The Devil's Mercy

The Devil's Mercy

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Introduction

One night. No names. No future.

That was all Evelyn Hale wanted — one night with a stranger, to prove her ex wrong.

She never learned his name that night. Not until he tracked her down.

He is Damian Vale — Greyhaven's most dangerous man. And her last name, Hale, is the one he has spent fourteen years hunting.

The price was set long before they met: "If Thomas is guilty, the daughter pays."

She left without leaving her name. He found her anyway — a job offer, a file, a company she didn't know was his.

Evelyn refuses his money, his protection, his world. She will not be owned.

He was meant to use her. Instead, he erases the orders that would.

Then it arrives at her desk.

Can she forgive the man who planned to make her settle a blood debt —
especially when part of her already has?

He was never meant to care.

But he stopped using her before she ever found out.

Chapter 1

Evelyn

The folded program in my lap said the ceremony would run ninety minutes. My gown smelled like the plastic bag it had shipped in, the cardboard edge of the diploma holder was already cutting into my palm, and somewhere around Dean Whitmore's fourth dramatic pause I stopped listening and started counting something else entirely: how many times I looked toward the entrance on the left side of the hall.

The one closest to the parking structure. The one my boyfriend knew about. The one he always used when he was running late.

Seven times.

He wasn't there. He'd called two nights ago to say he might not make it—the product launch had compressed, the timeline had shifted—and I'd said it's fine, I understand. I had understood. I just hadn't stopped looking. Some part of me kept expecting him to change his mind, the way he used to.

Three rows down, Jade Wells's seat was empty. We'd been in the same program. Paired on a group project once, texted occasionally after.

Maya found me the moment the recessional ended, threading through the crowd with her stole already half-off one shoulder. She scanned the families clustering near the exits and then looked back at me with that particular expression she had, the one she deployed when she'd already decided not to soften whatever was coming.

"How come your boyfriend didn't come?"

"He's in the middle of a product launch." I shifted the diploma holder to my other hand. "The timeline got compressed."

"Mm." She smiled, slow and deliberate. "Or he's at your apartment right now setting up something embarrassing. Like balloons. Balloons and a banner."

"He's not doing that," I said, and then caught myself already thinking about whether he'd remembered I hated helium balloons.

"You don't know that."

I didn't say anything. Maybe he had. Maybe the not-answering was strategic. We'd been together three years, and he'd done it before—the surprise dinner for my twenty-first, the time he drove two hours with soup when I had the flu and hadn't asked him to. That version of him existed. I had evidence.

Maya's parents appeared and pulled her into a hug. I stepped back, smiled at the right moments, said goodbye, and walked toward the bus stop alone with the diploma under my arm.

I called him from the stop. Five rings, then voicemail. I sent a text—Ceremony's done, heading back—and watched it sit unread while the first bus came. On the second bus I turned the diploma holder over in my hands, the cardboard corner pressing a red line into my palm that I kept pressing harder without meaning to.

The walk from the stop to our building took six minutes.


The apartment door was unlocked.

I found it when I raised my key and the door gave slightly before I'd turned anything. I stood there a moment—key lifted, bag on my shoulder—then pushed it open.

The living room looked the way I'd left it that morning. My coffee mug on the side table. The throw blanket folded over the back of the couch.

"Ethan?"

Nothing.

I walked toward the bedroom door. It was pulled almost shut—not latched, just resting against the frame. I pushed it open.

The smell hit me first. Then the shapes in the low light. Then the faces.

Ethan was half-sitting, one hand already raised toward me like he could stop what I was seeing. Jade was beside him, the sheet pulled up to her collarbone with both hands, her face going red from the throat up, mouth opening and closing without producing anything.

"Ethan." My voice came out flat. "What are you doing?"

He said my name, and I stood there waiting for the rest of it. There wasn't any.

I looked at Jade. She was already reaching for her clothes, moving fast.

I pulled the door shut. Hard. The sound of it filled the apartment, and then the apartment was very quiet.


My legs carried me to the couch without my deciding to go there. I sat down. The diploma holder was still in my hand. I set it on the cushion beside me and looked at nothing, and the thing I'd just seen kept reassembling itself in my head.

My hands were shaking. Fine and continuous, and I couldn't make them stop.

The tears came up before I'd decided to let them. I pressed the back of my hand against my mouth and breathed through my nose and told myself to stop, and my hands kept shaking anyway.

The bedroom door opened.

Jade came out first. She'd dressed quickly—her jacket was only half on, her bag clutched against her chest. She looked at me once, then walked to the front door and let herself out. No apology. No eye contact. Just the soft click of the latch behind her.

Ethan appeared in the doorway a moment later. Gray t-shirt, hair still disordered. He looked at me on the couch and his face settled on something careful and prepared.

"Evelyn." His voice came out soft. "I know how this looks."

I looked at the man I'd spent three years of my life with, and I tried to find the version of him that had driven two hours with soup, and I couldn't.

I stood up. Walked past him into the bedroom, pulled the suitcase out from under the bed, and lifted it onto the mattress.


He followed me in. Stood near the door at first, then moved closer, positioning himself where I'd have to look at him if I turned around.

I didn't turn around.

"The lease is in your name," I said. "Handle the renewal yourself. You have until Friday."

I opened the closet and took down the things on my side.

"Can you just—can you stop for a second. I'm trying to talk to you."

I folded them. Put them in.

"You want the truth?" Something shifted in his voice—the careful part left it. "I haven't wanted you in a long time. Not really. Being with you was like—I kept waiting to feel something, and I never did."

I found my charger on the nightstand and coiled it slowly, feeding the cable through my fingers. The refrigerator hummed from the kitchen. Outside, someone was having a conversation just too muffled to make out.

My hand stopped on the cable.

"There's no heat in you. There just—there isn't. I don't know how you don't already know that."

I put the charger in the suitcase, closed it, and picked it up.

"I didn't do this because of her," he said, from somewhere behind me. "I want you to know that."

I hadn't asked.

I walked to the door. He stepped into the frame.

"Evelyn. Come on. Three years. You're really just going to walk out."

His voice had gone soft again. "You're upset. I get it. But if you'd just calm down for a minute—"

I turned around.

He took a step toward me.

I hit him with my open hand. The sound landed flat in the small room. He went still, hand coming up to his cheek.

"Three years," I said, "and this is the best you could do."

I picked up the suitcase, walked to the front door, and left. Pulled it closed behind me.


The hallway was beige and fluorescent and completely ordinary. I stood with my back against the door and breathed.

My hands were shaking again when I picked up the suitcase.

I took the stairs.

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