by JB Salsbury
“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 he
avy 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.
Mercy
THE SUN IS just up when I peek out of our bedroom door and hear the low hum of voices from the kitchen. Esteban’s room is on the other side of the house, and he usually doesn’t show his face until well after lunchtime. I turn back to see Milo still sound asleep.
After he gave me the ring, he held me until I fell asleep. It was a peaceful, dreamless sleep—until I felt him slip away to get dressed in the closet and slide out of the room.
I dozed off to gory visions of children being hacked up for the muti. I was grateful to be woken at sunrise as Milo crept back into bed. I lay awake in his arms after he pulled me to his chest, and I watched as the sun slowly turned the sky from purple to blue, waiting for it to be light enough to go downstairs.
I tie my robe and sneak out, my socks making for a soundless escape as I move down the tiled steps. The scent of freshly baked sweet breads and corn tortillas becomes stronger as I reach the archway that leads to the kitchen.
Maria is wearing one of her many colored aprons while standing over the flat stove and flipping tortillas with her bare hand. Her dark hair is pulled back tightly, as it always is, and not for the first time, I wonder how long it is when she lets it down. If she ever lets it down.
I keep to the doorway to avoid sneaking up on her. I’ve learned my appearance can be unsettling when I show up unexpectedly. There’s also something sacred about Maria working in the kitchen. I can’t explain it, but I feel like I need to be invited in.
“Buenas dias, Maria.”
Her chocolate-brown eyes snap up from her stove, and she doesn’t seem surprised to see me. “Buenas dias, Mercy.”
“Gracias for dinner. Um . . . my cumpleaños. Thank you.”
She smiles warmly, and I hope I was clear enough for her to understand how grateful I am for the meal and dessert she prepared for Milo and me last night.
When she doesn’t say more, my gaze slides from her to the pantry door behind her. Right on cue, she turns, giving me her back. I scurry to the storeroom and slip inside, closing the door. The space smells of onions, garlic, and exotic spices. It’s mostly dark, but I find my way to the stool in the far corner. Reaching behind a large container of dry rice, I search blindly for the device, grip it between two fingers in a pincher-like hold, and
pull it out.
El Jefe has instructed that I’m not allowed to have access to computers or phones. At first I thought it was unfair, but Milo explained his father doesn’t trust anyone on sight alone, that his trust has to be earned. It seems silly to me—after all, who would I call? The police? Chris and Laura? I wasn’t kidnapped. I don’t need to be rescued. I’m here of my own free will, even if at times it feels like a grander version of the cage I grew up in.
Boredom has hit me hard these last couple weeks. With Milo busy working for his father, I’ve been left on my own in the compound. I’ve read as many magazines as I could find—which were mostly in Spanish, so I just looked at the pictures. I helped tend to some of the gardening, but Milo doesn’t like it when I’m in the sun and I hate disappointing him.
Two mornings ago, while helping Maria clean the kitchen after lunch, I noticed her nine-year-old son, Julio, playing with a touchscreen device similar to the one I’d used in Miss Murphy’s class back at Washington High. I asked about it in my broken Spanglish and Maria acted as though she couldn’t understand me, but then she slipped it into the pantry and walked away. I recognized a spark in her eyes and the way her mouth turned up at the ends. What she was really saying was the device would be kept there, but if I got caught using it, I’d be on my own.
Since that day, when I come to the kitchen early, we go through the same show where she turns her back and I slip inside the storage closet to have my time with the device.
I open up the search screen and type in those four little letters that have become my obsession.
MUTI.
Multiple links to news articles and investigations pop up on screen. Dozens of stories about different children chased down by mobs and mutilated for their body parts. Some left alive. It hurts to read the recounts, to see the images of a child’s armless body or fingerless hands, to read the stories of the parents who bury what little is left of their mutilated children under their beds to keep their remains safe because even an albino’s bones have value.
I rub my eyes and blink to focus on the words. The combination of my weak vision and the dark room against the lit screen makes my head throb, but I push on to gather as much information as I can commit to memory. The whole time, I’m wondering what this has to do with me. Searching for some kind of connection to the life I knew.