The Devil’s Mercy
1308 Words
RAFAEL POV
The first time you kill someone, they say something in you changes. That it cracks. That the part of you that believed you were good dies a quiet, permanent death.
They were right.
I stare at the dried blood under my fingernails, still clinging like it belongs there. Like Vicente didn’t just die a violent, ugly death by my hand. My breathing is steady, but my pulse is anything but. Cassian drives in silence, his hand loose on the wheel, a storm rolling behind his eyes.
He hasn’t said a word since we dumped the body.
No reprimand. No congratulations.
Just silence.
And silence is worse.
I shift in my seat, the leather sticky against the back of my neck, and steal a glance at him. His jaw is locked, his cheek twitching like he’s holding back a scream or a confession. Maybe both.
“You okay?” I ask, though the question is meant more for me.
He doesn’t look at me. Just keeps driving, his voice rough when it finally comes. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
I frown. “You told me to.”
“I told you to test him. Not execute him.”
My stomach flips. “He was going to rat. You saw it in his eyes.”
He sighs, knuckles tightening around the steering wheel. “And you think you’re judge and executioner now?”
“I made a call. He was a risk.”
He finally looks at me. His gaze pins me like a knife to a table. “You made a choice. Not a call. Don’t confuse the two.”
I want to yell. To explain that I had to. That if Vicente had gotten away, the whole op—Cassian’s empire, my mission, everything would’ve gone up in flames.
But something in his expression tells me this isn’t about Vicente.
It’s about me.
And what I’m becoming.
---
Back at the penthouse, the silence swells like smoke.
Cassian heads straight for the shower. I wander toward the bar, pour whiskey I don’t want, and stand at the window like I’m waiting for the city to tell me what the hell I’ve done.
I watch the water bead down the glass outside.
Then I hear the water running inside.
I imagine him there—naked, blood-washed, water pooling at his feet like guilt.
I should walk away.
I should go back to the safe house, call my handler, log the kill, report that I’m too close. That I’m compromised.
But I don’t.
I stay.
Because no matter how much I lie to myself, I know the truth:Cassian DelaVega owns me now.
Not because he forced me.
But because I let him.
---
When he emerges from the steam, towel slung low on his hips, his body glistening with water and fury, I don’t move.
Neither does he.
“You want to explain what the hell that was back there?” he finally says.
I set the glass down, hard. “You know exactly what it was.”
He crosses the room in three slow, deliberate steps. “I told you to get information. Not kill my lieutenant.”
“He wasn’t yours anymore. He was Navarro’s.”
That name stops him cold.
His eyes flash. “Say that again.”
“You heard me.”
His hand grabs my wrist like fire. “You don’t say that name in this house.”
“Why?” I yank my hand back. “Because he’s dead? Or because he’s not?”
His silence is deafening.
My stomach drops. “He’s alive, isn’t he?”
Cassian turns away, pacing now, fury unraveling in every footstep. “This is bigger than you think.”
I follow. “Then explain it to me.”
“You want answers?” he snaps, spinning on me. “You want the truth?”
“Yes.”
He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. “Then listen carefully. Vicente wasn’t just a rat. He was bait.”
I blink. “What?”
“Navarro wanted me to find him. Wanted me to kill him. And now... you’ve just played into his hands.”
The room spins. “Why?”
Cassian’s eyes darken. “Because Navarro isn’t just a ghost.”
I swallow hard. “Who is he?”
His voice drops to a whisper. “He’s my brother.”
---
The words knock the air from my lungs.
My knees nearly give out.
“Your what?”
Cassian doesn’t repeat it.
He doesn’t have to.
I feel the weight of it settle between us like a loaded gun.
“I thought he was dead,” he says, voice hollow now. “We all did. My father made sure of it. Burned his name out of the books. Swore he’d never come back.”
“But he did,” I whisper.
Cassian nods. “He’s been building in the shadows. Poaching men. Resources. Vicente wasn’t his first.”
“And won’t be his last,” I finish.
He moves to the bar, pours his own drink this time. Throws it back like it burns. “He wants the throne.”
“Yours?”
He looks at me over his shoulder. “My father’s dead. The empire is mine now.”
“And your brother wants it.”
“He wants more than that,” Cassian says. “He wants me ruined.”
---
The room is thick with tension, with revelations I’m not ready for.
I sit down slowly on the edge of the bed, head in my hands. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you weren’t supposed to last this long.”
My head snaps up.
He watches me with something unreadable in his eyes.
“You were supposed to be another pretty face,” he says, voice quiet. “One I used and discarded.”
“That’s how you see me?”
“Not anymore.”
I stand. “So what then? What the f**k are we doing, Cassian?”
He crosses the room in two long strides, cups my jaw with one hand, and tilts my face up to meet his.
“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But I know this—Navarro will come. And when he does, you’ll have to choose.”
I frown. “Between what?”
He leans closer. His lips brush mine, not quite a kiss. A promise. Or a threat.
“Between the man who saved your life…”
He presses closer.
“…and the one who owns your soul.”
---
He kisses me then—rough, searching, desperate.
Not lust. Not need.
Control.
But he’s not the only one in control.
I push back.
Fingers grip, mouths clash. We stumble against the wall, furniture crashing. His towel falls. My shirt tears. Skin on skin. Breath on breath.
“I hate you,” I whisper into his mouth.
He smirks. “Liar.”
“Don’t touch me.”
“Then stop moaning.”
I bite his lip, hard.
He laughs.
It’s a sound that terrifies me with how much I want it.
---
We don’t sleep.
We f**k until dawn.
Hard. Dirty. Silent.
And in the morning, when I wake in tangled sheets and bruised promises, the spot next to me is cold.
He’s gone.
---
On the dresser sits a sealed envelope.
My name on the front in neat, sharp ink.
I tear it open.
Inside is a photograph.
Navarro.
Older now. Scarred. But unmistakable.
On the back, Cassian’s handwriting.
**“He’s in the city. You have one chance. Choose wisely.”**
And below that, a time.
**Tonight. Midnight.**
---
I crumple the photo in my hand.
Because I know what this is.
Not a warning.
A test.
- Writer
