Page 81 of Cold Mercy

When we reach the pastry shop on the corner, I stop. “Wait here a second, please.”

She frowns, tilting her head. “What? Why?”

“Just wait,” I say, already backing toward the door. “Please, just don't run away.”

I duck inside, my eyes scanning the display case until I find exactly what I need. I place the order quickly, but as I'm waiting for the box, I glance out the window, and my stomach drops. Sophia isn't waiting. She's staring across the street, her body rigid, her gaze locked on something, or someone in the distance. And then she moves, a frantic, stumbling jog toward the curb.

“Shit.” I snatch the bag from the counter without waiting for change and sprint out the door.

“Sophia! Hey! Sophia!”

I catch up to her just as she steps off the curb, grabbing her arm and spinning her around. Her eyes are wide, glassy with panic, her chest heaving as if she's been running for miles. She looks at me, disoriented, terrified.

“Fuck,” she gasps, her voice trembling. “It's you.”

I don't think. I pull her into my chest immediately, my hand cradling the back of her head, pressing her face into my jacket while my lips brush the top of her hair. “I've got you,” I murmur, holding her tight. “What happened? Talk to me.”

She’s still breathing fast, clinging to the lapels of my jacket like I’m the only solid thing left in the world. And as I stand there on a busy street corner, holding a shaking woman in my arms, a strange realization hits me.

It turns out Thomas Collins loves hugs. From one specific woman.

After a long moment, she pulls back slightly, wiping at her eyes. “I saw him,” she whispers, pointing a shaking finger across the street. “I could have sworn I saw him. Noah. He was standing right there, looking at me with such... contempt.”

I pull her back in, tighter this time. “Hey. It was just a trick of the light. You're safe, I'm right here.”

She pulls back again, scrubbing at a tear that escaped, and lets out a wet, shaky laugh. “God, I'm crazy, aren't I?”

I reach out, cupping her face with one hand, forcing her to look at me. “No. No, don't say that. Never say that.”

She takes a breath, clearly trying to change the subject, her eyes darting to the bag in my hand. “What's in there?”

I smile, linking my arm through hers. “This, princess, is a caramel cake. Did you know you don't need a birthday or a wedding to buy a whole cake?”

She blinks, confused. “But...why? There's no occasion.”

“The occasion,” I say simply, “is that you love caramel.”

Her face softens, a genuine smile breaking through the fear, but I can see another tear threatening to fall. She looks away, clearly trying to distract herself.

“I used to come to this pastry shop with Zayn,” I say, the confession slipping out before I can stop it.

The need to tell her everything is suffocating. It feels unfair, bordering on cruel, that I know everything about her life from files, while she’s flying blind with me. I tug her toward the nearest bench, my hand firm on her arm until she sinks beside me, and drop the cardboard box between us.

“Who is Zayn?” she asks quietly. “If I can ask.”

I open the box in silence, handing her a plastic fork and taking one for myself. The cake sits between us, a sweet, sticky peace offering. She takes a bite immediately, as if she's been craving it for hours. I watch her for a second, then stare down at the frosting.

“My brother,” I say, the word stuttering slightly.

Sophia freezes. She slowly lowers her fork into the box, turns her entire body toward me on the bench, straightens her spine, and clasps her hands in her lap like an attentive student. She stares at me, deadly serious.

I raise an eyebrow. “What are you doing?”

“I am turning into immaculate listening ears,” she says solemnly. “Thomas Reed wants to tell me something about himself and his family? You're lucky I didn't bring a notebook, or I'd be taking notes.”

I poke at the cake with my fork, feeling exposed. “No. That's it.”

She nudges my shoulder gently. “No, no. That's not how this works. I'm still waiting.”