Page 55 of Mason

“I’m not sure that we do.” He won’t give me a damn inch.

“Okay.” Two can play at this game. He wants to poke and prod and find my soft spots. Hell, maybe getting to know me makes this easier on his conscience. Who knows? Who cares? But I’m not playing anymore. This is a tug of war. There’s give and take. Currently, I’m giving a lot more than he is.

“Just okay? No insult or follow-up?” he presses.

I ignore him, sticking to my guns. He needs to give a little, dammit.

“So let me get this straight: a mafioso’s daughter wants to run honest books at her own business…” he trails, tapping an index finger on his stubbled chin. “How does she make that happen in a world where her father promises her pussy to the highest bidder? Does the husband wave the wand of approval, or does Papa Bear?”

He’s egging me on, and as much as I want to run over and kick him square in the dick, I don’t. Instead, I bite my tongue—literally—and think of all the ways I’d wipe that cocky smirk off his face with a nail gun.

“I suppose you don’t have to get married,” he says, tapping his fingers in a fanning rhythm on his thighs. “You don’t seem like the type to listen to anyone. I have a feeling if Anthony told you to marry someone, you’d tell him to eat a bag of ass.”

That gets a laugh out of me, and I can’t resist biting. “My father would knock my teeth out if I said that.”

“As would mine,” he breathes. “My brother told him to eat shit once, and he lost six teeth. If it weren’t for implants, he’d be a toothless wonder.”

“Mine would make me go without the implants,” I mutter, desperate to keep him talking. This is a glimpse behind the scenes—the first he’s given me. I want to see more of what makes him tick. Learn more about the man who’s keeping me in a log cage. “And he’d threaten anyone who tries to help me.”

“That’s not very nice.”

I eye him with a slow smile. “In case you haven’t noticed, my father isn’t a very nice man.”

He nods before hooking my gaze with his, gifting me with a look into his gray-blue smokescreen. They hide everything he’s feeling unless he’s mad. I bet he’s kickass at poker. “You’ve got his eyes.”

I groan. That is not a compliment.

“Yours are warm, though,” he clarifies, laughing. “Almost friendly when you’re not attacking people that are trying to help you.”

“I only did that once.” I scoff, wishing I’d tried a little harder that time. But then again, if I’d escaped, someone could’ve cashed in on that two-million and I wouldn’t have gotten to gorge myself on chicken piccata.

His eyes narrow, but his lips still show a hint of a smile. “One time too many.”

“Keep it up, old man. I’ll make you scream the alphabet in French.” I should be terrified of him. He carries a gun in his waistband. He carries a knife, too. But I know he won’t use either on me, regardless of what he says. He’s having too much fun playing with me. Like his friend, he treats me like a ball on a string. I’m nothing more than a toy he has to babysit.

He ignores my threat, still smiling. “I don’t know French.”

I assess him from the tips of hair to the thick soles of his boots. “You’ll learn.”

He pushes off the cabinet and breezes over, stopping in front of me, blocking the warmth from the fire. “Well? Let’s go, tough girl.”

I ignore the urge to kick his legs out from under him and slide my legs out of the sleeping bag, still wrapped tight in the blanket like a burrito. “Where? To your demise?”

He laughs, the warmth of his cologne drifting over as he towers above. “You talk a lot of shit for someone in handcuffs.”

Any normal person would stand down when they’re nose to knee with a man who’s killed before, but I’m not a normal person. At this point, I’m not even an abnormal person. I’m likely borderline insane from a trash diet and lack of sunlight. So I don’t stand down.

I pounce.

Rather, I charge.

I connect my shoulder with his waist, plowing into him. It’s ridiculous, but it’s ridiculous enough to catch him by surprise. I have no idea what I’m doing or what I plan on doing if I get the upper hand. But I do it anyway. I have to. He practically challenged me. Not doing something would look like I’m afraid of him, and while I am, it’s not as much as I should be. But he doesn’t need to know that.

He laughs, catching himself easily against the impact, but grunts when my handcuffed fists connect with his groin. I put everything I have behind the swing, knowing I have one chance at it. And it pays off. He falls to the floor, bringing me with him, landing in the middle of his chest in a heap.

We’re close to the fire, too close. A roll or two over, and we’ll both be in the flames. It’s too hot for comfort against my skin. Hurting more than helping.

I know I don’t stand a chance if I run, so I grip the front of the black t-shirt peeking from beneath his jacket and get in his face. “Told ya.”

“Your breath smells,” he complains, grinning rather than admitting defeat.

I blow a mouthful of it directly at his nose, ensuring he gets another whiff of garlic. “You’re welcome.”

He’s hard and hot beneath me. Hotter than the fire burning steps away. And rather than feel the urge to flee, I crave more of it. More of him.

Instinctively, my eyes drop to his lips. He catches me, trailing my eyes with his before moving to push me off.

But I grip his shirt and kiss him instead.

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