Page 110 of Cold Mercy

He doesn’t hesitate for a single second.

“Then I’m going with you,” he says simply. “Whether you like it or not.”

He says it with such certainty it makes me nauseous. I don’t even bother explaining that he’s insane, because the bitterness bubbling inside me wins.

“I never wanted you to change,” I say, stepping back. “I never asked you to be a different man. Not when you pushed me away in the worst moment of my fucking life. Not when you made me feel like trash. I will never forgive what you said, not now, never.”

He actually looks stunned, like he thought an apology could erase the crater he left in my chest.

But instead of backing off, he leans in just enough that his breath brushes my ear.

“I'll make you forgive me. I’ll show you how much I care.”

And then he turns toward the bathroom, leaving me standing in the middle of the room with my pulse racing like I’m running through a burning building.

I want to scream, break something, or cry, even though I swore I wouldn’t too many times.

CHAPTER 28

THOMAS

The thought of leaving with her, running before the truth catches up, could give me one clean shot at a life I’ve never been allowed to want. Maybe distance will bury the ghosts Grace raised, maybe a different continent will give me a chance to be with her. I keep trying to convince myself of that. Trying to pretend I’m not the biggest fucking idiot alive. But last night…

The moment I saw the scars on her ribs, everything inside me split open. I know what it means to run from the monsters in your own head. I know how pain can become a language, how every mark can hold a memory you’d give anything to erase. Seeing hers felt like staring at a mirror I’ve spent my whole life avoiding.

I threw her heart back at her feet the moment she handed it to me, and watching her shatter should’ve been the wake-up call I needed. Instead, I let her walk away bleeding while I drowned myself in every excuse I could think of.

For the last three months, she was the only thing my mind kept returning to, no matter where I was or what I did.

When I ate, I imagined her sitting across from me, carefully separating her food into neat little piles, her mouth set in that focused line she got when she thought no one was watching. I could already see her ruin the system halfway through and pretend it was intentional.

More often than not, that image was the only reason I bothered to finish the meal at all.

When I worked, when I wore another role and answered to another name, I still saw her beside me in my head, close enough to lean in. Close enough to disarm me with that sharp, knowing smile of hers.

And when I slept, it wasn’t for rest. It was for the fragile hope that she might appear in my dreams, even briefly, just long enough to remind me what it felt like to be with her.

Seeing her now…I don’t care anymore. About Grace, about the damn badge or anything that used to define me.

I’m done letting someone decide how much of myself I’m allowed to feel.

Grace had the obedient agent for years. The perfect soldier, the perfect liar, the perfect machine. But feelings stopped being a weakness the second Sophia Moreau walked into my life. She made me want something real, something that wasn’t built out of undercover files and empty apartments and promises that never were mine.

I left Sophia because the weight of my own deception was beginning to feel like a noose. Before, I didn't realize what would happen if she really chose me, if she reciprocated my feelings. I was putting off the inevitable, still wanting to live forever illusion that somehow it would work out. But the moment I saw something in her eyes that night in her bedroom, I realized that she was giving me her all, and I wasn't even giving her half of mine. So I ran away, like a fucking coward. I preferred to submit to another mission before facing it all.

If Grace thinks she still owns me, she’s about to learn how wrong she is. I’ll tear apart the entire city if I have to. I’ll find something, anything, to make her back the hell off. Then I’ll show Sophia exactly how much she means to me.

Not with words, apologies, but with actions. With goddamn proof. With every last thing, I should have given her the moment she asked me to choose her.

Because I do choose her. I always did. I was just too fucked up to admit it.

Trying isn’t enough, hoping or wanting isn't fucking enough. I have to fight for her, and I will fight everyone and everything.

Last night, when I came back from the shower to sleep on the floor she’d made up for me, she was already out cold. And somehow, despite the hardwood digging into my spine, it was the best sleep I’ve had in months.

I slept like a damn kid because she was in the same room. Not beside me or touching me, but close, and close was enough.

I wake before sunrise, quietly pushing myself up so I don’t wake her. She’s curled on her side, hair spilling over her cheek, the early light catching the soft rise and fall of her breathing. She looks nothing like the firecracker who told me to go fuck myself a few hours ago. She looks peaceful, and I want to protect that version of her more than anything.