25 — Mercy

The Tower’s bones were still warm, city sirens wailing for the dead. Morning limped in through a cracked pane of glass, painting Eirwen in bruised daylight and borrowed heat. She woke alone—no lion in her bed, just the echo of his grip still bruising her throat, the city’s hunger gnawing at her ribs.

Talia whimpered from the other room, skin clammy, eyes fever-bright. She clung to the Widow’s will, the page streaked with blood and desperation.

Eirwen knelt by her side. “You’re not dying here,” she whispered, voice raw. Talia’s hand trembled, pressing the folded will into Eirwen’s palm.

“Read it,” Talia breathed. “She said you’d know what to do. She said mercy isn’t free.”

Eirwen’s heart thudded. She cracked the seal, blood blooming along her thumb. Inside: a single name. A traitor. A debt owed in blood.

---

She found Domenik by the ruined window, eyes rimmed in shadow, shirtless, hands still streaked with someone else’s violence. He didn’t turn when she entered; he didn’t have to.

“The Civic Shadow’s closing in,” he said, voice like a commandment. “They want you. They want the Widow’s secret. Mercy is a dead language here.”

Eirwen dropped the will on the table, the traitor’s name burning in red.

“Talia needs help. We can’t stay here.”

He faced her then, gaze hard enough to cut. “You want my mercy, firebrand? Beg for it.”

She bristled. “Not for me. For her.”

He moved so fast she barely flinched—fist catching her jaw, thumb pressing her lips apart. “You want me to spare someone? You pay the price. Give me something worth the cost.”

Her jaw set, but she nodded, defiant. “Take it, then. Take what you want. But if she dies, I burn the city—starting with you.”

He grinned, cruel and hungry. “Obedience looks good on you. But mercy? You’ll learn what it really means.”

---

He pinned her to the cold marble, mouth claiming hers, hand at her throat—not squeezing, just reminding her who had the power and who chose to give it. When he pulled away, he marked her skin with his ring—an obsidian bruise shaped like a promise.

“Swear it,” he whispered against her mouth. “Swear you’re mine until mercy’s bought and paid.”

Her answer was a bite, a gasp, a shudder. “Yours. Until this city’s nothing but bones.”

He released her only to wrap her in his coat. “You get Talia to safety. I’ll clear the way. But betray me—”

She cut him off, eyes burning. “And you’ll kill me yourself. I know.”

He kissed her, brutal and short. “Mercy is for the dead. Don’t make me prove it.”

---

They moved through ruined streets, blood slick on stone, police sirens blaring warnings no one believed. Domenik led, gun drawn, Eirwen at his side—no longer prey, no longer rival, but sovereign to sovereign, united in violence and purpose.

They reached the clinic at the Bay, the only safe house left unburned. Talia was patched up, fever broken, but trust was a luxury none of them could afford.

Domenik pressed Eirwen against the clinic’s back wall, fingers digging into her jaw. “The traitor’s name, now.”

She gave it to him—voice steady, heart breaking. He nodded, satisfied, but she saw the cost flicker behind his eyes. She was learning: mercy always leaves scars.

---

That night, rain beat against the broken windows. Eirwen crawled into Domenik’s lap, her body aching, her soul torn, needing his violence as proof she still lived. They made love like war, pain and devotion tangled—his teeth on her neck, her nails in his flesh, both desperate for a mercy neither deserved.

When he finally let her go, he whispered, “Mercy’s paid, firebrand. But never owed again.”

She smiled, mouth bloody, eyes bright. “Mercy is for the dead, Crown. Are we dead yet?”

He laughed, cruel and true, wrapping her tighter. “Not while I still own you.”

---

Sirens rose, louder, closer. The door shuddered. The city wasn’t done with them yet. But neither were they.

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Next up: 26 — Marked

Blood debts aren’t settled; they multiply. The city wants retribution, and Eirwen’s secret is no longer safe—not from Domenik and not from the ghosts that haunt them both. When old wounds are ripped open and a new enemy takes aim, the dead don’t rest—they hunt. And this time, someone won’t survive the night.

You ready to bleed for the crown? Or is the city coming for you next?