Three months ago
Mercy
ONE YEAR AGO, I never would’ve believed that one day I’d be this girl.
With the front of my T-shirt filled with a few dozen tiny limónes and my fingers fragrant with the scent of fresh picked citrus, I imagine I feel no different than any other twenty-year-old girl. In the privacy of my mind, I pretend I’m picking fruit from my own trees outside of a house I grew up in. I pretend I’m living in a town where people know my name at the grocery store and it’s perfectly safe to walk around at night.
I grasp another pale fruit and it falls to the ground. “Toro, no!”
The gray dog runs with the fruit tucked safely in his jowls.
“I’m not going to chase you.”
He turns back, tail wagging.
“Go on! Take it, but you’re not going to like it.”
He runs again only to stop and turn back in another attempt to entice me to play. I shake my head and try to grab a few more fruit before having to hunt down the basket I left near the orange trees.
Men at the front guard shack bark something in Spanish before the heavy metal gate screeches as it opens. Toro takes off, the fruit he stole left slobbery and forgotten on the dirt. I head to the edge of the tree line as some of the other property dogs come out from behind the main house to chase the car.
I can’t see much from this distance, but from the shape and color of the car, I recognize it as one of Esteban’s. I clench the fabric of my shirt and step closer, hoping to catch a glimpse of who’s behind the wheel.
The vehicle stops near the front door rather than taking the road to the underground garage where the cars are usually kept. Hope bubbles up in my chest, and my feet carry me closer. A man gets out of the passenger side. He’s too short to be Esteban. Sancho maybe? My feet slow. I don’t know the man well, but the few times I’ve seen him in passing, I haven’t liked the way he looks at me. Maybe it’s the way Milo always tucks me under his arm or casually steps in front of me when Sancho’s around that has me conditioned to think he’s not a good guy.
Whatever it is, if Sancho is with Esteban or any of his other men, I’d rather go back to being blissfully lost in the orchard.
I squint as the driver’s side door opens. Even from a distance, without being able to see the details of his face, I know it’s Milo—his tall body, broad shoulders, and his blue baseball cap identify him. My lips part to call to him, but he’s already circled the hood of the car and jogging toward me.
My feet move quickly to meet him halfway, and as he gets closer, his smile comes into focus.
“Milo, you’re home!”
Home. Not the right word, but the closest to what we have here, although sometimes it feels more like a prison. Those ungrateful thoughts dissolve as his arms wrap around me. He’s warm and smells of laundry detergent, his deodorant, and a hint of smoke. I press my cheek against his chest and breathe him in.
“Mi alma,” he says, his big hands rubbing circles on my back.
“I wasn’t sure I’d see you until tomorrow.” My voice cracks. I hate that I sound so needy and dependent on him when he has no choice in how often he works. However, the truth is, I am needy and dependent on him.
“Are you kidding?” He pulls back enough to grip my face, and he tilts his head to avoid hitting me with the bill of his cap as he presses his warm, full lips to mine. “You think I’d miss your birthday?”
My chest fills with warmth that spreads to my cheeks. “It’s not technically my birthday.”
He kisses me again. And again. The last one he makes deeper, using his tongue to coax the strength from my legs until I sway into him. He chuckles and holds me upright.
“It’s been one year since you were found at the border.” His jaw gets hard as it always does when he speaks of the way I was found. “Your ID says today is your birthday, so today we celebrate.” He grins, and his eyes light with excitement.
“Apúrate!”
Milo’s excitement dies and his expression turns hard at the sound of Sancho’s voice.
“Esteban está esperando!”
Milo turns to Sancho, keeping me behind him, and spews something in Spanish that sounds like a threat. I can’t see the man’s face, but I hear his feet stomp through the dirt, up the stairs, and into the house. Milo’s shoulders rise and fall with two exaggerated breaths before he turns back around to face me.
“What did he say?” I tilt to the side, spilling limónes from my shirt to peer around Milo’s body to make sure Sancho isn’t listening.
“Nothing important.” At my questioning glance, he continues. “We just have to update Esteban on some stuff.” He presses a quick kiss to my forehead. “Let me help you with these before I go in.”
“You don’t have to.”
He pulls up the hem of his shirt and I try not to stare. His jeans hang low on his trim hips. Muscles he always had are now bigger and more defined under his dark skin and frame a small line of dark hair that disappears behind the button of his jeans.
“Mercy,” he whispers with an edge to his voice I’ve become used to, “you’re killin’ me.”
“Oh, um . . . here.” I dump the fruit into his shirt. I’m afraid to look at him out of fear that he’ll see how badly I want him.
“That’s not what I meant.”
I blink at him, and our gazes tangle in a few heavy beats of unbridled want. My lips part, and when he steps forward, I crash into his chest only to stumble back from the few dozen limónes that sit between us.
“You’re excited for tonight too, huh?”
I nod. A lot.
He chuckles and motions with a jerk of his chin to head back to the tree line. “Come on. Let’s get you out of the sun.” He smiles, watching me, as we walk back to the orchard. “How long have you been out here?”
“I don’t know.”
His smile falls. “You ‘bout done? You’re red.”
I shrug. “I like it out here. Maria said to bring some fruit when I came back. She didn’t say how much.”
He hums as if to say he hears me, but something tells me he’s got more to say.
“No one is making me work. I want to help. I go crazy being inside. The walls, the confinement, the loneliness.” A shiver skates up my spine as memories from the past assault me.
“I get that.” He spots my basket at the base of an orange tree and squats to dump in his shirt-full of fruit. A few roll away, so he grabs them before lifting the basket and standing. “It’s just . . . if you’re gonna be out here, you need sunblock and a hat. Didn’t Maria get you some the last time she was in town?”
I turn away, pretending to look for Toro, so that he won’t see me roll my eyes. “I spent my life being afraid of the sun.” I turn back to him. “I do have sunblock on. A little exposure won’t kill me.”
He flinches, and I wish I could take back the words. I expect him to lash out, but his expression softens. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I just worry, and since I’m not here all the time . . .”
It’s only then I realize I’m frowning.
“Right, well, we have all the time in the world to talk about shit that sucks, but today we’re only talking about you.” He tucks the basket under one arm and pulls me close. “And how much I love you.”
“I love you too.”
“You’re gonna love me more”—he hooks me around the waist and guides me toward the house—“once you see what I got you for your birthday.”
“Presents?” My chest explodes with nervous excitement. “I’ve never been given presents before.”
“Get used to it.” He kisses my temple, and his lips linger there. “Because I plan to spoil you for a very, very long time.”
Does he pretend too? In his head, are we living a normal life? Not two people hiding from the threat of the albino-mutilating muti?
When our feet hit the steps to the house, so does the seriousness of our reality. There’s no telling what the future holds for us. Will I be stuck living behind the protective walls of this compound forever?
Milo brings the basket of fruit to Maria and mumbles something in Spanish.
“Lo siento.” She bows and backs out of the room. “Lo siento.”
As soon as she’s gone, I whirl toward Milo. “Why is she saying sorry?”
He kisses the tip of my nose. “It’s nothing.”
“Milo—”
“Mi alma.” His gaze settles on mine. “Please.” He slides his fingers through my hair and holds me at my nape. His thumb makes a few lazy passes along my cheekbone. A soft, barely-there touch. “Relax and let me take care of you, okay?”
“I don’t want her to think I mind helping out.”
“Emilio!”
I jump at the sound of Esteban’s voice, but Milo doesn’t even flinch. His gaze stays fixed to mine, and although his jaw tics, he smiles.
“I’ll see you tonight, okay, birthday girl?”
“Okay.”
He presses one more kiss to my lips and ushers me to the stairs. I had planned to go back outside, but something about the firm set of his jaw makes me think he wants me in our room where he knows I’ll be safe.
Only when I’m finally up the stairs does he turn and go to Esteban.
Milo
IF I CLOSE my eyes as I face the ocean, I can pretend Mercy and I are on a different coast. Florida, maybe. Or even Hawaii. Not that I’d know what either of those places are like, but I can imagine.
The cool breeze coming off the water this time of night carries the scent of salt and sea life—similar to Los Angeles beaches, but without the pollution of thousands of people. Yeah, if I try hard enough, I can pretend to escape the life of Emilio Vega, son of a drug-smuggling, arms-dealing thug, and just be Milo.
The sound of the patio doors opening behind me brings a smile to my face, but I remain staring out toward the water.
“Okay,” Mercy says, her voice soft and light, like a distant bell. “You can look now.”
I turn around and lean back against the patio railing. My hands brace on the intricate wrought-iron to keep from grabbing her and tossing her on our bed.
“I . . .” My voice cracks as if I’m fifteen years old, so I clear my throat and try again, but the words still don’t come easily. “Wow. You . . .” There isn’t a descriptor in the English language that would do justice to the way Mercy looks. “Mi tesoro.”
She smooths her pale hands against the silken fabric at her stomach. The simple navy lingerie would look average on another woman, but on Mercy, it’s phenomenal. “Tesoro?” Her white brows pinch in confusion.
I erase the distance between us in a couple long strides and walk her back with my body so I can shut us inside our bedroom.
“Yes. It means my treasure.” I grasp her hips and pull her close. “Valuable, hidden, and only mine.”
Her cheeks tinge pink, but she doesn’t hide her eyes. She keeps them locked on mine.
“Do you like it?” I slip my finger beneath the delicate spaghetti strap and slide it off her shoulder to pepper kisses on her flawless, colorless skin.
She tilts her head, and a soft sigh falls from her lips. “I love it. Thank you for my birthday present.”
“It’s only one. There are more to come.”
A giggle rumbles in her throat when I lower her to the bed. I check her expression for nervousness but only see blessed anticipation.
Pulling my T-shirt up and over my head, I put a knee on the bed and crawl over her. Her gaze fixes on the tattoo on my neck seconds before her fingertips follow suit. Her touch sends goose bumps racing down my arms like it always does. Mercy has managed to turn my neck into an erogenous zone, and her attention to it never fails to fire my blood.
“You didn’t have to buy me gifts.” Her fingers make another pass before sifting up into my hair. “I would’ve been happy just to have you.”
Her nails rake along my scalp, and I bend to press my hungry lips against hers. “Can’t give you something you already own, mi alma.” Her mouth tastes of tres leches from the cake Maria prepared—sweet, creamy, and rich. “Besides”—I look down her body, all that soft, white skin in stark contrast to the lush blue silk—“seeing you in this feels more like a gift to me than you.”
I drink in her soft smile and nuzzle her neck, kissing along her jawline to her lips. It’s been days since we’ve been able to be close like this. Esteban has me out most nights, and by the time I get back, Mercy is asleep.
Sex between us ended up being exactly what I thought it would be. A connection of souls, an act of love that surpasses any emotion I’ve felt for any of the other women I’d been with. Our first time together happened the night we moved in. With our abrupt escape from Los Angeles, we’d both been desperate to feel something other than the worry and guilt of leaving our old lives and family behind. We went slow. I made sure to keep her as comfortable as I possibly could, and in the end, it was the most erotic experience of my life.
She fumbles with the button on my jeans, and I still her busy fingers with my free hand. “Easy there, birthday girl.” I bring her knuckles to my lips. “This is your second present.”
I run my lips down her neck and between her breasts, where I hover to feel her racing pulse against my tongue. I close my eyes and absorb her racing heartbeats, soaking in the knowledge that she’s safe and alive and in my arms. A quiet hum drifts from her lips, and her knees fall open to cradle my weight between her thighs.
I kiss down her body, lost in the gentle scent of her skin. It’s changed somehow since we’ve been together. The innocence she wore like a coat has been shed for the life of a woman in hiding. A woman who’s seen more in her twenty years of life than she should have. On the outside, she’s a fragile porcelain doll, but I’ve come to know Mercy’s ferocious inner strength. Her ability to adapt and thrive.
“You’re so beautiful,” I whisper while sliding her navy lace panties down her long legs.
Her chest rises and falls with heated breath, and her fists bunch the bed sheets. I pop the button of my jeans and slide them off my hips, grateful I’m barefoot so I can easily kick them to the floor.
We spent the evening in our room, and Maria brought us a birthday dinner fit for royalty—fresh lobster, scallops, rice, and vegetables. We toasted with sparkling water and laughed at stories Mercy told about the pit bull she’s practically adopted. She’s named him Toro for the way his ears point and his squat muscular stature that makes him look like a bull. Dinner was casual, relaxed, and the perfect way to celebrate and connect after nearly a week of hardly seeing each other. Nothing makes me forget the life I’m forced to live like giving myself over to the woman I’ve fallen in love with.
After sliding on protection, I fall between Mercy’s legs and her heels lock behind my thighs. I groan and drop my forehead into her neck. “Love it when you do that.”
Her answer is a long scrape with her short nails up my back, and it’s all the permission I need to slowly sink inside her.
I push up on my elbows at her sharp intake of breath. “You okay? Too much?”
She shakes her head and chases my lips, where she whispers, “Never too much.”
Our tongues slide together, and I swallow the soft whimper from her lips. I’ve never felt worthy of Mercy, not before and especially not now. The stink of criminal hangs like fog on my body, and I hate exposing that to a woman as pure and beautiful as she is. No matter how many times I tell myself I’m doing what has to be done, that I don’t have a better option, it doesn’t alleviate the guilt of what I’ve become.
Thankfully, I’ve managed to keep Mercy from the worst of it. She knows enough to understand I work for Esteban now, and that free room and board comes with being at his beck-and-fucking-call. What she doesn’t know is what I’m forced to do when I leave the estate every night. And that, I will take to the grave.
“Milo . . .”
I gentle my movements, frame her face with my hands, and kiss her. “Yeah?”
“I . . .” Her lips part. Not one to miss a perfect opportunity, I slide my tongue inside. She sucks it greedily, which punches my hips forward. “Yes.”
My stomach muscles coil, and tingling slides down my spine to pool and intensify between my legs. Her teeth latch onto my lower lip, her silent way of asking for more. She wants the race to the finish; I want the marathon, the slow deliberate drawn-out experience I wish I could have every night.
I bury my face in the crook of her neck and think of how close I was to losing her, how close I was to never having this experience with the woman I love. I would have lost her forever if I hadn’t called in help from the Saints. Would she even be alive?
A low growl forms in the back of my throat. She must like it, because she claws at my ass and wiggles to keep up my deep, penetrating pace. Her breathing gets more labored, and her thighs clench around my hips. Stars threaten the backs of my eyelids, but I fight them off.
With the first hitch of her breath, her heel presses hard just below my ass. Her back arches off the bed. Her lips part and she calls my name in a way that ignites every cell in my body.
“I love you.” I slip my hand up her body and palm her throat. “You’re mine, mi alma.”
She nods and presses her cheek into the pillow, exposing her throat to me. The simple act of opening up such a vulnerable part of her body has possession roaring through me.
My skin tingles. The tension between my hips grows unbearable as I try again to push back my release. I push up on my palms and watch Mercy blink at me with breathless need. Her fingers slip into my hair, and she pulls my lips to hers.
I climb higher. Pull tighter. Then snap.
I pinch my eyes closed and groan into her mouth. She eagerly swallows my muffled cries of release until my lips go numb. My vision is blurry as I gently move between Mercy’s legs, milking the last of our orgasms until my muscles give out and I drop to her chest.
“Whoa.” I roll my eyes at my own stupidity. “I mean, that was . . .” I blow out a breath and struggle to find the right word in my post-orgasm brain fog.
“I know.” She wraps me in her arms and legs as we catch our breath.
When I sense her struggling to inhale, I roll off her and pull her to my chest, making sure to grab the sheets to cover her as I go.
“I like the way you do birthdays.”
I drop a kiss to her head and linger a second too long to breathe in the scent of her shampoo. “We’re only getting started.”
She tilts her chin up and grins. “It’s already the best birthday I’ve ever had.”
“It’s the only birthday you’ve ever had.”
“True.”
“I know you have nothing to compare it to, but don’t worry, I plan to raise the bar every year.” I tap her hip, and she rolls away just enough for me to get up. “Be right back.”
I head to the bathroom to clean up and to grab her next gift, my pulse a heavy hammer in my throat.
Mercy
FOR AS MANY times as I’ve wondered what it would feel like to float on the clouds, I never imagined I’d gain that sensation lying flat on my back in bed.
I no longer have to imagine I’m using my wings to soar through the sky because being loved by Milo so completely makes me feel as though I’m soaring.
He leaves the bathroom door open, and I hear the flushing of the toilet and the faucet running. I open my eyes at the sound of his heavy footsteps.
“You’re not falling asleep on me, are you, mi alma?”
He’s wearing a pair of loose-fitting shorts, the kind he works out and sleeps in. I gather the sheets to my chest and turn to face him as he sits at the edge of the bed.
“No.” I hate sleeping. That’s when my mind is left alone to take me to terrifying places, but I don’t tell Milo that. “I was just enjoying the floating feeling I get after we’re together like that.”
The corner of his mouth tilts up in the sweetest way. “Yeah, I get it too. Pretty cool, huh?” He pulls something out of the top drawer of his bedside table. “It’s ‘cause we’re making love, ya know? It’s not just sex with us.”
When he turns back to me, a lock of his black hair falls over his forehead. I move to push it off his face—any excuse to run my hands through his silky black hair—when he holds up a small fuzzy black box with a red bow on top.
The floating feeling from earlier dissolves with an onslaught of butterflies. “For me?”
He raises his brows in a way that softens the harsher lines of his face into something boy-like and playful. “Is there someone else in this room accepting birthday presents tonight?”
I push to sit up and lean my back against the carved wooden headboard.
I stare at the box until he shoves it toward me. “Go on, take it.”
It’s light, small enough to fit in my palm, and it feels soft like the velvet chairs in the dining room downstairs. I pull the red ribbon off the top then crack the lid open and—
Blink.
And blink again.
I open my mouth to speak but can’t find the right words, so I close it again.
“Did I fuck up?” His voice is soft, almost wounded. “Shit. I’m sorry.” He reaches for the box. “I should’ve—”
“No.” I cradle the box to my breast and run my finger over the shining gold within. “It’s . . . perfect.”
“Are you sure?” He rubs the back of his neck nervously. “Because I can take it back.”
“No!”
He chuckles and his shoulders seem to release some of their tension. “Okay. Phew. Good.”
I stare back down at the . . .”What is it?”
“Oh, um . . .” He plucks the object from the box and takes my left hand.
Now that it’s free from its confines, I see it’s a ring. My cheeks warm. Of course it’s a ring. “I’ve never owned jewelry before,” I mumble by way of explanation.
“I figured.” He slides the ring on my finger. “I wasn’t sure about the . . . about—”
“The wings.” I stare at the shining golden wings that catch the light and warm my heart as they wrap around my finger. “They’re beautiful.”
“I wanted you to have this ring because although you’re no longer Angel to the world, you’re always going to be an angel to me. I know you believe you’re a normal girl with abnormal skin, but, Mercy.” He brings my hands to his lips and kisses my knuckles, his brown eyes shining with love and acceptance. “You’re so much more. Not the Angel of your past, but I will always see you as so much more.”
The heat of tears burns my eyes. How could I mean so much to someone when I do nothing for him? I’m the reason he left his brothers, his home. He walked away from everything he knew because of me, and I’ve done nothing in return. I try not to think too hard on all the ways I’m failing Milo.
I throw my arms around his neck. “Thank you. I love it. I love you.” I don’t deserve you.
He holds me tightly for a few quiet seconds before he pulls back. “There’s one more thing.”
“More presents?”
“No, just . . .” He takes my hand with the ring and rubs the golden feathers with the pad of his thumb. “When I bought this ring, I was shopping for something a little more . . . permanent.” He peeks up at me through his thick, dark lashes. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, I know we’re young and we have time to figure it all out later, but I plan to replace this ring eventually.”
I frown. “Why? It’s perfect.”
“I want to replace it with a wedding ring.” He smiles softly. “My wedding ring.”
Those butterflies from earlier kick up again and swarm in my chest. “Are you . . .”
“Proposing?” His thumb rubs the golden wings on my finger. “Yeah. I guess I am. When we’re able to finally get out of here and go to wherever it is we decide to start our lives together, I want to do it as your husband.”
“I want that too.”
“Really?” His eyebrows pop high on his forehead, and I almost laugh at his surprise. “So that’s a yes?”
My heart wants to scream my answer, my soul bursting with more happiness than I ever thought possible, but I bite my lips together instead. “Hmm . . . maybe I should think about—”
He pounces, taking my body easily over his as he lies on his back.
“Okay, okay!” I giggle as he tickles my ribs. “Yes! My answer is yes.”
“That’s the right answer.” His expression grows serious. “Forever. You and me. Not a single thing on earth will ever come between us.”
I press a kiss to his lips. “Never.”
I hope he’s right. I fear he isn’t.