Page 42 of Mason

Emily

My eyes flutter open and meet the sheen of a sunlit cabin. The glow of morning light almost makes the space seem cozy.

I’m surprised by the empty cot beside me. The man is gone.

But once I hear the stream of water in the distance, I know I’m not so lucky. He’s just taking his morning piss. Lovely.

He’s stupid to leave me in here alone unchained. He thinks he’s got the upper hand, which may be true in the strength department, but he doesn’t know me. I’ve run laps around Papa for years behind his back. This novice will be a walk in the park once I’m back up and running.

Last night, he thought I fell asleep. I’ve always been good at faking it, so my little act earned a sliver of freedom. He still kept his arm over me all night, but once he thought I was out, he eased up on the death grip and eventually fell asleep.

I’ve never slept with a man, and honestly, it wasn’t that terrible. He wasn’t a blanket hog or a touchy-feely creep, and if I’m being honest, it was nice to have him next to me. The guy runs on hot and functions like a heater. Not only that, but I slept better than I have in days. Before, I’d wake up at every little noise. I didn’t last night. Maybe because I knew the grizzly in my bed could take on anything out here.

“Morning, Snoozy Suzie,” he greets, appearing in the bathroom doorway. “Feeling better?”

Okay, so not only does this man run on hot, but I have to admit, he is hot. A five-o’clock shadow does his angled face good, accentuating the sharp dips of his jaw and cheekbones. And now that he’s standing out in the open wearing a short-sleeved undershirt and dress slacks, I have a new appreciation for the male body. He’s long, lean, and sculpted with strength that comes from hard work, not a gym. Rachel would shit a brick over him.

Rachel. The thought brings a knot to my throat. “He didn’t hurt my friend, right?”

He pushes off the door frame, stepping into the room. It feels a thousand times smaller once he’s fully inside it. “Who and what friend?”

“The guy who took me,” I clarify, forcing away the memory of his eyes. I always thought mine and Papa’s were dark until that night. The man’s from Down Under were practically onyx. “I was out with a friend that night. Rachel.” I tear up just saying her name. If something happened to her because of me, I’ll never forgive myself.

I hold my breath until he shakes his head. “No. You were the only thing on the agenda. She should be safe. Your father has her and Oscar.”

That means nothing if Papa thinks they had something to do with this.

I lift my eyes to his, the blue-gray reminiscent of the sky after it snows. “Is Oscar one of your guys?”

The man shrugs before scratching the back of his neck, the act raising his shirt and revealing the pale, toned flesh low on his belly. It also gives me a good look at the gun tucked in his waistband. “I don’t think so.”

The gun and his admission make my eyes pop wide. “You don’t know your own operation?”

“You weren’t exactly on my radar,” he says flatly. He means it differently, but I still take it like a jab about my looks, which is ridiculous. I don’t care what he thinks about me. If anything, I hope he finds me repulsive. “You were a surprise thrown into my lap.”

I roll to my stomach, folding my hands under my chin and batting my eyelashes at him. “You could always let me go.”

He flashes a deadly smile. “As much as I’d love to dump you on your daddy’s doorstep for all the trouble you’ve caused, it’s in my best interest to keep you alive.”

Well, that’s good to know.

“So who’s trying to whack me?” I ask. He’s so hell-bent on it that he must have names. I’m curious which one of Papa’s guys wants to blow my brains out.

“Still working on that.” He sighs. “Which is precisely why you’re here and not out there. If I knew, I’d just give the name to Anthony and send you packing.”

I smirk. “Aw, you wouldn’t miss me, big guy?”

He laughs hoarsely. “You made me ruin a thousand-dollar suit, curse me out every chance you get, and have a mouth on you that makes a howler monkey seem quiet. Not a fucking chance.”

My smirk stretches into a triumphant smile. “Made you say fuck.”

He raises a brow. “What?”

“You wouldn’t say fuck before. You just did.” It’s comical, really, seeing that this big, bad murder man won’t drop an f-bomb.

“I say it all the time,” he mumbles, stepping over to look out the room’s only window. Like the bathroom’s, it’s laughably small. “I’m just not a walking bleep censor like you.”

I pull the blanket over my head, forming a hood. My ears are cold now that he’s not next to me like a radiator. “Whatever you say, Francis.”

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