Page 41 of Mason

“No.” Just as soon as the word slips out, she falls quiet, other than the chattering of her teeth.

I adjust the blanket over my chest. “You sound like one of those wind-up denture toys.”

“You sound like an asshole.”

I smile. “Come on. You’re cold. I won’t tell your daddy that you have the hots for me.”

Her sleeping bag scrapes against the floor, no doubt because she’s sitting up in outrage. “I do not have the hots for you!”

“Then what are you afraid of?” I challenge. I hate to admit it, but poking this spitting cobra is my new favorite game.

“Nothing,” she barks. “I just don’t want to sleep next to a murderous kidnapper.”

I laugh, shifting on the cot’s thin mattress. “Technically, I didn’t kidnap you. Someone else did. You’re lucky, too. You’d be dead if he didn’t. And if it weren’t for me stopping in before the storm really hit, you’d be dead. So watch the insults, kid.”

“But you’re still a murderer.”

I don’t know where this little nugget of information comes from, but she isn’t wrong. “Where are you going with this?” I sigh. “You’re cold. Get your ass up here.” I’m confident that she won’t try anything sketchy to try to get away. And even if she does, I’m a light sleeper.

I don’t miss the tiny gasp before she speaks. It’s amusing coming out of Giambelli’s daughter. He has more blood on his hands than any local crew. “So you’ve killed someone?”

“I’ve killed a lot of things. Just like you’re killing my patience right now.”

“I don’t want to sleep with you,” she snaps. “I don’t want anything to do with you.”

Enoughof this shit.

I swing my legs off the bed and cross to her in two long strides. She’s wiggling to get away when I grab her around the waist and haul her over my shoulder. She screams, thrashing like a fucking inchworm with her arms and legs trapped in the sleeping bag.

“There’s a difference between needs and wants, Emily.” It’s a distinction she’s never learned on her mafia throne, but she’ll know it when we end our time together. I’ll be doing her a favor if she wants to survive in this world. Every king’s reign comes to an end, and when Anthony’s does, she’s in for a rude awakening.

“Fuck off!” she screeches, writhing on my shoulder as I carry her to the cot. As soon as I set her on the stiff mattress, she springs up. “You needto leave me alone if you know what’s good for you.”

It’s late, I’m exhausted, and I’m not in the fucking mood, so I ignore her ranting and climb onto the cot beside her, clamping my arm across her chest and pressing her flat onto the mattress beside me. She thrashes as I spread the blanket over us, swearing up a storm to rival the one outside. She has fight in her, I’ll give her that, but she doesn’t stand a chance against me.

Eventually, she stills, her body sagging into the cot. I keep my arm in place, hating how much I like the warm lump under it.

But the woman beside me belongs to the man that may’ve had Spencer killed. She might even admit it if I roll her over and force the 9mm tucked in my waistband into her mouth.

I can’t do it.

She’s at peace, finally. Her breathing coming in and out in a steady rhythm. She deserves one night of rest, at least.

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