In my hurry, I must not’ve closed the top all the way, trying to get my shirt off and act natural before Sloan walked into the room.
My heart starts pounding double-time in my chest, and this time it’s definitely not because of what Sloan’s doing with his mouth. I stare at the laptop like I’m trying to will it closed with my mind, and I must look at it for a second too long, because Sloan notices. Turning his head, he follows the direction of my gaze.
In a heartbeat, he stiffens under me, brows pulling tight together as he puts two and two together.
My heart lurches in my chest, cold fear flooding my veins like ice. I feel like I’m going to be sick.
He knows.
21
Sloan and I stare at each other for a second, neither one of us moving or saying anything.
It’s like the moment is frozen, and I almost forget to breathe. But I’ve always prided myself on doing well under pressure and never letting someone catch me off guard when I have a chance to get the upper hand. So I lunge to the side quickly, grabbing up his gun from the mattress next to us and gripping it tightly in both hands while I straddle him, trying to hold him down.
Sloan’s eyes go furious and dark. He grabs my wrists, shoving them away so I’m not pointing the barrel of the gun at him anymore and it’s pointing to the side instead.
All the anger and fear inside me surges to a head, pushing out anything else. His grip on me is tight, and I struggle against it, trying to get the gun back up and under my control. Baring his teeth, he wrestles me for it, twisting my arm until I’m forced to let go with one hand.
My chest heaves, and I shove him back down when he tries to roll me over, not letting him win that easily.
“What the fuck?” he snarls. “Were you—”
I use my free hand to punch him across the face, landing a solid hit to his jaw that makes my knuckles sting.
It’s enough to daze him for a second, and I rip my other arm free from his grip, trying to grab for the gun with both hands again before he can stop me.
Sloan moves faster though, getting a hand in my hair in a way that would have turned me on in a second in a different context, but makes me cry out in pain now. It’s enough to cause me to fumble my grip, and he uses that opening to get the leverage he needs, rolling us over so I’m back under him.
It’s harder to fight back like this—but that doesn’t mean I won’t fucking try. He’s bigger and stronger than me, but I’m not going to go down so easily. I’m a good fighter, and I’m giving it my all. Judging from the way Sloan is breathing hard and sweating a bit, so is he.
I do my best to hold on, but his extra leverage makes all the difference. He manages to get a knee down on my chest and wrests the gun away from me, snarling curses as he aims the barrel at my forehead, right between my eyes.
“Fuck you,” I spit out, glaring up at him through the strands of dark hair that’ve fallen over my face. My throat and chest burn from how hard I’m breathing, and I can taste the fear in the back of my throat. “You’re a fucking monster.”
“What the fuck are you doing, Mercy?” he demands, and his grip on the gun doesn’t waver.
“Are you going to kill me?” I snap, my stomach twisting into a knot. I want to fight again, to try to get the gun back, but I know he’d put a bullet in my head before I even touched it. “Take me out, just like you killed my dad? Do you get some kind of sick pleasure from being a fucking murderer?”
I expect him to laugh or say something shitty, or to go ahead and pull the trigger without speaking a single damn word. What I don’t expect is for him to freeze, uncertainty flickering over his face as he looks down at me, gun still aimed right for my head.
“How do you know about that?” he asks.
I stare up at him, glaring past the barrel of the gun. Emotions are rushing to the surface, everything I’ve tried so hard to shove down and ignore for the last few weeks. None of it was ever gone, just biding its time, and now that I don’t have the distraction of my plan or trying to seduce the guys, all I can think about is what happened and how fucking wrecked I feel.
I can see Sloan standing in that lot, gun aimed for my dad the same way he’s got it aimed at me now. It’s probably the same one, even, which is a sick sort of symmetry.
“I saw you,” I admit, my voice coming out hollow. There’s no point in pretending anymore. “I saw you kill him. I was there that night, across the street from the parking lot where you met him.”
Stinging tears well up in my eyes the same way they did when I watched my dad hit the asphalt. It’s grief, but it’s also bitterness and anger in equal measure, all of it finally coming to a head and spilling out. There have been so many sleepless nights, so many hours spent with anxiety churning in my gut. All of that has led to this confrontation, and I want to hit Sloan so badly, but I don’t dare move while he’s aiming that gun at me.
I know he knows how to use it.
“I knew you were up to something,” I continue. “So I snuck out that night and followed you. I wanted to see where you were going and what kind of fucked up deals you might be making. My dad was there. He came to you for help! Because he was scared for his fucking life. He trusted you, and you killed him. You pointed your fucking gun at him, just like that, and you ended him right there.”
My voice breaks on the last few words, and I blink rapidly, trying to swallow down the lump in my throat. I refuse to cry in front of Sloan. He doesn’t deserve to see it, and I will the tears burning my eyes not to fall.
Sloan just stares at me, and his face is back to being an unreadable mask. I wait for him to say something. Anything. To gloat or tell me I’m an idiot and that my dad was too. To say that anyone who crosses the Black Roses gets what’s coming to them and it’s his job to see their punishment through.