⊰ 24.5 | 2 ⊱ Shelter
⊰ **Marcel** ⊱
The silence of Mercy’s study envelops me as I step inside, the soft click of the door closing behind me barely registering over the tumultuous thoughts swirling in my mind. My eyes sweep over the familiar surroundings, taking in every detail as if for the first time.
The plush couch and chaise beckon invitingly. Towering bookshelves line one of the walls, their shelves laden with countless books, the titles a mix of familiar classics and obscure texts that only Mercy could appreciate. The soft glow of the lamp on her desk casts a warm light, the delicate glass shade casting intricate patterns on the polished wood surface.
It’s a sanctuary, a place where Mercy can lose herself in her studies, in the world of knowledge and discovery she loves so much. But as I lower myself onto the sofa, I can’t shake the feeling of unease, of the distance that’s been growing between us, threatening to destroy us.
*Where did I go wrong?*
The thought echoes in my mind, a taunting refrain that refuses to be silenced. I stare blankly ahead, my fingers drumming a restless rhythm on my thigh. The expensive fabric of my tailored slacks is smooth beneath my fingertips, but I hardly notice, too consumed by the nagging sense that I’m losing her.
Why does she feel like she can’t talk to me? Why does it feel like we’re drifting apart, even as we share the same bed, the same home, the same life? I’ve tried so hard to be the man she needs, the husband she deserves. But lately, it feels like I take steps that only drive us further apart, like I’m fighting a losing battle against an enemy I can’t even see.
Then again, I haven’t exactly been forthcoming with her either.
I keep so much from her, so many secrets and harsh truths, all in the name of protecting her. I’ve rationalized it, convinced myself that it’s for her own good, that the less she knows about the criminal underworld I live in, the better off she’ll be. But now, sitting here in the stillness of her study, surrounded by the evidence of her brilliant mind, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve been fooling myself all along.
*Was I trying to protect her? Or was I just trying to protect myself?*
Neither of us have been better off with the lies, the secrecy. All I’ve succeeded in doing is building walls between us.
If we can’t trust each other, if we can’t be honest with one another…what do we have left? What is a marriage without trust, without the bone-deep certainty that your partner will stand by you, no matter what storms may come?
*I can’t lose her. I won’t survive it.*
The sound of the door opening startles me from my thoughts, and I glance up to see Mercy stepping into the room. She’s as beautiful as ever in a simple sweater and leggings, her hair braided. She freezes when she sees me, surprise flickering across her face.
“Marcel,” she breathes, my name falling from her lips like a question. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
I don’t respond, my gaze tracking her as she moves further into the room, my eyes drinking in every detail of her, committing it to memory as if it’s the last time I’ll ever see her. She pauses at the coffee table, her delicate hands reaching out to light the candle that sits atop it, the warm glow casting soft shadows across the planes of her face, highlighting the gentle curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips.
*When did I stop paying attention to you? How could I when you look like that?*
She looks ethereal in this light, her beauty almost painful to behold. My heart aches with how much I love her, with the depth of my need for her. She is the very air I breathe, the beat of my heart, the blood in my veins. Without her, I am nothing, a husk of a man.
*I can’t lose you. I can’t.*
I watch her as she takes a book from the shelf, the same well-worn volume she was reading on her birthday, the day that now feels like a lifetime ago. With a graceful movement, she settles onto the sofa beside me, her weight sinking into the cushions, her thigh just barely brushing against mine.
Even that small contact feels like a great empty space, a gaping void that separates us, and it cuts me to the core, a sharp, stabbing pain that steals the breath from my lungs.
Hesitantly, afraid she’ll pull away, I reach out and drape my arm around her shoulders, my fingers trembling slightly as I gently tug her into my side, closing the distance between us. For a moment, she stiffens, her body tense against mine, and I brace myself for the rejection, for the moment she’ll inevitably push away from me.
She never does.
Instead, slowly, she relaxes, melting into me as the tension dissipates, her soft curves molding to the hard planes of my body like she was made to fit there, like we were two halves of a whole, finally reunited.
I run my fingers through her hair, marveling at the silky strands that slip through my fingers like water, savoring the warmth of her scalp beneath my fingertips as I massage gentle circles, trying to pour all my love, all my adoration, into the simple touch as though it’ll fix us.
We sit this way for a while, the silence heavy but not uncomfortable, both of us lost in the bittersweet ache of a moment that feels both precious and fleeting.
Finally, I speak, my voice low and rough, the words scraping against my subtly numb throat from the scotch like shards of glass. “Do you feel like you can’t talk to me?”
She goes still, her fingers pausing on the page she was about to turn, the paper crinkling slightly beneath her touch. Slowly, she lifts her gaze to mine, her hazel eyes searching, wary, a flicker of something unreadable passing behind them.
“I don’t know,” she admits quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.
*You don’t know or you don’t want to say?*
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for her response, the answer I’m not sure I’m ready to hear. “I know about the file,” I say, keeping my tone as calm and neutral as possible, even as my heart races in my chest. “The one with copies of the evidence the CIA has against me.”
Her eyes widen, a flicker of panic crossing her face, her lips parting slightly as if to speak, to defend herself. But to my surprise, she doesn’t pull away, doesn’t try to hide or deny it. Instead, she carefully closes the book, setting it aside with a deliberate movement as she rises to her feet.
I watch her, my heart in my throat, as she moves to the desk, her steps purposeful. She opens a drawer, and retrieves a thick manila folder, crisp and undamaged as if left untouched.
She hands it to me without a word, her eyes downcast, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” she says softly, regret lacing her words. “With everything that’s happened…I forgot I even had it.”
With trembling fingers, I flip the file open, the pages rustling quietly as I thumb through them. My gaze lands on a photograph of a man I shot two years ago, his lifeless eyes staring up at me from the glossy paper, a single, perfect bullet hole marring the center of his forehead.
Bile rises in my throat, shame and self-loathing threatening to consume me, to drag me down into the depths of my own personal hell.
*She’s seen this. She knows what I am, what I’ve done. She’s seen the monster that I’ve tried to hide from her, the darkness that stains my soul.*
I snap the file shut, unable to look at it a moment longer. I can feel the weight of her gaze on me, and it makes me want to jump out of my own skin, to hide somewhere, where she can’t see me.
But before the darkness can pull me under, before I can retreat into the bleak abyss of my own self-hatred, Mercy’s hand is on mine, her touch gentle, grounding as she lowers herself to sit beside me once more.
“I never looked at it,” she says, her voice firm. “As much as I wanted to, as tempted as I was…I couldn’t betray your trust like that. I wanted to respect your wishes of keeping me away from what you do, even if it killed me inside.”
*She didn’t look..?*
My eyes snap up to meet hers, my heart stalling in my chest for a brief moment. Even now, with everything I’ve put her through, all the secrets and the lies and the half-truths, she’s still loyal to me. She’s still committed to us, to the vows we made before God and man.
*I don’t deserve you. I never have.*
I toss the file onto the coffee table in front of us, cupping her face with my hands. My thumbs brush over the delicate curves of her cheekbones, embracing the softness of her skin, marveling at the way she feels beneath my touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a brief, perfect moment.
“I’m tired too, Mercy,” I confess, my voice raw, broken. “I don’t want to do it anymore. I don’t want to lie to you. I don’t want to keep secrets from you. I don’t want to be a part of this life anymore. I can’t.”
Her eyes fill with tears, understanding and sorrow etched into every line of her face. She leans into my touch, her lips pressing a soft kiss to my palm, the warmth of her breath ghosting over my skin.
“It’s okay,” she whispers, her voice a lifeline. “You don’t have to hide from me.”
*You wouldn’t want anything to do with me if I didn’t…*
I shake my head, a bitter laugh escaping my lips as my touch falls away from her. “You don’t understand,” I say, my voice rough. “If you knew, if you could see inside my mind…you’d be disgusted. You’d run as far and as fast as you could, and you’d never look back.”
She starts to protest, her lips parting to speak, but I cut her off, the words spilling out of me in a desperate rush.
“I didn’t mourn my father’s death,” I confess, the words tasting like ashes on my tongue. “A part of me was relieved. It was my mother, losing her…that’s what broke me. And if I had to kill him myself, if I had to put a bullet between his eyes and watch the life drain from his body…I’d do it a million times over if it meant having her back.”
I’m breathing hard, my chest heaving with the force of my confession, my heart pounding furiously against my ribs. I brace myself for her reaction, for the disgust, the horror I’m sure I’ll see in her eyes.
It never comes.
Instead, she takes my face in her hands, her touch firm, her gaze fierce, boring into mine with an intensity that makes my heart stop.
“I don’t blame you,” she says, her voice ringing with conviction. “Your father…he wasn’t a good man, Marcel. He hurt so many people and caused so much pain. You are *not* a monster for feeling the way you do, for wanting to protect the ones you love, even if it means doing terrible things.”
A sob catches in my throat, tears burning my eyes, blurring my vision. I cling to her, burying my face in the crook of her neck, breathing in her scent, the warmth of her skin, the steady thrum of her pulse against my lips.
“Please don’t leave me,” I beg, my voice muffled against her throat, my fingers tangling her hair, holding her like she’s the only thing keeping me tethered to this world. “You’re all I have, Mercy. You’re everything. Without you…I’m nothing.”
She holds me tighter, her arms banding around me like steel, her fingers threading through my hair, her lips pressing kisses to my temple, my cheek, the corner of my mouth.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she promises, a vow that sears itself into my very soul. “I love you, Marcel. No matter what. I’ll always love you. I just need you to let me in. Don’t hide from me.”
*Why am I so afraid? After everything we’ve been through…I should know better.*
I lift my head, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss, pouring every ounce of my love, my need, my desperate, aching desire into the press of my lips against hers.
She matches me with equal fervor, her fingers digging into my shoulders, her body arching into mine, seeking, demanding, taking what I so freely offer. We shed our clothes in a frantic rush, buttons popping, fabric tearing, neither of us caring about the destruction we leave in our wake.
I need to feel her, to lose myself in her, to bury myself in her warmth, her gentleness, her love until there’s nothing left of me but the part that belongs to her, the part that will always be hers.
I carry her onto my lap, her legs straddling me, her pooling heat rubbing against my throbbing cock. As she sinks onto me, her walls fluttering and clenching around me, drawing me deeper, inch by inch, I know she is home. She is my shelter.
With her, I am whole, I am complete, I am *alive* in a way I’ve never been before.
“I love you,” I gasp against her lips, her hips snapping against me, my hands guiding her with a force that borders on desperation. “Baby doll, I love you so fucking much. You’re my everything…”
“I love you, Marcel…” she moans against me, her nails scoring down my shoulders, her cries of pleasure mingling with my own, driving me higher and harder. We chase our release together, our bodies moving in perfect sync, a primal visceral connection that speaks to something deep and fundamental within us.
Over and over again, we make love to each other, until our bodies can’t take any more, and we lose ourselves in the aftermath, our hearts beating as one.