Page 162 of Merciless

Is that Stockholm Syndrome?

The clank of the lock on my door disengaging startles me and I quickly close my notebook and wait to see who’s going to appear.

Is it wrong that my heart picks up speed as I think about seeing Reid after suspecting he watched?

“Hey, Dove,” JD says as he pokes his healing face into my cell.

“Hey,” I say with a smile, trying to ignore the wave of disappointment that washes through me that it’s not Reid. “How is he?” I ask, fully aware that he was fulfilling my request this morning to go and find out how Mav is after the fight.

“His usual miserable self,” he says with a smirk.

“He’s not miserable,” I argue, immediately jumping to my husband’s defense.

“No, I know. I trust your judgment, and if you say he’s decent, then I’ve got to believe you.”

“You’d believe me over his and Reid’s lifetime rivalry?” I ask, shocked.

He shrugs.

“I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and judge for myself. I’ve never had a reason to before.”

“Fair enough.”

“Here,” he says, holding up a bag I didn’t see him carrying. “I got you some goodies.”

The second he places the bag on the end of the cot, I dive for it.

“Oh my God, donuts,” I practically scream as I throw the box open and stuff one into my mouth. “Heywhatareyoudoing?” I mumble around a huge bite when he also picks one up and lifts it to his lips like he’s going to devour it.

“I bought them for us. But it’s good to know your stance on sharing food,” he teases before making a show of eating almost half in just one bite.

“You’re not locked up in a cell,” I point out. “You can eat donuts whenever you want,” I sulk.

“The guilt trip won’t work,” he warns me, before throwing the rest of the sugary treat into his mouth.

“You’ve got a little…” I reach out to wipe the icing from his lip, but at the last minute, he grips the back of my head and drags me close so I can lick it off instead.

“Missed you,” he murmurs, making the butterflies in my stomach flutter happily.

“Is he really okay?” I ask, unable to latch onto that comment. I want so badly to believe it, but I know it would be too dangerous to do so.

“Yeah. His face isn’t pretty, but that’s not new. Hey,” he complains when I slap his shoulder. “He was suffering with a killer hangover though.”

“I bet your sparkling personality really helped with that,” I tease, more than aware of what Mav is like with a hangover.

“He’d smashed a bottle of whiskey and walked over the glass.”

“Oh, shit.” My heart aches hearing that he’s hurt again and I’m still not there to help.

“Fucking prude wouldn’t even let me help.”

“I’m not sure that’s the definition of a prude, Julian.”

“Whatever. I offered to be his nurse and fix him up, but he wasn’t having any of it.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“See miserable.”