, then looks up at me?—

And then she sits.

“Is she like you?” Mercy studies me. “Is that how you know her?”

God, I really shouldn’t be talking about this with a human. But there are a lot of things I’ve done with Mercy that I shouldn’t have.

“She’s a Hunter, yes.” I kneel beside my chair so I’m not towering over Mercy, and I like how her eyes follow me, dark and cautious. “She was adopted and didn’t know what she was until about a year and a half ago, when she met my friend Jaxon.”

“Another Hunter,” Mercy says. “How many of there are you?”

“Not sure.” I look at the laptop screen, no results for John Dobsals emblazoned across the top. “I’d guess around seventy-five in North America. Maybe a bit more.”

“Why?” she asks. “Why would God create something like that?”

“You think God created us?” I grin at her, and her cheeks turn bright red. “I believe you called me a demon this morning.”

“You said you weren’t,” she shoots back.

It’s sweet, watching Mercy try to figure out how my people can fit into her worldview. “Well, I appreciate you believing me, then.”

Mercy doesn’t say anything, and I just sit back on my heels, waiting for her to respond. She fiddles with the hem of her shirt, twisting it around her fingers.

“You said Charlotte would be my friend,” she says suddenly.

I have to admit, this was not where I expected her to go with this conversation. “I meant that, too,” I say. “She grew up in the Church of the Well—well, some part of it in California, anyway. That’s what kept her from knowing what she was. Those little charms you people make.”

Mercy looks sideways at me. “Those are meant to protect from demons.”

“Then maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Satan did make us.” I grin wickedly at her, but she just scowls.

“Stop making fun of me.”

“I’m not.” I shift forward, moving a little closer to her. “Look, it doesn’t matter if we’re demons or not. I do think Charlotte would like you. She grew up around humans, and she has a human best friend, Edie—they’re a little older than you, but I think you’d all get along.”

“A little older?” Mercy looks at me. “Like two hundred years older?”

“Like ten.”

“Oh.” Mercy looks down at the birth files and smiles sheepishly. “Right. The files were from the ‘90s.” She studies them, her smile turning to a frown. “Why do you want to find Charlotte’s parents?”

“She needs to know more Hunters.” I nod at the files. “I thought her father would be a good place to start.”

“Just her father?”

I nod. Then I do what I know I shouldn’t, which is explain my thinking, about how Hunters don’t give their kids up for adoption—way too risky—and that I’m pretty sure this Johnny Dobsals is a fake name for a Hunter. It ought to feel wrong, spilling Hunter secrets like this, but I like how Mercy listens to me, rapt and attentive, nodding along. Once again, she’s got me torn in two.

“The name,” she says when I’m done. “You think it could be an anagram?”

“Huh.” I drag the file over to and look down at Johnny Dobsals , typed out nearly on the thirty-year-old paper. “What makes you say that?”

Mercy chews on her bottom lip, long lashes fluttering. “I used to come up with anagrams of my name,” she says. “Right after I married Reverend Gunner.” She looks down at her hands, her hair falling in her face, and I can’t stop myself from reaching over to brush it away, smoothing it over her shoulder. She glances at me, and smiles, and it makes my heart get all warm and tight. “Mercy’s not the name my parents gave me,” she says. “I was named Kayley until the Gunners took me in and renamed me. But I kept my last name, Hendricks. Mercy Gunner isn’t my legal name. ”

“Your legal name is Kayley Hendricks?”

Mercy nods. “But that was—so long ago. I barely even remember my parents. Kayley doesn’t feel like my name anymore.” She takes a deep breath, and I can feel her bravery surging up inside her, like she’s a victim about to make her final stand. “When I was little, I thought that the Gunners changing my name, that was how they claimed me, you know? So after I—” She bites her lips again, and she speaks, it’s barely in a whisper. “After I was married, I had this fantasy that I could change my name and I’d be free.”

I feel something I haven’t felt in a long, long time. Empathy. Pity. I can see Mercy scratching out fake names on a sheet of paper, tears on her cheeks, and it doesn’t do anything but make me want to pull her into my arms and kiss her, slow and sweet.

“Stupid, I know,” she whispers.

“It’s not stupid.” I take her hand, braiding her fingers through mine. She looks down at it with mild surprise. “You don’t have to change your name,” I tell her. “I’m not letting him have you again.”

With those words, my pity for Mercy disappears, and I just feel the hot flush of need to slaughter Sterling Gunner and the other one who fucked her—Sullivan. It’s a much more familiar feeling. A much more comfortable feeling.

Mercy smiles a little. “Thank you.” She hardly says it out loud.

This time, I do kiss her, rising up just enough that our lips meet. I half-expect her to pull away, but she doesn’t. She parts her lips. She lets me in.

“Come on,” I whisper against her mouth, pulling her up to stand. She comes with me, eyes shining and bright, the way they were when she still thought I was just a preacher. I guide her to the bed and lay her down, kissing her the whole time. I’m not going to fuck her.

I just want her to not be sad anymore.