Mercy [boyxboy]

Chapter Ten

Beside him, Bentley inhales sharply, the weight of Cerberus' words hanging heavily in the night air.

Mercy swallows as fear encompasses him, ripping through him like a serrated knife. "Bentley," he says calmly. "I need you to go back to Spencer's."

"Uh—"

"Right now."

Cerberus shifts, withdrawing his hands from his hoodie slowly, almost apathetically. His face remains blank as he regards Bentley, cool blue eyes looking him up and down lethargically. "I'd much rather he stay," he says, speaking softly, tone velvety smooth and not at all threatening. Curious perhaps, but nothing about his tone suggests he means Bentley harm. And that's what's so incredibly terrifying about the candid way in which Cerberus does things, with no real emotion or caring—without feeling. As if he could watch the world burn and not feel a damn thing.

Mercy steadies his breathing, clenching his hands into fists the moment they begin to tremble, heartbeat ratcheting up as his gaze darts to Bentley—because he can't, he can't be the reason he gets hurt. His own torment he can stomach but the mere thought of Bentley enduring Cerberus' special brand of cruelty makes Mercy's throat close up, raw and dry—parched by fear.

He cannot allow that to happen.

"I'd rather he not," Mercy manages to say, only just keeping his voice from wavering by sheer force of will.

"Hmm," Cerberus exhales, running long, slender fingers through his unruly dark chocolate locks, gold signet ring catching the moonlight with an ominous glint. "I don't recall asking you what you'd rather." He fixes his eyes on Mercy then, the chilling detachment of his stare sending a creeping shiver down his spine. Just as quick, he looks away, back to sizing up Bentley with bored indifference. His sneakers squeak as he strides forward. "What's your name?" he asks Bentley gently, almost hypnotically.

Bentley stares wide-eyed at Cerberus, a deer caught in headlights.

Cerberus tilts his head to the side, the gesture lazy. "Well?"

"…B-Bentley Ca-Carthridge, uh, s-sir," Bentley stammers, casting his eyes down towards the ground, his face paling as his demeanor stiffens with fright.

Cerberus says nothing for a long moment. "I see." He rolls his shoulders distractedly as he takes another step closer to Bentley. "Don't worry," he assures him smoothly, abruptly, "This won't hurt a bit."

Without warning, his hand snatches out, forefinger and middle finger digging painfully into Bentley's left temple as his thumb presses in against his cheek, ring finger and pinky bent in towards his palm. His eyes flutter close, shuttering as he grimaces in slight discomfort.

Mercy's reaction is immediate. "Cerberus, no," he objects, voice coming out as little more than a hoarse whisper, words strangled and filled with blatant terror. His feet move without permission, slapping against the cobblestone walkway as he takes off with force, trembling hands icing over with startling swiftness. He feels the sharp, ice-made knife forming in his hand before it's even a coherent thought. With dexterity he didn't know he possessed, Mercy flicks his wrist upwards and presses the blade firmly to Cerberus' jugular. The adrenaline coursing through his veins is the only reason his hand remains steady, though his heart is about ready to beat out of his chest. "Let him go," he demands, words strong and sure—unwavering.

If Cerberus is surprised, he doesn't show it. "Go on," he urges, eyes still shut tightly. "Slit my throat."

His hand falters, grip weakening. Could he do it? Could he really slit his own brother's throat? He swallows thickly, the panic winning out against the adrenaline with crippling fierceness. Cerberus' hand slowly comes up to encircle Mercy's wrist. "If I let go now," he says simply, lids opening to reveal opaque irises, "he'll be an invalid. Is that what you want?" He speaks in that tone of his again, curious yet not quite malicious; uncaring.