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“She can use her arms just fine, and they are skinny, too.”
Mercer’s fingers hovered on the keyboard as he contemplated his next words.
“It’s fine. I know I’m skinny. The muscles in my legs are wasting away, yes, but I don’t eat right back home, and that doesn’t help. I don’t get out of my room much to make anything.”
“Why not?” Trix questioned, her brown eyes, hiding behind thick lashes, narrowed on me.
“My home doesn’t have a stairlift.”
“How is that possible? You lived in a mansion. Your family has money,” the robotic voice spoke again, this time belittling me.
“Didn’t you notice that when you broke in and stole me?”
“No. I didn’t. I used the back entrance. The back stairs. I figured the front would have something for you.”
Trix didn’t say anything, but her eyes told me she’d already voiced her disapproval of what her grandson had done.
I shrugged off Mercer’s words. “Anyway. I didn’t have a stairlift or a wheelchair. We didn’t have much. We weren’t rich. My grandfather built our house.” I twisted my neck to see Mercer, and it clicked. I rubbed the pain away, my smile well and truly gone.
“Ah, how ironic! The boys’ grandfather built this one!” Trix quipped, still kneading the dough that was ready for her dish.
“Lies...” A transmission interrupted us, not talking to her but me. “Your father could pay for illegal organs but not a stairlift for his disabled daughter! It makes no sense.”
“Well, it hadn’t been that long since her accident. You said that was only weeks before the transplant. Maybe she was tired after all that, and her family just hadn’t gotten around to it.” Trix held up the wooden weapon in a warning. Warning him that flour would cover his slick hair and expensive black suit if he didn’t tread carefully.
She could feel his emotions rising.
So could I.
But unlike me, unlike him, she didn’t feel like I was to blame.
“We probably shouldn’t talk about the transplant, but I was tired. I ended up with two infections shortly after, and I almost died.” My head lowered, staring down at the dough and what I was doing wrong.
I knew I’d said too much. The room lingered in silence and stillness, pity from Trix and Ethan stared back at me when I looked up.
But neither of them voiced it.
“Show her how to do it.” It was a simple request for Mercer, and for whatever reason, he listened, moving behind me without a fight and rolling up his sleeves to reveal corded arms.
I tried to give him space, using my hands to push myself away while on my seat, but I almost fell off, risking the break of too many bones to count. Splayed fingers wrapped around my back, steadying me. That look of concern—the etched worry—was back on his handsome face as he pulled me near and corrected my sitting position. He sank into place behind me, intimately close.
“Can I ask you a question?” Ethan technically asked me a question, then another, “Did you know where the organ came from?”
Silence fell around us, no one daring to breathe.
“No,” I timidly said as Mercer’s tense muscles sealed me in, his hands taking mine, showing me how to knead the dough in a way his Nonna would approve.
And she definitely did, given the big smile on her face. “Then it isn’t your fault.”
“I’m not sure everyone agrees.”
Mercer’s hands dug into mine, his grip tight and unyielding. His breath on my neck was the opposite, calm and controlled, his chest tapping my spine as he breathed. It felt...sensual. His hands loosened like it suddenly dawned on him that he was hurting me and like he cared he had.
“They will. They won’t go against me, dear. No way.”
A shadow came over me, Mercer’s head—heavy with the weight of so many uncomfortable thoughts—dipping.
“Damiano is running late. He should be here by now.” Ethan’s comment turned my stomach. There was something about him I accepted. My soul recognized his as light and trustworthy, despite my circumstances. I didn’t get that vibe from the other one. Cold Stare.
