Mercy
Growing up, I’d had a mean old neighbor with a mean old dog who liked to chase little
kids when they passed in front of their home. His bark was vicious—all snarly and slobbery
and loud. I had nightmares about that dog for years. We’d all ke ep our distance because
he scared the shit out of us. But until I was twelve, we’d never known him to actually bite
anyone.
Connor was there that day—my parents still allowed him to visit me as long as they
weren’t around. Given that I was smack in the middle of my softball obsession, he was
helping me with my batting stance. I’d already worked up a bit of sweat, and he went into
the house to get us a drink.
So I waited, adjusting my feet, ke eping my elbow at the correct angle and swinging
that bat like I was about to win a gold medal.
A little girl down the street was taking her brand-new bike for its inaugural ride, the
paint job purple and pink, with white streamers coming out the handlebars, and when I
saw it, I was wild with jealousy, the bat slowly falling to my side as she floated down the
street, a big smile on her face. It must have been the streamers that distracted her from
her proximity to the forbidden front yard, because she got a bit too close, and for the first
time, that dog crossed the threshold of the property, darting into the street with his teeth
bared and his hackles raised.
He went straight for her furiously pumping legs, and I’d never forget the sound of her
terrified scream as she pitched forward off her bike with his jaws tight around her shoe.
Another kid might have run scared. And if I thought about it now, maybe I should have
too. Should have called for my brother and let him handle it.
But I didn’t.
Before I knew what I was doing, I had that bat in my hand and charged across the
street with a yell channeling Buffy the Vampire Slayer. More than anything, I wanted to be
her. Wanted to be strong and save the world and have perfect hair and instill fear in
anyone who dared cross me.
That dog raised his head, took one look at me, and fucking ran.
I didn’t even have to hit him, but with the screaming adrenaline going through my
veins, I would have. Kinda wanted to, actually. No matter how much we think we’ll react
one way or another, there’s no predicting whether our nervous system will kick into fight,
flight, or the dreaded freeze.
As a gangly, slightly feral preteen, I could face down a rabid asshole of a dog without
blinking. But shift me into adulthood and show me a beautiful home that was allegedly
mine?
Frozen as fuck.
I sat in that car for fifteen minutes, then another fifteen, studying each and every stone
that made up the timeless facade. I wanted it to be cold and uptight, the way I’d always
viewed Grant, but it wasn’t.
It was perfect.
God, I hoped it was ugly and pretentious and fussy on the inside, because the
alternative was terrifying.
Grant gave me time, and somehow that made it even worse. He’d already brought my
bags inside and was now waiting patiently in one of the two stained Adirondacks flanking
the door.
He wasn’t watching me. Wasn’t staring through the windshield like he could will me to
movement with only the power of his piercing gray eyes and sublime bone structure. He
answered three phone calls while I sat in the car. More texts than I could count. What a
busy man he was. And now, as he held a leather-bound journal in his lap and his
undoubtedly expensive pen flew across the pages, Grant seemed entirely unbothered. And
maybe he was.
Questions—no matter how much they intimidated me, no matter how tightly they
caused the panic to spiral in my gut—would not be suppressed much longer. But neither
could I pry the answers from his non-holey brain. They were locked away, no matter how
badly I wished it otherwise.
Where was the girl who’d taken her bat and charged a violent dog? Instead of a
fictional warrior with shiny hair and a quick wit, I wanted to channel myself.
Burst through the door and demand answers. All of them. Force him to flood me with
information because I needed to know.
But what if those answers rocked me even further than I’d already been rocked? I
could feel the cre eping need to rip the car keys from Grant, leave tire tracks in the very
nice driveway, and travel across town to the place that felt like home. With the black door
and the dented red siding and the small kitchen that smelled like garlic.
I’d always had such a strong sense of what defined me. The foundation of Mercy
Kincaid was unshakable.
The girl with the bat would be horrified at what she was seeing now. I was shaken. And
I was scared.
My hands clenched into fists as I counted the stones on the columns that held up that
inviting front porch.
There was something inherently discomforting about the shame I felt for hiding this
way. It was a pulsing, writhing presence in the car with me.
You’re pathetic.
When did you become weak, Mercy?
Can’t handle it?
Maybe you don’t deserve to know what you’re missing.
“Fuck off,” I whispered firmly.
Like he’d heard me, Grant’s face turned in my direction, and for the first time since
he’d left the vehicle and its sex seats, his eyes locked with mine. The increase of my heart
rate meant nothing outside this strange situation. Meant nothing about him—the holder of
all the knowledge I needed. A perfectly dressed executioner, just waiting for me to join
him on the platform of my own demise.
I blew out a harsh breath and yanked on the car door’s shiny handle, treating it more
roughly than it deserved. As I got out of the car with my chin raised, Grant unfolded his
tall, lean frame, face unreadable as I marched up the curved brick path toward the front
porch.
“I’m no fucking coward,” I said.
If he chose to comment on my thirty-minute freak-out in the car, I’d know that his
sense of self-preservation was flimsy.
“Trust me, Kincaid, I am more certain of that than just about anything else.”
My jaw tightened.
He held his hand toward the front door—warm and inviting, with a beautiful
old-fashioned door knocker mounted in the center. “Shall we?”
I paused, eyeing him. Honest to God, where did he buy his clothes? I’d never seen a
man wear a shirt that fit so perfectly. It was so much more irritating than it had any right
to be. “If I freak out, don’t . . . don’t take it personally.”
The slightest glint of humor lit his eyes and disappeared a moment later. “Rest
assured, my monstrous ego would never allow it.”
I crossed my arms and scoffed—a sound that came a bit too close to a shocked laugh,
for my taste. “If you’re going to throw my previous words back in my face, this house tour
is off to a rocky start, Hastings.”
“It’s how we operate best, my dear.”
“That, I believe.”
“You’ll find that you can believe everything I say to you.”
It wasn’t the way he said it—his voice was as smooth and cultured as always. But the
eye contact was brutal. The distance between us was less than a foot, close enough that it
was impossible to breathe without filling my lungs with sandalwood and something else,
and close enough that the look in his eye was impossible to ignore.
He meant it.
He meant every fucking word.
I pinched my eyes shut and fought the torrential swarm of nerves that rose in the wake
of what he’d said so easily.
Can I, though? I wanted to ask. I wasn’t sure that I could. Not only because it would
require the kind of trust I’d only ever put in one person, but because it would be so easy to
lie to me. I had no choice but to take his words at face value.
“Let’s do this,” I said, opening my eyes again, ke eping them trained on the door instead
of him. As he reached out to open the door for me, I held up my hand. “Wait.”
He glanced back, brow raised in question.
“There’s not, like, giant wedding pictures framed on the wall and I’m going to walk in
to see myself dressed in some puffy monstrosity with Live, Laugh, Love painted above the
frames?”
“That’s what you’re most afraid of?”
“Most is subjective, because my list is incredibly long at the moment. There are no less
than eighteen things currently fighting for the top spot. Plus, I’ve always had a healthy
amount of vanity.” I chewed on my bottom lip and studied his expression—not that I got
much from it. “Was the dress puffy?”
His lips twitched. “No.”
“Okay.” My eyes found his again. “No Living, Laughing, Loving?”
“Nowhere to be found.”
“That’s comforting.”
“You’re stalling.”
I arched an eyebrow, ruthlessly ignoring the way that the back-andforth between us—a
glimpse into the way it used to be—unlocked some of the pressure in my chest. “Open the
door, Hastings.”
“After you, Kincaid.”
Chivalry was not dead, at least not in the Kincaid-Hastings house, because even though
I was perfectly capable of opening that door myself, Grant did the honors, setting his hand
on my lower back, and, with the heat of his palm se eping through the soft material of my
shirt, gave a gentle nudge.
There was a moment—pure madness was the only explanation— where I wanted to
reach back and clutch his hand, just to have something to hold on to.
But the emptiness didn’t go away, not even when I had to look around and make peace
with the fact that the inside of the house, unfortunately, was just as beautiful as the
outside.
The rooms were big. The furniture welcoming. High-end touches in the art framed on
the walls and the herringbone pattern of the floor. Much like the man at my side, it looked
expensive. Refined. Elegant.
I’d been holding my breath that I’d walk in and see something precisely to my own
taste—colorful materials and eclectic artwork, bookshelves stuffed to groaning. It wasn’t
that. Not exactly. But it wasn’t his either—the cold, sleek, and modern vibe from his
penthouse when he’d lived closer to Detroit after he and Connor graduated.
It was something different from both of those things.
The ceilings were tall, the walls and trim painted a creamy white still warm enough to
be inviting. There was a sitting room to the left, with a fuzzy rug underneath leather chairs
and a wide circular table holding a stack of books that I recognized. Facing the door was a
brick fir eplace that was clearly original to the house, but the age of the stone didn’t
detract from the rest of the updates.
Beyond the fir eplace was a more formal living room, where a wallmounted TV framed
like artwork faced a long couch in a de ep navy color, so dark it was almost black, which
was flanked by high-backed armchairs in camel-colored leather. A thick, soft blanket was
draped over the arm of the couch, pillows in varying shades of white and ivory adorning
the cushions.
When I was ten, I used to stuff pillowcases with my clothes just to add more softness to
my little bed in my little room. They were lumpy and uncomfortable and exactly what I
needed at the time.
In my stunned trance, I wandered over to the couch and idly ran my fingers over the
first pillow I could reach. “I picked these, didn’t I?”
“I learned quite early on that if you don’t have at least three extra pillows for
movie-watching or sle ep, there will be dire consequences.” He cleared his throat. “It was a
battle I conceded quickly.”
I ran a shaky hand over my hair and wandered past the family room, turning a corner
to the dining area, which led into a massive kitchen. The dining table, long and
rectangular with carved pedestal legs, could fit ten. We must always host Thanksgiving
and Christmas, with a table like this. Giant turkey in the middle, waiting to be carved, the
kind you’d see in commercials. Candles flickering among more dishes than anyone could
eat.
A hungry girl used to dream about meals like that. A full table of people who loved each
other. Laughter. Talking. Games. Food.
Love.
I’d spent my first Christmas Day after Connor died sitting on my couch with the ripped
arm, watching The Grinch with a plate of leftovers that Rae had sent me home with on
Christmas Eve.
The far wall was a big stretch of windows overlooking the backyard, which boasted
more trees. More perfectly manicured lands caping. My eyes narrowed slightly at the back
corner of the property, which was bigger than I’d assumed from the front of the house. A
thatched roof, de ep-green siding, two little windows on either side of a charming antique
door caught my gaze.
“Is that a greenhouse?”
Grant joined me at the edge of the dining room. The heat from his body made me damn
near sway in his direction, so I k ept my knees fucking locked. “Yours,” he said.
My head snapped toward him. “What?”
“Believe it or not, you’ve developed quite a passion for gardening. You find it
soothing.”
“Oh God,” I moaned. “I pull weeds for fun? How much worse can this get?”
Grant didn’t answer, merely tucked his hands into his pants pockets and rocked back
on the heels of his leather shoes.
I could hardly catalog all the stunning details of this place I called home. It was like
someone had pried into the recesses of my brain—the parts that were still accessible—and
torn a page from young Mercy’s scrapbook of impossible dreams. Pictures clipped from
catalogs and magazines and glued to the pages. I rubbed my fingers together like I could
still feel the residue from the glue stick.
Because amid the designer finishes, I saw glimpses of me. The pillows. The color of the
couch, and the curved arms I’d always wanted. On the dining room wall, a collage of
massive prints by Yayoi Kusama, one of my favorite artists. I walked closer, breath
catching in my lungs as I touched the edge of the frame—something I’d had a postcard of
in college, pinned to my dorm room corkboard because that little postcard was the only
fucking way I could afford something of hers at the time.
“You let me put these up?” I asked, and fuck, I hated the tremble in my voice too.
“Let is a rather weak word for the badgering I took when I tried to insert my opinion on
the art in this house.”
I glanced sideways. “You called them garish when I said she was my favorite.”
“That wasn’t very friendly of me.” Grant’s gaze stayed on mine just long enough that
the hair on my arms lifted with goose bumps. “Maybe you could allow that opinions, no
matter how long held, have the ability to change.”
I tore my gaze away from his and willed my thundering heart to calm while I stared at
the vibrant red mosaic print closest to me. Not the wisest choice, maybe. Red was the
color of passion. Ravenous appetite. And anger.
All those things existed in a different universe from where I resided with Grant, and
they needed to fucking stay that way.
“Bedrooms?” I asked, fixing my expression into something Grant-like. Very I don’t care
and nothing bothers me because I’m Teflon Man.
His gaze traced over my face, narrowing a touch before he tilted his head toward a
hallway. “Three that way. The primary bedroom and our offices. Downstairs, there are two
guest rooms, two bathrooms, and a gym.”
I pursed my lips. “A gym. That’s . . . a choice that I’d never make for myself, but okay.”
He opened his mouth to say something, and I jammed my finger right into his firm, muscly
chest. “If you say that I’ve developed a taste for working out in the last year,” I said,
mimicking his posh accent, “I will punch you in the throat.”
“First, that’s not how I sound. And two, no, you haven’t. You’ve threatened to remove it
from the house on no less than five occasions.” He raised an eyebrow. “Six, now that I
think about it.”
“Well, at least I’m consistent.” I crossed my arms tight over my chest and stared down
the hallway. “Which door is the bedroom?”
When he answered, his voice was lower than normal. “Last door on the right.”
The thought of wandering into a bedroom that was ours made my pulse fucking
scream, so I took a de ep breath through my nose and channeled Girl with the Bat.
“I’d like to look on my own.”
His jaw tightened. “Of course.”
The offices only received a brief glance, and it wasn’t difficult to tell whose was whose.
Grant’s was neat as a pin, hardly anything adorning his desk exc ept a small stack of
papers, his laptop, and a potted succulent in the corner of the desk. Mine, on the other
hand, was the first room I’d seen painted a different color. Everything in here was moody
and dark and lush. The walls had been painted a de ep green, the ceiling papered with a
seamlessly r epeating design of vines and flowers and trees with big green leaves. The
reading chair tucked against the wall of books was a soft white color, made from a
material that would make a fluffy little kitten rot with jealousy. It was filled with pillows in
the same off-white shade.
Tempted to sign over my soul to nap in that exact spot, I started wondering whether
this entire experience was some Faustian deal with the devil.
All you have to do is marry this man, and I’ll give you everything you want.
The bedroom was last, and when I pushed the door open, I could practically feel
Grant’s eyes searing into my back. Like the rest of the house, the style of the room was
unfamiliar. But not unwelcome.
A king-size bed dominated the center of the room, skinny windows on either side of its
massive upholstered headboard, and a slider door led out onto a deck with two wicker
chaise lounges. The bed was made up in varying shades of blue and, with the layered
quilts and big pillows, looked like the softest, most inviting bed I’d ever seen.
There was art on these walls, too, restful and romantic. Softer than the pieces in the
rest of the house. Watercolors of green meadows and blue skies and peachy-pink sunsets.
The stained nightstands held more clues, small items on each that spoke to a shared bed,
and as I walked closer, my heart bowed uncomfortably in my chest at the sight of the one
that must have been mine. I picked up a small jewelry dish that I’d received from one of
my students in my first year of teaching, pressing my thumb into the center of the
imperfect bowl he’d painted blue and green.
Behind it, a framed picture of me and Connor, from his college graduation.
He was wearing his gown, and I stood in front of him with his cap tilted crookedly on
the top of my head. His big hands were on my shoulders, and we smiled identical smiles
straight to the camera.
Grant had been the one to snap the picture.
My ribs threatened to turn inside out at the sight of my brother’s smile. I pressed them
back, shoving everything uncomfortable into the dark corners of my mind. Sometime in
the last year, I’d found the strength to ke ep pictures of my brother out in plain view. Good
for fucking Mercy, but I wasn’t that girl. Not yet.
His face, his smile, was death by a thousand cuts, and I opened the top drawer of the
nightstand with my free hand and shoved the picture inside. It hurt. It hurt so badly to see
his face.
I wanted to go home. My home.
My things. My postcard on a corkboard and the hand-me-down couch from Rae with
the rip on the left arm that I covered with a blanket.
My bed. The one that was smaller than this and dipped in the middle.
I wanted my brother to come give me a hug and sing me show tunes and pour me a
glass of wine and tell me this would all be okay.
But he wouldn’t, because he was gone.
I screwed my eyes shut, setting the jewelry dish down with a loud clatter and walking
away from the nightstand before I dropped the reins on my emotions. My shoulder
bumped against a doorframe, and I opened my eyes, finding myself in an obscenely large
walk-in closet.
“What the fuck?” I whispered.
My wardrobe, much like everything else in my life, was virtually unrecognizable. Nicer
fabrics. Cleaner cuts. Yes, there were still Michigan hoodies galore, and a healthy section
of T-shirts, but my fingers trailed over dresses and jackets I’d never seen. So, so many of
them. Not cheap stuff either. I plucked a hanger off the rod and held out the sheath dress
in a rich wine color with a de
Ep V in the back. Simple. Stunning. And when I saw the tag
still attached, I felt positively ill.
There was no way I could look at Grant’s clothes, which dominated the other half of the
room.
Before I knew it, I was on the floor, my knees tucked to my chest and my breath
coming in short, choppy pants. I couldn’t feel my hands. Or my feet. Someone was
pressing their full body weight onto my chest, making it almost impossible to breathe.
That’s how Grant found me.
“Breathe.” He rubbed his hand up and down my back. “Tell me something you see.”
I pried my eyes open and focused on the first thing I could. It didn’t help, because all I
could see was red soles.
“Really pretty shoes,” I wailed miserably. “Are those mine too?”
“Yes.”
“Shit.” I dropped my head to my folded arms and took a few de ep, gulping breaths.
“This is so embarrassing. Who has a panic attack over clothes?”
“I’d venture a guess it’s about more than that.”
“It’s still stupid.”
He clucked his tongue. “Nonsense. You’ve dealt with plenty in your life, Kincaid, but
none quite so big as this.”
I raised my head, even though it felt big and fuzzy as the bracing wave of anxiety
passed.
“Can I ask you something?”
His lips flattened, his brow furrowed. “I don’t know, maybe you should rest—”
“One thing,” I whispered. “Just one . . .”
Grant exhaled. “Just one thing.”
I licked my lips, thinking about everything I’d seen. The concrete facts that I couldn’t
ignore any longer. And the one question that was burning a hole in my chest.
“Did we marry for love?”
Grant’s face went slack with shock, but he recovered quickly, blinking the expression
away before I could study it further. He was on his knees next to me, and his hand
dropped from my back as the thick line of his throat moved on a swallow.
With his hand back on his own person, resting on top of his thigh, Grant finally sank
back and let out a ragged exhale. He stared at the floor for a long moment, the silence in
the closet pulling between us until the air was tight and uncomfortable.
His eyes locked on mine, and before he uttered a single syllable, my stomach pitched
inside out.
“No, love had nothing to do with it.”
“Then . . . why? Why did we get married?”
Again, Grant didn’t answer right away, his gaze unwavering.
“Money.”