Chapter 3 ⊰ 3 ⊱ Reckless Embrace

I sit at the foot of my bed, brushing my knuckles with the pad of my thumb as my hand clenches onto the fingers of my other hand nervously. My leg jumps, the heel of my foot tapping against the carpet floor beneath me.

My heart hasn't quite caught up with the stillness of this moment, its rapid beats a testament to the fear and uncertainty that clings to my like a second skin.

It feels like only seconds ago, yet hours apart, that I was dragged back into the life that I thought had parted ways with me the day that my brother walked out the front door of my childhood home. Now, in the quiet of the place I thought I'd always be safe, I can't help but feel like a boat adrift in the middle of a tsunami.

I never thought that I'd catch myself wishing that I weren't as high as I am right now. The problem is not that I'm not sober. The problem is that while intoxicated me is typically a lot better at handling stressful situations, intoxicated me is also excellent at feeling the extent of my anxiety to an unfortunately heightened degree when induced after the fact.

Is he here to kill me..?

The sound of Marcel dragging the counter stool across the kitchen floor makes me visibly cringe, and as he positions it just a couple of feet in front of me, I feel as though I'm physically shrinking three feet shorter. His hard gaze watches me intently, an unreadable look playing on his features as he lowers himself onto the black stool before me. With his feet parted at shoulder-width, he leans into the backrest, his fingers wrapped around his silver gun, steadied as it lays flat on his lap.

"Relax, doll," he hums lightly. His eyes briefly fall to my hands, watching me helplessly struggle to keep myself from having a nervous breakdown. "I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to ask you a few questions."

Bull-fucking-shit.

I swallow hard, furrowing my eyebrows as I narrow my eyes on him. "Then, why the gun?" I confront him, wanting to not give him the satisfaction from utterly collapsing beneath his scrutiny.

The corners of his lips curl ever so slightly, and just when I think he's going to bite back with a snarky remark the way that he used to, he raises his unoccupied hand in defeat. With the lapel of his suit jacket in his hand, he draws it open, clearing the way as he brings the gun to the holster and effortlessly secures it in its rightful place.

"Sorry. Force of habit," he sings me his shitty excuse.

From the corner of my eye, I watch the pair of men who accompany him stand at the doorway. In black slacks, leather jackets, combat boots, and black v-neck t-shirts, they hold their hands locked in front of them, awaiting their boss' command.

His real name is Marcello-Marcello Saldívar. However, at the time, I didn't know it. I didn't know that he, the son of Guillermo Saldívar, the heir to the Saldívar Mafia empire, was the man that I had blindly offered myself to.

The night of the infamous murder at the gas station, after we'd exchanged names, he offered to drive me back to the safety of my home. Being in no position to refuse, I led him right where I never should have.

I was vulnerable-naive. I was an 18-year-old girl with no friends, desperate for companionship-even if it were for company that I should've never kept.

"This is it," I breathed out sheepishly as I came to stand at the doormat of the locked front door of my childhood home. With my keys in my hands, I looked up at him, offering him a small smile as his eyes lingered on my lips before flickering to meet my gaze.

I felt embarrassed-ashamed-that he'd not only saved me from a situation that could've ended very badly for me and drove me home, but that all I had to offer him was a chocolate bar that I didn't pay for and a petty 'thank you' that I had yet to say out of humility.

I'm so fucking lame.

I began to think about all of the ways I could extend my gratitude, and all I could think of was, "Would you like to come inside?"

For a moment, I saw the hesitation flash on his hard features.

He wanted to, or at least I told myself that he did.

"That's alright," he assured me. He motioned for the door, telling me, "I just wanted to make sure you made it home safely."

And just like he said, he waited patiently while I unlocked the door and pushed it open. I'd be lying if I said that a part of me didn't feel disappointed that he didn't want to stay. Altogether, I hoped that that wouldn't be the last time that we'd cross paths.

Boy, was I a fool?

I stepped into the doorway, turning back to look at him as he tucked his hands into his navy blue jean's pockets. Despite my obvious insecurity, I leaped against my timidity, asking, "Will I ever see you again?"

There I was, standing with the door wide open before a man that I didn't know, begging that he'd say that he'd be interested in seeing me again some day.

After a brief moment's silence, he stepped toward me, closing the short distance between us. The knuckle of his index finger gently lifted my chin, the pad of his thumb brushing the shadow beneath my lips.

My heart fluttered in my chest, my eyes drawn to his compelling ones as he murmured, "I'm dangerous, doll. I'd do you good if I stayed away."

I should've left it alone. I should've listened and shut the door, but I didn't.

I couldn't.

"Your brother seems to have misplaced some of my fortune," Marcel suddenly says, pulling me out of the memories flashing in my mind. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

Levi..?

I wish that I could say that relief is what I feel, knowing that, at the very least, my brother's alive. However, considering the circumstances, relief is far from my grasp.

With furrowed eyebrows and widened eyes, my lips part as I'm taken aback. It's obvious that I don't have the answer to his question, and while I'm sure he has plenty of questions, I'm willing to bet that I have more.

Is my brother okay? Levi actually stole from him? How much did he steal? Why? Where is he? What's going to happen to him?

What's going to happen to me?

The look on Marcel's face says it all: he wants answers and he wants them now.

Unfortunately, even if I wanted to give them to him, I don't have them.

I stammer, shaking my head, as I shrug ever so slightly, "I-I don't know. I haven't spoken to Levi in almost 6 years. I-I don't know where he is."

It's evident that this isn't what he wants to hear, and to make matters worse, he doesn't believe me. He sighs as though he'd expected as much, threatening me, "So if I tear this place apart, you can assure me that I won't find anything that belongs to him?"

He pauses for a moment, arching a brow before adding, "Or better yet: anything that belongs to me?"

Again, I shake my head, telling him, "No. I haven't seen him. I swear."

His sinister chuckles make my skin crawl, and before I can mutter another word, he turns to the men standing at the doorway, nodding at them.

In only a matter of seconds, they're tossing my things left and right. I jolt at the sound of the glass bottles of my cheap perfume shattering against the floor, my hands balling into fists as I watch them rip the drawers from my wooden dresser.

Oddly, it's not the thousands of dollars that I know it's going to cost me to replace and repair my belongings that bothers me. When the awfully large bald man with dark brown eyes suddenly emerges from my closet holding a brown leather duffle bag, the melted wax from the electric ceramic candle staining the carpet floor becomes the least of my concerns.

Oh, my God...

My eyes widen as he drops the heavy bag at my feet, crouching down on the empty space between Marcel and I. In one swift motion, he unzips the bag open, pulling the flaps apart to reveal the pile of bricks of cash.

If my heart wasn't hammering before, it is now. The palms of my hands break a coat of light sweat, my chest rising and falling unevenly as my breathing quickly grows unsteady.

In utter terror, I snap my eyes to meet Marcel's darkened ones. He clenches his jaw, his nostrils flaring as he glares bullets into my skull. I hardly notice when the man who'd been crouching between us moves, my horrified gaze fixated on Marcel as he stands from the stool, straightening on his feet.

"You know, Mercy," Marcello's voice echoes with a dangerous tone. "There is nothing I hate more than a goddamn liar."

"I-I-" Between my shaky breath and quivering hands, I'm at a loss for words. My mouth has gone dry, and as I avert my sight to the empty doorway, I contemplate the odds of me successfully making a break for the door and making it far enough to scream for help.

You won't make it within ten feet from that door. Don't kid yourself.

I shake my head vigorously, pleading, "I-I didn't know that was there. I swear! It's not mine!"

He chuckles darkly as he takes a step toward me, and instinctively, I plant my hands behind me, against the bed, leaning into them as I attempt to create some distance between us. It's useless, my breath hitching in my lungs as he harshly takes my arms into his hold, forcing me up onto my feet. He pulls me into him, my body flushed against him as he looks down at me, his hardened gaze hovering over me. His minty breath fans my nose as his deathly grip bruises my flesh, prompting an involuntary whimper from the back of my throat.

"I know it's not yours," he taunts me. "That's the problem, Mercy. It's mine. You were keeping something that belongs to me. Now, what am I gonna do with you?"

"Marce–"

"Sh..." he shushes me softly, lowering his lips to my ear. The gentle hum that vibrates through my lobe strikes a string of shivers through my spine, and my knees buckle. Under his strong hold, another whimper rips from my lungs, a shaky breath passing my lips as he murmurs, "It's okay, baby doll."

He's always had a way with words-just like that fateful night.

He was the perfect gentleman, and only after I insisted that he'd at least allow me to make him a cup of hot chocolate did he accept my invitation.

At the kitchen table, he sat patiently as I carefully placed the white porcelain soup mug on the brown wooden coaster. "Thank you," he was polite, despite how obviously he'd been eyeing me the entire time I'd been stirring the hot chocolate in the pot on the stove.

I had taken the empty chair beside him, sipping on my own cup of hot chocolate as he leaned back into the backrest. His arm rested on the table, extended while the other carried the mug to his lips. His gaze was intense, never breaking away from me.

After several attempts to make a conversation, the only thing that seemed to spark his interest was the topic of what I had planned for the future. I told him about how my parents had gotten mixed up with a very bad man and how my brother pushed me to go to school. I told him about how I'd gotten offered full-ride scholarships to three of the most prestigious universities in the state and how I planned to pursue what's arguably one of the most difficult degrees to earn.

I'd been so used to hearing other people talk that when he gave me the opportunity to speak, I shared with him things that I never thought I'd share with anyone. All the while, he merely listened. I was so caught up in talking about myself that I didn't realize that I knew absolutely nothing about him except that he carried a gun, owned a black pick-up truck, and for some reason, didn't run the opposite direction when I told him who my brother is.

As smart as I am, I was stupid all of the times when it actually mattered.

Just like when I led him to my bedroom an hour later after he'd slyly asked for a tour of the house.

It was the second largest room in the house, and coming from humble beginnings, it really wasn't that big. Nevertheless, it was large enough for a queen sized bed positioned against the wall, a small white nightstand, a mounted flat-screen TV, and a white dresser that sat over a large lavender rug that complimented my lavender bed sheets.

"I'm gonna go out on a whim here and assume that purple is your favorite color?" He asked in a playful tone.

I smiled widely and crossed my arms in front of me, taking the hem of my dark gray hoodie before swiftly pulling it up and over my head. I tossed it onto the foot of the bed, motioning to the pastel t-shirt with black butterfly silhouette prints that I wore. "Actually, it's pastel yellow," I said matter-of-factly.

He eyed my form with a lustful gleam that made me feel wanted. Like the childish game that it is, it didn't matter to me. "M-My brother won't be back until the morning," I said with hesitation, afraid that I wasn't subtle at all to how desperate I was to not be lonely. "So, we could watch a movie or..." my voice trailed off as he slowly reached behind him and shut the bedroom door.

Though I should've at least tried to, I didn't stop him.

I didn't want to.

I was desperate to be loved, desperate to be wanted, and I pretended that he made me feel as though I was.

Despite how obviously I wanted him to kiss me when he moved to close the distance between us, he waited. He didn't rob me of my first kiss.

I gave it to him.

My lips captured his tenderly, my hands snaking up his muscular arms as his own took my waist, pulling me into him. Flushed against him, his tongue danced with mine, dominating me without a fight in me to resist him. First, I kicked the shoes off of my feet, so when he lowered me onto my bed and his hands shamelessly undid my jeans, I mindlessly propped myself up, helping him slide them off of me.

In only a pair of panties that my wet walls quickly soaked, I moaned softly against his lips as his hand trailed ghostly touches up my side, the other helping him hold steady between my legs.

The way he touched me, the way he kissed me, I was his without knowing it.

Without hesitation, I allowed him to strip me down to nothing.

It was in that moment that his charismatic nature made it easy for him to dig his hooks into me so deep that as he laid on top of me, stripped of the clothes that hardly did his muscular body any justice, the only thing I feared was how quickly I had allowed myself to be vulnerable for him.

I pressed my hand flat against his hard abs, a shaky breath escaping my mouth as he positioned himself at my entrance. His hard member pulsated in the condom he'd wrapped it in, his hooded eyes holding mine unwaveringly, inviting me to trust him. Still, I whimpered when his hand took my own, pulling it out of his way as he pinned it on the bed, beside my head.

"Sh..." he shushed me softly, lowering himself to my ear. He planted a feather-like kiss on my neck, murmuring, "It's okay, baby doll."

Then, and now still, I was at the mercy of him.

Then, and now still, I am his Mercy.