At His Mercy

by Shelly Bell

  She shook her head. No, he was too controlled to do something stupid. Between Ryder and Tristan, they’d find a way to stop Morgan once and for all.

  The sound of the front door slamming startled her. Her knife slipped, slicing into the fleshy pads of her pointer and middle fingers. She felt the sting of it only seconds before the blood streamed down her fingers and onto the nuts. She dropped the knife on the floor and went to pick it up, knocking the cutting board into her. Nuts went tumbling down her shirt, spattering blood on it.

  When she looked up, Tristan stood in front of her, his face white as a ghost except for the red scratches on his cheek.

  “What happened to your face?” she asked.

  He blinked at her as if she was crazy. “What the hell happened in here?”

  Thank goodness he was home. She grabbed some paper towel and a spray bottle of cleaning fluid. “Don’t worry, I’ll clean up the mess. What happened with Morgan?”

  He stayed her with a hand to her bicep. “Jesus, Isabella. I don’t give a shit about the kitchen. You’re hurt.”

  “It’s just a couple of little cuts. Tell me what happened with Morgan.”

  “Maybe your version of little is skewed because you’re bleeding all over the damned place. Let’s get it under water,” he said, steering her to the faucet.

  “It’s fine. I just need to keep pressure on it to stem the blood flow.” She wrapped the paper towel around her fingers and held it tight. “Cutting yourself is a hazard of being a chef or a baker.”

  He stared at her—no, through her—with haunted eyes.

  Whatever had happened with Morgan, it wasn’t good.

  She laid a palm on his cheek. “Talk to me.”

  He clenched his hands. “I don’t want to talk.”

  “Then what do you want?”

  “I want to lose myself in you,” he said hoarsely. “I need you.”

  “You have me. Always. Whatever you need, it’s yours. I’m yours.”

  “Dangerous words to say to a Dominant.”

  “I mean it. I trust you.”

  He sank his fingers into her hair, tugging her head back while he suckled on that sensitive spot between her neck and shoulder. With a growl, he lifted her onto the counter. Forehead to forehead and breathing heavily, they looked into each other’s eyes.

  Her heart ached as if Tristan held it in his hands and was softly squeezing it. She wanted him more than she wanted her next breath. But it hurt so damned much. Why would something so beautiful, so wonderful, make her feel this way? It was almost as if she was grieving, the tugging sensation in her chest similar to the days following her dear grandma’s death. And yet at the same time, she couldn’t remember ever being this happy. It didn’t make sense.

  Her stomach twisted into knots, a foreboding she couldn’t ignore settling into her bones. Even with everything that they risked, she wouldn’t give up a single minute of their time together. Despite it being against the rules, what they shared was rare and precious.

  And at any moment, he could be ripped away from her.

  He pulled back, despair on his face. “Morgan—”

  Before he could say anything more, there was a knocking on the door.

  Tristan put his hands on her waist and set her on her feet. He put a finger over his lips in the universal signal to stay quiet. “Go hide in the bathroom.”

  “Why? What’s going on? You’re scaring me,” she whispered.

  “Just do it. Don’t question me,” he said, somehow able to use his don’t mess with me Dom voice while whispering.

  Heart racing, she darted into the bathroom and shut herself in. She heard the sound of Tristan opening the door to his apartment.

  “Tristan Kelley?”

  “Yes, Officer, what can I do for you?”

  Officer? As in the police?

  What were they doing here?

  “At approximately eleven fifty-five tonight, a body was discovered in the parking lot near the campus bridge. The driver’s licensed identified her as Morgan Kelley…your ex-wife.”

  * * *

  Isabella sat on the edge of the bathtub and put her head between her legs to avoid a full-blown panic attack.

  What the hell just happened? Had the police really taken Tristan to the station for questioning?

  Morgan had been murdered.

  There was no way the man she knew could intentionally kill someone, especially a woman he’d once loved. But what if he had done it accidentally? He’d acted so strangely when he came home after seeing her.

  Why hadn’t she pressed him to tell her what had happened tonight?

  What was he hiding?

  A ribbon of icy fear tightened around her chest, making it hard to breathe.

  There was no time to fall apart. Tristan needed her.

  But what should she do?

  Regulating her breathing and counting back from one hundred, she forced herself to calm down so she could make a plan. When she felt her heart return to its near normal rhythm, she got up from the tub and went to the sink, where she splashed some cold water on her face.

  As much as she wanted to, she couldn’t go to the police station. Her arrival would raise too many questions she wasn’t prepared to answer.

  But what if the police arrested Tristan?

  Depending on when Morgan was murdered, Isabella might be his alibi.

  She’d have no choice but to tell the police she was with him in his apartment tonight. Everyone would find out about her relationship with Tristan. They’d both be ruined. Even if she were allowed to stay at Edison, she’d never get into the Lancaster Business School. Her dreams would go up in smoke. Sure, she could transfer to a different school and hope they’d ignore her indiscretion and admit her into their second-rate business school, but it wouldn’t be the same.

  Still, she wasn’t selfish enough to stay silent when Tristan needed her the most. Not when his freedom could be at risk.

  She strode into the bedroom and snatched her cell phone. Whom should she call?

  There was only one person she could trust.

  Thank goodness Tristan had given her his phone number so that she could call if she had any questions about Novateur.

  Her fingers shook as she dialed and waited for him to answer.

  “Ryder McKay.”

  She opened her mouth and nothing came out but a rush of air. She swallowed, lubricating her dry throat, and tried again. “Ryder? It’s Isabella. Tristan needs you. I think he was just arrested.”

  “Arrested? Tristan? What the hell for?”

  She heard the shock in his voice and she could completely relate, because she couldn’t believe the words she was about to utter. “Murdering Morgan.”

  There was a heavy silence that went on for far too long.

  “Ryder, are you still there?” she prodded.

  “I’m only a few hours away. Don’t do anything stupid like go to the police station on his behalf. The last thing he needs is to explain why his student is there.”

  Guess that confirmed he knew she was more than Tristan’s student. “I won’t.” She closed her eyes and exhaled.

  “Thanks for calling me, Isabella. I’ll be in touch as soon as I know something.” He disconnected without saying good-bye, but considering the circumstances, she’d forgive him for his rudeness.

  She looked around the apartment. She couldn’t stay here. If the police came back to search for evidence, she didn’t want them to find her here. Finding it soothing, she cleaned up the kitchen, scrubbing the bloodstains with bleach, and tossed away the desserts she’d baked. Then she shoved everything she could find of hers in her bag, wiping any evidence of her existence in his apartment. She didn’t want to walk in the dark of night, especially knowing that a woman had been murdered, but what choice did she have?

  By the time she got back to her dorm room, her entire body was covered in sweat despite the cold temperature outside.

  She let herself in the room, careful not to make any
noise. Chances were Chloe wasn’t even there—she’d had plans with the other cast members from West Side Story—but in case Isabella was wrong, she didn’t want to wake her.

  After changing her clothes, she got under the covers of her twin bed, leaving her cell phone on her chest. Heart thumping and her hands shaking, she knew there was no way she’d ever sleep.

  She couldn’t help thinking about the way Tristan had looked when he’d gotten back from seeing Morgan tonight.

  Those scratches on his face.

  Had she done that to him?

  Were those…defensive wounds?

  Her lungs seized with terror.

  What if Tristan really had killed Morgan?

  Twenty-Five

  Two hours of questioning and Tristan thought his head was going to explode. Still in the interrogation room, waiting for the detective to return, he hung his head in his hands and rubbed his temples.

  Morgan was dead.

  Murdered.

  And he was the police’s prime suspect.

  Especially since he had those cuts on his cheek.

  When they’d asked him about it, he’d told them the truth and had allowed them to swab the scrapings as evidence.

  After, it had occurred to him he shouldn’t have given them permission without a warrant, but at the time, he was still in shock.

  Besides, he was innocent.

  That had to count for something, right?

  They hadn’t arrested him. No, they’d made it clear he could leave at any time. But they’d also made it clear leaving would only make him look guilty, throwing out that as Morgan’s ex-husband, he should want to find the real killer.

  And he did. It was terrible, but a small part of him wanted to thank the son of a bitch for it.

  He’d thought about doing it himself a thousand times.

  He’d even thought about it tonight when he’d knocked her to the ground and retrieved the photos from her purse. He’d never felt such uncontrollable rage as when he saw the photos of his private moments with a naked Isabella. Morgan had turned something beautiful and special into something sordid and deviant.

  He wanted her to pay. To suffer. To fucking disappear.

  He’d wanted her dead.

  But he wasn’t a killer.

  In the end, he’d turned and left her crumpled on the wet ground.

  There was no doubt in his mind that Morgan had pissed off more than just him. The fact was, anyone who truly knew the woman would probably want to kill her.

  But to do it in Edison?

  The cop who’d questioned him had said there hadn’t been a murder in the town since 1942.

  Tristan had played their conversation on the bridge over and over in his head. Had he missed a clue, something that might lead them to the real killer?

  A poor student had found Morgan’s body by her car. There was no sign that Morgan had brought anyone with her on the twelve-hour drive, but there must have been another person. It didn’t make any sense that someone would have followed her all the way up here to kill her.

  When the shock had worn off sometime during his police interview, he’d clammed up, refusing to say anything other than that he’d met with her on the bridge and that when he’d left, she was alive. He knew it made him look guilty. But the cops didn’t have anything other than a witness who had seen him arguing with Morgan on the bridge around eleven that night and his DNA under her fingernails. That wasn’t enough to prosecute him, was it?

  Just like they did on those television procedurals he enjoyed, they played their mind games in an attempt to break him down, offering different scenarios, hoping he’d let something slip.

  They obviously assumed he’d done it. It would make their job a hell of a lot easier if he had. He just hoped they didn’t allow their assumptions to keep them from doing their job and investigating the facts.

  They’d only brought him in as a witness. At this point, he wasn’t in police custody and therefore wasn’t entitled to an attorney. Not that he’d hire one. No, his only option was to keep his mouth shut.

  They’d find the real killer.

  He had to believe that.

  When the door to the room opened, Tristan lifted his head, expecting the detective, but reared back to see Ryder sauntering in with bloodshot eyes. Tristan ran his hand down his face and stood, wondering if he looked as tired as his friend. “Ryder. How the hell did you know I was here?”

  “Isabella called and told me.”

  Isabella.

  It had pained him to leave her hiding in the bathroom when he went with the police, but he knew if they had started questioning him there in his apartment, she would’ve made her presence known in order to protect him. And he just couldn’t allow that to happen. Not when the consequences of her exposing their affair would end in her expulsion from school. “Sorry to pull you away from the conference.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Ryder asked, his eyes flashing with rage. “You should’ve called me yourself. When the hell are you going to get over that goddamned inferiority complex of yours and start asking for help?”

  He didn’t have an inferiority complex, and he certainly didn’t need anyone else’s help. There may have been a time when he was weak and needed both Isaac and Ryder to pull him back from the brink, but those days were long over. He’d spent the last ten years proving that he could take care of himself.

  The detective in charge of the investigation returned, a cup of what Tristan assumed by the scent was coffee in his hand. “Mr. Kelley, you’re free to go. I’m sure we’ll be speaking soon, so be sure to stay in town for the time being.”

  The cop didn’t have to tell him twice.

  Tristan put on his coat. “Of course, Detective.”

  Five minutes later, he was sitting silently in the passenger seat of Ryder’s car, on his way back to his apartment.

  He should call Isabella. She had to be worried.

  She should be.

  Not for him, but for herself.

  “Now that we’re alone, tell me what happened to Morgan,” Ryder said, his voice raspy with exhaustion.

  Tristan relayed the information the police had communicated to him. “She was stabbed to death getting into her car. The police haven’t received the official report from the medical examiner yet, but based on the amount of blood around her body, the police say she most likely bled out.”

  Ryder grimaced and shuddered. “I can’t say I didn’t wish her dead a thousand times, but that’s a harsh way to go. What do the cops think? Mugging gone bad?”

  If only it were so simple. Tristan shook his head. “Credit cards and over five hundred dollars were still in her wallet.”

  “Maybe they panicked and ran off without it?” Ryder suggested.

  “The cops don’t think so.” In fact, they seemed to have already decided on a scenario. “They’re going on a crime-of-passion angle. Judging by the amount of stab wounds, the killer was likely angry at Morgan.”

  Ryder snorted. “Well, hell. Morgan could make the pope angry enough to kill her.” He paused. “What was she doing up here, Tris?”

  Tristan filled him in on what had happened on the bridge, then revealed the final nail in his coffin. “The usual. Blackmailing me. She has…had…photos of a naked Isabella and me in my apartment. I tossed them in the garbage right after I met with her. Guess I don’t have to worry about any copies now that she’s dead.” He touched his cheek. “These scratches. They’re from her. I couldn’t lie to the police. They have my DNA, and it’s going to match the skin under her fingernails. Not to mention, I was also covered in blood. They got a samples of that too.”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be telling me all this,” Ryder said.

  “Jesus, I didn’t do it,” he shouted. “The blood was Isabella’s. Came home from dealing with Morgan and found her bleeding all over my kitchen from a cut on her hand. But I couldn’t tell the police whose blood it was. I refuse to bring Isabella into this mess.”

  Ry
der blew out a breath, his gaze meeting Tristan’s. They both knew what Tristan had to do. “It won’t match then. Yeah, you had an argument with her and she scratched you, but other than that, they’ve got nothing.”

  Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose as the dark, cold reality began to set in. “I hated her and I was the last person to see her alive.”

  Ryder parked the car in front of Tristan’s apartment building and shut off the engine. “That’s not true.” He turned to Tristan. “That privilege goes to the person who killed her.”

  * * *

  Isabella groaned, turning over in her bed to escape the loud noise.

  A familiar chiming threatened to split her head wide apart, and it took her a moment to realize the noise was coming from underneath her pillow.

  She bolted awake, wincing at the sharp pain in her temples. She’d been up all night waiting for Tristan or Ryder to call her, but she must have fallen asleep sometime after daybreak.

  What time was it?

  A quick glance at her alarm clock said it was eleven a.m. She’d slept four hours.

  She snagged her phone without looking at it, expecting to hear Tristan or Ryder’s voice. “Hello?”

  “Isabella? It’s Erin. I don’t want to alarm you, but Tony’s missing.”

  She sat up, her pulse skyrocketing. “Missing?”

  “He hasn’t been seen since he left his parents’ house yesterday morning, and he isn’t answering his phone.”

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Really, she wasn’t surprised. Hadn’t she known this would happen? Prepared for it?

  Erin continued. “Now, there’s no reason to panic.”

  She laughed. The only reason she wasn’t breaking down was because of Tristan. Just knowing she had his support was enough to get her through this. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t worried. “No reason? Are you kidding me? Put yourself in my shoes and tell me if you wouldn’t panic,” she said, proud of herself for keeping her voice calm. “Has anyone called the police?”

  “No. The only reason I found out was that his parents gave me a courtesy call. They don’t believe their son is dangerous, but just in case, they thought you should know.”