Page 24 of Mason

Emily

The man crashes down, hitting the wooden floor in front of the toilet with a grunt. His body makes a satisfying thud, his arms barely preventing the back of his head from bouncing off the floor like a basketball.

Baiting him worked like a charm.

I stick with the plan, leaping onto the jeans-wearing stranger’s back when he pushes to his knees, exposing his back. I have one shot at this, and I’m going to make it count. Looping my cuffed hands over his head, I hook the handcuffs’ center chain over his throat to choke him.

Unfortunately, this idea worked a lot better in theory than in practice.

For one, I’ve never been in a fight in my life. Sure, I’ve tackled Anna for helping herself to my wardrobe and punched Diana Goodall in sixth grade for calling me a mafia bitch, but I’ve never had to go hand-to-hand with anyone. Especially a full-grown man.

Putting my plan into motion is a lot harder than I imagined. I wholly misjudged his strength, and the man who sounded weaker than the stranger from Down Under is actually a hell of a lot stronger than his sinister friend, with broad shoulders and a tall, athletic frame that’s rock hard as I struggle to wrap my legs around his waist and choke him at the same time like a homicidal backpack.

Of course, I knew all of this looking at him in the doorway when he showed up here unannounced, but I still needed to try. I won’t sit chained like a dog and behave. I need to fight.

But I barely have my hands under his chin when he reaches back, grips my upper arms in his powerful hands, and hoists me up and over him like a rag doll. I can’t hold on, and rather than leapfrog with grace, I meet the gritty floor headfirst and see stars.

This is it. I’m dead.

The tumble sends my dress hiking up, leaving my thong-clad bottom half pointing squarely at the man. I tug at the hem as my face burns with embarrassment, but not before he lands a vicious swat across my bare ass, making me cry out almost as loudly as the slap’s crack against my flesh.

“What the fuck?” I sputter, scrambling to right my dress and get away from him. But I barely have any chain slack, so all I accomplish is a measly foot at most.

His muscled frame flexes as he pushes to his feet, practically snarling like an attack dog. His shoulders only get wider as he inches higher, looming above as I cower into the side of the claw foot tub, shackled down like a tetherball if he gets slap-happy again.

Okay, the plan was definitely stupid as hell to attempt.

I’m all of five-foot-five. This man is at least six feet tall and looks like he’s double my weight in pure muscle. I’d be outmatched even if I had a flamethrower.

“You attacked me,” he grinds out in a gravelly rasp, his blue eyes burning under heavy brows.

If I had the ability to, this would be my cue to run. To run like hell and never look back.

I throw my hands in front of my face to shield any blows, my heart hammering against my ribs. “You were going to hit me!” I squeak, knowing damn well I would’ve attacked him even if he hadn’t stormed over like an angry grizzly ready to paw me into the next millennium. Honestly, I want to take another stab at it, but after introducing my face to the floor, I need a moment to recover.

“No, I wasn’t.”

I peek between my hands, glimpsing at the man’s frown. If I passed him on the street, I might say he’s handsome with his bold blue eyes and dark gold waves, which feels all sorts of fucked up as soon as the thought crosses my mind. He’s my fucking kidnapper. Not a GQ model. I have no business finding him remotely attractive. He’s a criminal. A low-life.

I lower my hands, relatively sure he won’t strike. “You just did!”

He leans in, all but baring his teeth at me. A desire to choke the life out of me shines in his eyes. Uh, shitty call on the whole not going to strike thing. “You misbehaved.”

I blink, confused. “So you slapped my ass? You kidnapped me! What the fuck?”

Do kidnappers dole out spankings nowadays? Who the hell are these people?

He shrugs, backing out of reach. “Bad kids get smacked on the ass all the time.”

This fucker is ridiculous. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear Papa hired these clowns to teach me a lesson. I might’ve believed it if it weren’t for the whole drugging and chaining me to a bathtub thing.

I roll my eyes. “I’m not a kid, buddy.” I’ve seen shit no person my age has. Guns. Beatdowns. Courtrooms. Clearly, he’s the rookie in this business.

His expression is bored as he adjusts the sleeves of his black pullover that bunched up during our little tussle. “Sure, Emily.”

“How do you know my name?” I snap. I’m getting really tired of this shit. I don’t know him or his buddy, yet both are throwing around my name like we’re old pals.

He smirks, infuriating me all the more. “You told me your father’s name, sweet-cake.”

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