⊰ 20.5 | 3 ⊱ My Salvation: Part 3

**Content Advisory: Graphic depictions of violence, psychological trauma, and unhealthy coping mechanisms that may be triggering. Reader discretion is strongly advised.**

⊰ **Marcel** ⊱

I sit on the sofa, the room spinning around me, the crystal glass clutched in my hand, the rich amber liquid sloshing against the sides as I bring it to my lips. The alcohol burns as it slides down my throat, but it’s a welcome pain, a distraction from the all-consuming torment that threatens to tear me apart.

*They’re gone. My parents…they’re really gone.*

The thought is a relentless hammer, pounding against the inside of my skull. Every time I close my eyes, I see it. The box, the blood, the heads… I see their faces—my mother’s once warm, loving eyes now blank and lifeless; my father’s strong, proud features twisted in agony. It plays over and over in my mind, a sickening loop that I can’t escape, a nightmare made flesh.

*And it’s all my fault.*

I should have seen this coming. I should have been prepared. Luciano…he’s a devil, a sadistic bastard who will stop at nothing to destroy me. But this? This is a new level of cruelty, even for him.

My mind races, going over and over the events of the day, trying to piece together the puzzle, to find the missing piece. Who knew about Mercy’s field test? Who knew about my father going to pick up my mother at the airport?

*Santiago, Levi, Rick, Miguel, Amado…*

Each name is a stab of suspicion, a twist of the knife in my gut. Someone betrayed me. Someone sold out my family. And when I find who…there will be no mercy. No forgiveness.

The rage simmers beneath my skin, a living thing, clawing at my insides, begging for release. I want to scream, to break, to burn the whole fucking world down around me until there’s nothing left but ash and dust.

“Marcel?”

Her voice cuts through the haze of my thoughts, pulling me back from the brink. I look up, blinking away the blur of alcohol to find Mercy standing before me, her face a mask of worry and concern. She’s beautiful, even like this—her hair tousled from sleep, her eyes wide and shining, her lip caught between her teeth.

When did she wake up? How long has she been standing here, watching me drown?

“Your phone is ringing,” she says softly, holding out the device, the screen lit up with an incoming call, the vibration almost mocking in the stillness of the room.

I take it from her, glancing over the screen. 13 missed calls from Alessandra, 5 from Santiago, and now Levi’s name flashes insistently. A surge of irritation, of blind, seething anger, rises up in me.

Can’t they see I don’t want to talk? Don’t they understand that their empty words and platitudes mean nothing?

With a snarl, I hurl the phone across the room. It shatters against the wall, pieces of glass and metal raining down, skittering across the floor. Mercy flinches, a gasp escaping her lips, her hand flying to her heart, her face etched with terror and worry.

*Good. Let her be afraid. Let the whole fucking world be afraid.*

I lean forward, reaching for the decanter on the coffee table, desperate for the numbness, the oblivion of the alcohol, the sweet burn that will chase away the images and memories. But before I can grasp the crystal stopper, Mercy’s hand is on my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so…delicate.

“Marcel?” she whispers, her voice trembling, a quiet plea. “What’s going on? Talk to me, please.”

I look up at her, my eyes narrowing, a challenge in my gaze, a threat. But she doesn’t let go, her grip tightening in defiance.

*Valiente criatura. Insensata, pero valiente.*

(*Brave little thing. Foolish, but brave.*)

Slowly, deliberately, I stand, towering over her. Still, she doesn’t let go. Even as I close the distance between us, my face mere inches from hers. She swallows hard, her breath hitching in her throat.

“You’re scaring me…” she breathes, her voice small and fragile.

Something in me cracks at the sound, at the sight of her wide, frightened eyes. I raise my hand, cupping her chin, my thumb brushing over the plump swell of her lower lip. She shivers under my touch, her skin flushed and warm.

*I need her. I need to feel in control. I need to* be *in control.*

I lean in, my lips ghosting over hers in the barest of touches. She shivers, her eyes fluttering closed, her body swaying towards mine. I trail my mouth along the soft curve of her cheek, down the slender column of her throat, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse beneath my lips.

“Baby, I need you,” I murmur, my voice rough and raw with need and desperation.

Her eyes open, meeting mine, a world of understanding dancing in them. Before she can respond, I crash my mouth to hers, kissing her with a ferocity that borders on violence. I pour everything into that kiss—my grief, my rage, my desperate, clawing desire. I need to lose myself in her, to forget, if only for a moment, the hell that my life has turned into.

I push her against the wall, my hands yanking at her shirt, tearing it from her body with reckless abandon. The flimsy fabric gives way beneath my hands, ripping, but I don’t care. I need to feel her skin against mine. I need to taste her, to have her, to *claim* her.

I bite at her neck, sucking hard, marking her as mine. She gasps, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. “Marcel,” she moans, her voice thick with need. “Hurt me.”

*Just what I want.*

I spin her around, my hand coming down on her ass with a sharp crack. She cries out, a heady mix of pain and pleasure. “You like that, don’t you?” I growl, spanking her again. “You like it when I’m rough with you.”

“Yes,” she gasps, pushing her ass back against my hand. “I want it.”

I grab her hair, yanking her head back as my other hand comes down on her cheek in a stinging slap. She moans, her body shuddering against mine. “Beg for it,” I demand, my voice harsh, guttural. “Beg me to fuck you.”

“Please, Marcel,” she whimpers, her voice desperate, needy. “Please fuck me. I need you inside me. I need you, please.”

The control that I was desperate for suddenly no longer matters, because in the next moment, it snaps, the leash of my restraint fraying to nothing. I yank down her panties, baring the sweet curve of her ass, the glistening pink of her pussy as I bend her over the arm of the sofa, kicking her legs apart. I can’t wait, can’t go slow, the need pounding through my veins like a drum.

I free myself from my pants, stroking my cock, hissing at the sensation, the almost painful throb of my arousal. I line up, the head of my cock nudging at her entrance, teasing, tormenting us both. I don’t bother with finesse or gentleness. I slam into her, burying myself to the hilt in one brutal thrust, the feel of her, hot and tight and perfect, making my head swim, my vision blur.

She cries out, her back arching, her nails scrabbling at the leather, her body taking me, yielding to me. I set a punishing pace, my hips snapping against hers, my fingers digging into her hips, leaving bruises, claiming her.

I tangle my hand in her hair, wrenching her head back, my lips at her ear. “Is this what you wanted?” I rasp, my breath hot against her skin. “To be fucked and used? Answer me!”

“Yes!” she sobs, her voice breaking, her body trembling. “Yes, yes, yes, please…” she chants, her voice a broken litany of pleasure. “Harder, Marcel. Fuck me harder. Make me feel it.”

I comply, slamming into her with a force that borders on savage and has her screaming. The obscene slap of skin on skin fills the room, mingling with our harsh breathing, our animalistic grunts and moans. With my fingers still tangled in her hair, the smooth column of her throat exposed, my other hand wraps around her neck, squeezing just hard enough to make her gasp, to make her feel owned, possessed.

“You’re mine,” I snarl, punctuating each word with a brutal snap of my hips. “Say it! Say you belong to me.”

“I’m yours,” she cries, her voice high and breathy, desperate. “Always yours, Marcel. Only yours. Please, don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

I lose myself in the heat of her body, the tight, slick grip of her around me. I pour all my pain, all my fury into each punishing thrust, each bruising kiss. She takes it all, begging for more, screaming my name, until she’s worn and babbling. A litany of pleas and apologies fall from her lips, begging for forgiveness, for absolution of sins she hasn’t committed.

“I’m sorry,” she chants, her voice ragged. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll be good, I promise…”

The words pierce through the haze of lust and rage, striking at something deep inside me.

*Mi muñeca perfecta…*

(*My perfect doll…*)

I gentler my grip, my thrusts slowing, softening. I press kisses to her shoulder, her neck, murmuring reassurances against her skin as I release her hair and slip my hand between her thighs, massaging her swollen clit.

“Sh…baby doll, it’s okay,” I soothe, my voice hoarse, shaky. “Such a good girl for me, always so good. I’ve got you.”

She cums with a shuddering cry, her body convulsing around me, milking me, pulling me over the edge into a blissful oblivion. As I expel into her, I bury my face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her, letting it wash over me, through me, chasing away the pain.

For a few precious moments, I am at peace, the world reduced to the feel of her, the sound of our hearts beating in tandem, the knowledge that she is mine, wholly and completely.

*I love you.*

I want to say, the words burning on my tongue, aching in my chest.

*I love you so fucking much. I love you. I love you.*

But I swallow them back. If I say it, if I tell her how I feel, I’m afraid it’ll all come crashing down and I won’t be able to hold myself together.

Instead, I pull myself out of her and turn her to me. With a tender kiss to the lips, I gather her in my arms, carrying her to the bed. I lay her down gently, stripping the rest of my clothes before sliding under the sheets with her, pulling her close and unwilling to let her go.

We lay there, tangled in the sheets, our limbs entwined, our breathing slowly evening out. Her head rests on my chest, her ear pressed to my heart, as if she needs reassurance of its steady beat, of the proof of my existence.

Silence stretches between us, the ghosts of the day hovering at the edges, waiting to reclaim me. I know I can’t keep them at bay forever. I know that the grief, the rage, the all-consuming need for vengeance will come rushing back, a tidal wave I can’t escape.

But for now, in this moment, with Mercy in my arms, her warmth seeping into my bones, her love a balm to my shattered soul, I can pretend. I can pretend that everything is okay, that the world hasn’t tilted off its axis, that I haven’t lost the very foundation of my life.

“My parents are dead,” I say finally, my voice flat, toneless, the words falling from my lips like bullets. “Luciano killed them.”

Mercy goes still beside me, her breath catching in her throat. Slowly, she lifts her head, her eyes finding mine in the dim light of the lamp on the nightstand. They shine with tears, wide and horrified.

“He tortured them,” I continue, my voice flat, distant, as if I’m speaking of someone else’s tragedy. “Dismembered them. He sent me their heads in a box. It’s sitting downstairs, on the coffee table in the parlor. Along with a video of…of what he did to them.”

A sob tears from her throat, her hand flying to her mouth, her face crumpling in anguish. She buries her face in my neck, her tears hot against my skin. Her arms tighten around me, holding me close, as if she can somehow shield me from the agony and devastation.

“I’m so sorry, my love,” she whispers, her voice cracking, breaking. “I’m so, so sorry.”

She pulls back, her hand coming up to cradle my face, her eyes searching mine, and I know what she sees—the emptiness, the helpless rage, the yawning, aching void that threatens to swallow me whole.

“Marcel, please,” she begs, her voice desperate, pleading. “Don’t go where I can’t follow. Stay with me. I’m right here. I won’t let you…”

*Don’t do that. Please, don’t do this.*

Her words, the raw desperation, the pure love shining in her eyes… it undoes me. It shatters something inside me, some last, fragile barrier holding back the wave of grief and agony. A sob tears from my throat, raw and wretched, and suddenly, I’m crying, great, heaving gasps that shake my entire body.

*Damn it! Fuck!*

I bury my face in her neck, clinging to her like a drowning man to a life raft. She holds me, her arms tight around my shoulders, her fingers stroking my hair, her lips pressing soft kisses to the side of my head.

“I’m here,” she murmurs, her voice a gentle light in the darkness. “I’m here, my love. I won’t let you go.”

And for a moment, just a moment, I let myself believe her. I let myself hope that maybe, just maybe we can find a way through this. That maybe, with her by my side, I can walk out of this with a semblance of the man she needs me to be.

*For you. My Mercy, I’ll hold on just for you.*

I cling to her, to her strength, to her unwavering devotion. She is my rock, my anchor in the storm, the one bright spot in the darkness threatening to consume me.

Then, I hear it. I hear *her* praying softly, and I feel a flicker of something else, something deeper that makes my skin breakout in goosebumps.

Slowly, gradually, the sobs subside, the tears drying on my cheeks. I lift my head, meeting her gaze, seeing the love, the understanding, the fierce protectiveness shining in her eyes,

And I know. I know that when this is all over, *she* will lead me to my salvation.

She is my mercy.