THE DEVILS MERCY

CHAPTER ONE – AVA

Blood tastes like copper.

It's thick on my tongue, warm down my throat, sticky in my hair. I can't tell how much of it is mine anymore. There's so much of it. In my mouth. On my hands. Caking the bruises blooming across my ribs.

I lie on the cold pavement like a broken doll. Useless limbs, trembling fingers, heartbeat barely holding on.

I don't know how long I've been here.

Rain started hours ago-soft at first, then louder. It cuts through the silence now, washing away everything but the pain. The throb behind my eyes. The hollow ache in my chest.

My teeth chatter, but I'm not cold. I'm past cold. I'm gone.

I blink. Slowly.

A blinking neon sign stutters light across the alley: LA SANGRE. A club, I think. Maybe a bar. I remember it from before... before they dragged me out of the van. Before I fought. Before I screamed until my voice turned to smoke.

I was supposed to die tonight.

They beat me, used me, tossed me out like garbage.

But I'm still breathing.

Barely.

The alley stinks of rust, piss, oil, and rot. Wet concrete clings to my skin. A rat scurries past me and disappears into a pile of garbage bags. I don't flinch. Don't have the strength.

There's nothing left in me to fear.

Until I hear footsteps.

Boots. Heavy. Purposeful.

I close my eyes.

Please don't come back. Please don't let it be them.

But the footsteps don't sound frantic. Not hurried or violent. Just... calm. Deliberate. The way a lion walks into a cage.

I drag my eyes open-and he's there.

Standing at the mouth of the alley.

Backlit by the red glow of the club sign, he looks like something pulled straight from a nightmare. Or maybe a sin.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a black coat that moves like it has a life of its own. A glint of silver at his wrist-a watch maybe, or a knife. I can't tell.

I barely breathe.

He stands still for a moment. Just watching me. Smoke curls from his mouth-cigarette held between two gloved fingers. His head tilts slightly to the side, and I feel it-the click in his mind as he decides something.

He walks toward me.

No. Please, no.

"Don't," I croak. My voice is barely human.

He ignores it. Keeps coming.

I push myself up on my elbows, pain shredding through my side. I can't run. I can't fight. But I'm not going to beg. I'd rather choke on my own blood than let another man take a piece of me.

"You shouldn't be here," I whisper.

He stops a few feet away. Close enough now for me to see his face. And God-he's beautiful in that terrible way. Sharp jaw. Eyes like obsidian. Cold. Empty. The kind of man who doesn't flinch when someone begs for mercy.

He crouches down. Doesn't touch me. Just looks.

"You're still alive," he says flatly.

"You disappointed?"

His lips twitch. It's not quite a smile. But not nothing either.

"You don't belong in this alley," he says.

"Neither do you."

That gets a reaction. Just a flicker-but I see it. Interest? Maybe. Or recognition.

Then his gaze drops to my neck.

My fingers twitch toward the delicate silver chain that's tangled against my collarbone. I forgot I still had it. The only thing they didn't rip away.

His voice sharpens. "Where did you get that necklace?"

I say nothing. Can't. Won't.

He reaches forward, slowly, and lifts the chain between two fingers-no contact with my skin. He studies it, then me. His expression shifts.

That's when I see it: He knows what this is.

"Who gave it to you?" he asks, voice low now. Dangerous.

I shake my head.

He lets the chain drop. It slides against my skin like ice.

"You're not just some girl." His voice is quieter now. Not softer-more lethal. "You're connected."

My stomach clenches.

"I don't know who you think I am," I whisper.

"No. But I will."

His gaze drags across every inch of me-my swollen cheek, my bruised wrists, the ripped shirt and bloodied knees. His jaw tightens. Just slightly. A tick of anger. But it's not for me.

"You're in pain," he says. It isn't a question. "But you're not crying."

I stare at him. "You don't cry in front of monsters. They like it too much."

Another flicker in his eyes.

He straightens to his full height. I expect him to walk away, and maybe he will. Maybe he should.

But instead, he unbuttons his coat. Shrugs it off. Drapes it over me like a shield.

It smells like smoke and something expensive. Dark leather. Steel. Heat.

"I didn't ask for your help," I murmur.

"I didn't offer," he replies. "I'm not helping you. I'm claiming you."

His words burn.

I flinch as I try to push it off, but the coat is heavy, anchoring me.

"I'm not yours," I hiss.

His expression doesn't change. "Not yet."

I want to scream. Hit him. Tell him to go to hell.

But my body betrays me.

My vision blurs again. Pain blooms sharp in my side, and the world tilts like I've stepped off the edge of a building. My knees buckle.

He catches me before I hit the ground.

His arms are strong. Unyielding. Too steady.

I thrash weakly, panic setting in. "Don't touch me-!"

"I'm not one of them," he growls, low and cold.

And maybe that's true.

But I don't trust him.

I don't trust anyone.

Not anymore.

Still, I let him hold me. Not by choice. By necessity. By weakness.

"What's your name?" he asks.

I shouldn't answer. But something in me cracks.

"Ava," I whisper.

He says it back to me like he's already memorized it. Then darkness curls around me, slow and thick.

And just before I pass out, I hear his voice-low, certain.

"You don't get to die here."