Page 73 of Heart Over Heels

Scooting back, I shifted to sit upright and cross-legged across from him. “Big event.” I fanned my hands in the air. “Game night theme. You should see the costumes. The boys are dressing up as Clue characters.”

Mercer’s mouth curved in a slow-forming smile. “Sounds fun. Why Clue?”

I snorted. “Well, when the other options were the boot from Monopoly or those multicolored peg things from Sorry!, Clue was the only thing I could make moderately sexy.”

He tapped a finger to his chin. “What about chess pieces?”

“Damn it, Mercy.” I frowned. “I don’t know a thing about chess.”

“You could’ve been the queen,” he replied.

That got me grinning. I straightened my spine, threw my shoulders back, and preened. “And that would have been fitting.” I basked in the image for a moment before slumping in defeat. “But no, I’m the maid. Forever cleaning up after a pack of rowdy man-babies.”

His laugh was low and rich, and it did dangerous things to my chest. “Well, you wanted to be a mom.”

The reminder wasn’t mocking, rather matter-of-fact, and it warmed me all the more.

“I did,” I agreed. “I do.”

For a moment, neither of us said anything, but I felt the mood turn with Mercer’s frown. “Are you concerned at all?”

“About what?”

“The club,” he replied. “After what happened to the power lines. And the liquor order.”

I blew a breath upward, fluttering my bangs. “Are you asking if I’m worried about Maslow?”

Mercer nodded. “He’s a threat.”

“He’s a piece of shit.” I huffed again. “The less consideration we give him, the better.”

“I don’t think that’s wise.”

Maslow had stolen years from me, and the last thing I wanted to give him was another thought, but Mercer was right. I’d been too busy celebrating the wraith’s departure—renovating, planning parties, and flaunting my freedom—to do anything to guard against his return.

“What did he do to you?” Mercer asked.

The question felt like a hand pressed to a bruise. I looked away, unsure how much I should share.

Mercer watched me, waiting.

He evenlookedat me nicely.

Like he cared about the words coming out of my mouth more than when he might get a chance to comeinmy mouth.

So I swallowed, worked my way around to as good a starting point as any, and did my best to explain.

I told him about being bought out of Hell, and about being so grateful to stumble back onto Earth that I would have kissed the damn ground. That was a consistent theme from all the Dollhouse boys: desperation made us fools, and Maslow cashed in on it.

I told him about paying our way with our bodies. Not just onstage or on laps, but to Maslow himself, yielding to the siphoning touch that left us weak and broke our wills.

Enduring it was awful, but it hurt worse to watch.

Colt threw himself in front of Callum only to be knocked aside. Oz rebelled until the hellhound guards pinned him down. Elliot spat and swore until one day, he stopped. Seeing him surrender cracked something inside me. Something I’d only begun to piece back together.

And then Zephyr came along, fresh-faced and innocent. I tried to shield him from the fear and futility to which the rest of us had grown accustomed, but he found a more capable protector.

“I’m glad Becky’s around now,” I said, the words jagged. “I’m glad Zephyr convinced him to help us. He did in two months what I’d been trying to do for five years.”