But she hadn’t, and now she had to bear the consequences.

She forced herself to stand and greet Rafe with her chin up. “Come in,” she said, trying to sound . . . well, not as dejected as she felt. I’ve fucked it all up.

Not all of it. Gideon said you’d be all right. He doesn’t lie.

No, he didn’t lie. He never had. Everyone else back then had lied to her, but Gideon had always told her the truth. He’d always been there for her, taking her punishments, making sure she had enough to eat even if it meant he’d gone hungry. She never would have believed what Eden had said about him if her mother had refuted it, but Rhoda hadn’t. Mercy had begged her mother to tell her that it wasn’t so, that Gideon hadn’t left them to suffer, but her mother had allowed her to continue believing it until that night in the bed of DJ’s truck.

She now understood her mother’s reasons, even though she remained a little bitter. Her mother had known that if Mercy knew the truth about Gideon when she was nine years old, she would have openly defied the lies of the Eden leadership, causing her own punishment and endangering Gideon’s safety. Rhoda had ensured Gideon’s escape through perpetuating the lie, but none of any of this was Gideon’s fault.

The door opened and Rafe appeared, his face somber, his eyes soft. No judgments. His mouth lifted in a rueful half smile as he closed the door behind him and she was suddenly frozen in place, caught between the desperate need to flee and . . .

An even more desperate need to stay. To feel safe again. To feel accepted. Wanted.

It was selfish, so damn selfish, but she wanted Rafe Sokolov to hold her. Even if she was going to have to tell him it would never work out. They had different lives. They lived in different parts of the country. But none of that seemed to matter at the moment.

He hadn’t said a word since entering the room, leaning heavily on his cane as he slowly made his way toward her. Giving me time to run. But she didn’t run, the understanding in his gaze making her chest tight. New tears clogged her throat again and she didn’t have the energy to hold them back.

“Hell, Mercy,” he murmured when he reached her. He propped his cane against the chair in which she’d been sitting and opened his arms.

Without hesitation, she walked into them, shuddering when his arms closed around her, holding her as she cried. She wasn’t sure how long they stood there, but she felt the tensing of his body as he leaned his hip into the chair. He was hurting.

I’m hurting him. She tried to pull away, but his arms tightened their grip. “You need to sit.”

“Don’t go,” he murmured into her ear, making her shudder again as he shuffled them sideways and lowered them into the chair. Together. She was sitting on his lap, her weight resting on his good leg, the injured one stretched out straight.