Page 18 of Mason

“Dix…” I trail, but he shakes his head.

“We need to do this for Spencer. Let me do what I do best. You do what you do best: keep your mouth shut and ears open. I’ll be in touch.”

He slips out the door, leaving me alone in the gritty shack that reeks of dirt and neglect.

The only cabinet in the place sits on the far wall with its door hanging off the hinges, a flashlight atop its stained counter aiming at the ceiling to supply light. The cabin has a small propane generator to run the plumbing to the well and septic tank, but other than that, it lacks wiring for lighting or appliances.

A moan comes from behind the bathroom door, pulling my eyes from the disrepair.

Fuck.

I hoped for a little more time to come up with a plan before facing Giambelli’s kid. I’m not in the right headspace to deal with another crisis. All cylinders are still moving at full steam over Spencer. I want to kill someone, not care for someone like a pet.

Dixon said she was contained, but I highly doubt that means just locked in the bathroom. That’s too simple. Knowing him, he has her in a fucking dog cage with a collar.

I cross the room, stopping to listen at the door and hoping she’s just stirring in her sleep. God only knows what the fuck he’d slipped her. He isn’t exactly orthodox in his decisions. The poor girl could have enough horse tranquilizers running through her veins to down a lineup at the Kentucky Derby.

Another moan erupts with a clank of metal against the wooden floor.

Reaching into my pocket, I extract my cell, flipping its flashlight on with a deep breath as I grip the door handle. I ease the door open, and there’s another shuffle, the sound coming from the corner by the toilet.

I shine the flashlight toward it and feel an unfamiliar ache in my chest at the sight. One of pure pity.

There in a ball sits a woman propped against the wall.

A girl, really.

Early twenties at most, with cuffed wrists, the binds attached to a chain at their center. The short length of metal wraps around the base of the claw foot tub, anchoring her like a dog on a leash.

Dark brown waves hang around her oval face, her cheek bearing an angry hand-shaped welt. Inky makeup streaks from her eyes, their long lashes resting against flawless olive skin. She looks like a doll rescued from the brink of hell.

I pry my eyes from her face downward, exploring the black dress that barely covers a petite body, the hem bunched on her hips to show off a lacy black triangle between her legs while a plunging neckline reveals tanned cleavage.

Any man with functioning eyes would give a nut for a chance to fuck her. But my mind immediately goes to the chill. She has to be cold. It’s October, and this shit hole has no heat.

She’s pathetic. Helpless.

God, I want to strangle Dixon.

She has no place in our world.

This is precisely why I have no interest in settling down. This girl could very well be my own daughter someday, caught up in some bullshit she has no idea about. Killed for sins she didn’t commit.

Tipping off Giambelli would’ve been the easier route by a mile. At least she’d be home in her own bed instead of … this. No one deserves what she’ll wake to. Even if she’s a Giambelli.

Before I can turn away, Sleeping Beauty’s lashes flutter and her lips part with an agonized moan.

---