Page 37 of Mason

I don’t know whether to be terrified or overjoyed. Him staying the night might mean I get to sit in front of the fire instead of laying chained to the bathtub. It may also mean a night of hell.

“I don’t have much choice,” he bites out. “Someone decided to tempt death and gallivant through the forest during a goddamn flood and freezing temps.”

I dare a smirk at his back. “So you’re trapped with me?”

The fire comes to life, illuminating his frame with an orange halo. “No. I need to make sure you don’t turn into a Klondike bar.”

“I’ll manage,” I lie. I’ve never been so cold in my life, and if he leaves me in that bathroom, I can’t promise not to have a nervous breakdown or seven.

“Ever made a fire?” he asks, finally turning to look at me. His blue eyes are softer than they were earlier, reminding me of the man I first met that egged me on. Not a murderer.

I shake my head, and he laughs.

“I should’ve known that.”

“I went to camp once,” I protest. “Day camp. I was eight, and we made wildflower headpieces.” I also hated every hour I was there, and it took place at a nice, normal park—not deep in the woods.

He laughs harder, running a hand over his face. “Useful survival skill.”

“What about you, big shot? You don’t look like you light many fires, pretty boy.”

The only ones he looks like he’s acquainted with are panty fires. Rachel always gushes about guys that scream sex and I never knew what she meant until now. This guy might be a criminal, but he’s more than easy on the eyes. I can totally picture him in one of those cologne commercials with the half-naked guy for no apparent reason. I’d buy a bottle, too.

He swallows hard, and the playfulness drains out of him. “I’ve started a lot of fires, kid.”

I raise a brow. “You go camping a lot?”

He nods. “Every summer growing up. Real camping, too. None of this glamping shit today. Tents, bonfires, and sleeping bags.” He waves around the room when he says glamping and I have to laugh.

“This is not glamping. This decrepit building is probably rougher than any tent. And at least a tent is mostly dry and doesn’t smell like an old boot.” They seem that way, at least. I’ve never been in one. Don’t plan on it, either.

“Spend a night in a tent during a rainstorm and then you can answer that,” he grumbles. “It’s fucking miserable.”

I rub my hands together, relieved to have some feeling back in them. “Did you forget I’ve spent the last few days chained to a bathtub?”

“It’ll only be worse now,” he replies, and that bubble of hope I dared to have pop. “Running away was a mistake, kid.”

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