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Just a few steps and I’m standing in front of him.
His attention lingers on my tight fist and the small velvet pouch spilling out of it. He says nothing, his eyes sweeping up my body to meet my anxious gaze.
His smile is warm but distant.
Taking my free hand in his, he pulls me into his lap. I don’t resist. Not even a little bit. I welcome his embrace as I slide my arms around his neck and rest my head on his shoulder, staring out into the rainy sky. He wraps an arm around my waist and pushes out a pleased sigh, the drum of the rain feeling meditative as he caresses my hair and down my arm.
We stay silent for what feels like an eternity.
It’s barely a few minutes.
But every moment feels like a lifetime with Wolfgang.
He’s the first to break the silence, his voice hoarse when he speaks. “What’s in your hand, my ruin?”
The dread returns like a tight noose around my neck. I almost throw the damned thing over the balcony.
Trying to create distance between us, I pull away, hoping to find a seat of my own—or run away, I’m not quite sure yet—but Wolfgang pins me to him, his arm locking around my body.
I huff loudly and avoid eye contact as a form of protest.
His low chuckle rumbles in his chest. “Is it something for me?” he asks, trying to reach for it but I pull my hand away. “Mercy,” he warns, his warm palm squeezing my naked thigh teasingly.
I swallow hard. Find his seeking gaze.
“It’s something for us,” I finally admit softly.
His brows jump up. “Oh?”
I stare into his eyes, wishing words weren’t so important.
“I—” My voice sticks in my throat. Sighing, I look away. He gives me another squeeze as if coaxing me on. I turn back to face him.
“I’m so sorry, Wolfgang,” I whisper. His body tightens underneath me … almost as if he never thought he’d hear those words from me. “I apologize,” I continue, my chest feeling heavy, “Please forgive me — I need you to forgive me. I can’t take it a second longer.”
I feel faint, my heart battering against my ribcage, and I’ve never despised silence more than I do right now. Wolfgang conceals a small grin as he studies me, his palm smoothing up and down my thigh.
“What’s in your hand, Mercy?” he repeats.
I feel outraged. “Did you not hear me?” I say gruffly. I once again try to leave his lap to no avail.
“I heard you,” he rasps, “I want to know what’s inside that pouch first.”
“Why?” I ask petulantly, my heart racing so fast I think I might be having a heart attack.
“Indulge me,” he urges.
Unceremoniously, I drop it on my lap between us and give him a quirk of the eyebrow signaling that he can pick it up himself.
He doesn’t conceal his victorious grin this time, and I find it especially hard not to smile in return. He takes his arm away from my waist and delicately opens the string purse. His hand disappears inside before reemerging with two necklaces between his fingers.
Both are made of a thin gold chain, a small engraved vial hanging from each of them.
“The vials contain a mixture of our blood,” I blurt out nervously.
Wolfgang’s fingers curl into a fist, the chains still in his hard grasp, his burning gaze blazing a hole right through me.
I nearly lose my courage all over again.
