A Dance Macabre (Perverse City #1)

45. Mercy

45

MERCY

T he bathhouse is the darkest I’ve ever seen it. Only a few lit candles are scheming with the nighttime shadows. The moon is only a sliver hanging low in the obsidian sky.

Wolfgang’s lithe and muscled naked body cuts through the water as he swims laps, his family sigil sprawled across his back shimmering against the light.

I’m sitting on one of the submerged steps, my back to the edge of the bath—watching. We haven’t said much to one another since I intercepted Dizzy mid-assassination.

After cleaning ourselves off, we both called our assistants to help remove the body from the bedchamber and told them to keep it in the morgue. We’ll deal with Dizzy’s corpse later.

We came down to the bathhouse not long after. I think Wolfgang needed to be somewhere he felt safe. And I can’t blame him.

I almost had him killed.

Almost …

Is that word enough for him to forgive me?

His actions right now are confusing me. He’s barely spoken a word now that the adrenaline has been washed away along with the dried blood sticking to our skins.

But he doesn’t seem to want me gone either.

He held my hand as we walked the corridors. Watched me undress near the edge of the bath, and held my hand again when we stepped into the warm waters.

But his actions contradict his demeanor.

Cold. Distant. Impassive.

And my heart aches knowing I’ll have to live with the effects of my betrayal.

What kind of evil possessed me to allow Dizzy to break the bond of trust Wolfgang and I were carefully building?

Wolfgang reaches the far side of the bath and pops his head out of the water. Wet hair slicked back, the bottom of his face still submerged. I can barely discern his expression with how dark it is in here. But I know his eyes are trained on me.

I can almost feel the water ripple with the tremor of his inner turmoil. My heart batters against my chest, and if I was one to cry, I believe I’d be wiping my cheeks from all the tears streaking my face right now.

What is this feeling?

It hurts. Uncomfortable. It’s a grating, throbbing thing.

Is this what it feels like to experience regret?

Deep and soul-churning regret.

I hate it. I need it to stop.

Slowly, Wolfgang glides through the water to reach me. The angles of his face are sharper here while the shadows dance over his body. He sits on the same step as me, droplets trickling over his tanned muscled stomach, the hair near his lower stomach disappearing into the water. He keeps his distance and leans into his outstretched arms behind him.

I wonder if showing off his toned glistening body is a punishment in itself. What I no longer have the right to freely touch.

His voice bursts the bubble I’ve been cowardly hiding inside of. “Planning on telling me why you wanted me dead, Crèvecoeur?”

The way he asks the question. It’s so casual. So devoid of emotion. But my gaze tracks the clench of his jaw and the strain in his shoulders. It’s an act.

My words feel like paste, too thick to mold into a sentence.

How can I ever explain myself?

I listen to the trickle of water as he reaches up and smooths his hand over his slicked hair before leaning his weight back onto his palm, his attention trained on the vaulted ceiling above us.

Waiting.

I can’t sit still. My skin is crawling with unwelcomed emotions—regret, guilt, shame. So I stand up and tread down deeper into the water, facing him.

“I was foolish,” I finally say.

Wolfgang keeps his posture but quirks an eyebrow.

“Foolish?” he says quietly, but there’s a bite to his tone. “Not strong enough a word for what you did.”

“So what then?” I ask, my fist splashing the surface of the water with irritation. “Why are you not angrier? Yell at me! Shove me against a wall, get your revenge, make me pay, something! Just not this.” My chest heaves in frustration as I say the three last words in quiet defeat. His rage I can handle. Heated insults. Furious glares. But his pointed silence is a fate much more agonizing.

I don’t know how to face the disappointment burning in his hard gaze when his eyes finally drop to mine.

“I’m not interested in making you feel more at ease.” His expression softens into something even more painful to witness. Hurt. “Why, Mercy?” he asks softly.

I would rather be drowned than endure this.

My throat tightens, my eyes stinging with tears I swore I would never shed. “It was either you, or me.”

The answer feels flat. Weak. Devoid of any real meaning.

His gaze lingers. Needing to feel closer to him, I approach him and kneel on the steps in front of him. He tracks my movements, leaning his elbows on his thighs to better look at me from above.

“Is that what Dizzy told you?” His tone is gentle, his gaze searching.

I nod, my chin raised up to hold his gaze. I can’t control the single tear from falling down my cheek, and I don’t move to wipe it away.

His sigh is full of defeat. “She would have never come to me.”

My eyebrows dip skeptically. “Why are you so sure?”

His expression turns a shade darker. His hand reaches out, softly collecting my fallen tear on his finger. He brings it to his lips. I’m not even sure he realizes he’s done it, his expression looking thoughtful before returning his full attention to me.

“Why didn’t you just kill her then?”

Taken aback, I stutter over my response. “I — I …”

Why didn’t I just kill her then?

The answer is simple, but I struggle to say it out loud, ashamed that Dizzy could have such an effect on me. I avoid eye contact, staring at the water.

“She somehow got in my head,” I answer with a subdued shrug. “I was then too caught up on the toxic idea of you eventually betraying me.”

“So you decided to betray me instead.” Wolfgang’s voice is hard, and a twinge of anger filters through. But I can still hear the hurt through the cracks.

My heart tumbles deeper into a dark hole of remorse.

I lift my eyes to meet his gaze. “She caught me when I was at my weakest.”

His eyes narrow. “Your weakest?” he repeats slowly with derision. “What could have possibly made Mercy Crèvecoeur weak?”

Telling him the truth feels like another cruel punishment. I inch my body a little closer before speaking, my hand finding his foot in the water. My lip trembles. I bite down hard to make it stop.

“You.”

“Me?” Wolfgang says, his shoulders straightening, almost like an accusation. “ I’m the one making you weak?”

“Yes,” I reply.

Wolfgang scoffs and starts to stand up, but I stop him, grabbing his hands in mine, now kneeling between his feet.

“I’ve never felt like this before, Wolfgang. You — you madden me. You’ve left me unguarded and have made me … care for someone outside of myself. To trust you, Wolfgang,” I press, my voice cracking, “I must place my heart into your hands and believe you will not damage it — trust that you won’t strangle it with your fists and bleed me to death.” Another tear falls. “I could not bear the thought. I could not bear the threat of this kind of agony.”

Wolfgang stays silent. My hands still wrapped around his.

“And what made you change your mind, my ruin?” he asks softly, his gaze searching mine.

I choke on a sob. “You.” I swallow the tears down. “I realized that it was too late—that my heart was already beating outside of my chest. You had already claimed it.”

Wolfgang gives me a weak smile, his fingers caressing over my cheeks and lips.

“Do you trust me, Mercy?” he asks solemnly.

“Should I not ask you the same?” I can’t help but say.

He lets the silence linger. His blue-gray eyes piercing. “Not today.”

My stomach drops, fear snaking tightly around my throat. “What can I do, then? To prove to you my loyalty? My devotion? Tell me and I’ll do it.”

He lets my question hang between us for a beat before his morose smile slowly turns into a cocksure grin as if my question has brought him solace. As if whatever answer he’s come up with has restored him to his typical arrogant demeanor.

“The servant of death on her knees is a good start.”