Page 62 of Mason

Staring into the barrel sends my nerves haywire, the rush of blood in my ears drowning out the wheezing of each labored breath. I’m hot, cold, and everything in between, the survival instincts forcing every system into overload. “I can’t.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll help. I can be a gentleman like Mason, too.” His hand falls to my hair, twisting the locks around his fingers before dragging me toward the cot. I claw at him the best I can with my cuffed hands, bucking and spinning despite the pain.

The floor streaks with my blood, a trail spanning from the doorway across the room as he tugs me with ease, a grim reminder of where this is headed.

I don’t realize I’m screaming until he gives me a shake, the tension on my scalp unbearable. “Shut the fuck up!”

He tries to lift me to the bed by my hair, but my thrashing makes it nearly impossible. A blow to the head forces me to stop, the handle of the gun meeting my cheek with the crunch of bone. The swelling is instantaneous, my right eye practically sealing shut as my vision blurs.

“Get up there like a good little whore. Let’s see what Mason’s been keeping to himself.” He grips the same arm he grazed with a bullet, squeezing the tender flesh as he hauls me up to the cot. He’s strong. Too strong.

I can’t fight him off. Not like this.

But I need to try. I need to give this everything I have, battered body or not. There won’t be a second chance.

The pot on the fireplace catches my eye as my body sinks into the sleeping bag, the water inside bubbling furiously. It’s a few feet away, but at this rate, I have nothing to lose.

The man fumbles with his belt, and I pounce, kicking the hand holding his gun as hard as I can with my good leg. I use the other to push off his stomach and howl in agony when he stumbles backward, the injury to my calf agonizing as the muscles flex.

While he dives for the gun, I go for the fireplace, scrambling on my hands and knees to grip the pot. Once my fingers grip the handle, I spin, tossing the scalding water in his direction, and watch in fascinated horror as it makes contact, splashing across his chest.

He yowls, grabbing at his soaked clothing, but he has the pistol once again, clutching it in an iron grip. He’s too distracted to duck when I throw the pan, striking him in the side of the face with the scalding cookware.

I’m crawling toward the firewood rack to throw them too when his hand grabs my hair from behind, pulling me back with blinding force. The gun cocks, and I close my eyes, praying it’s quick. This is the end.

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