Page 65 of Mason

Emily

Shoot him.

The sensible side of me screams to pull the trigger. To end this all, take Mason’s keys, and find a way home by any means necessary, leaving these murderers here to rot with each other.

But I don’t.

I freeze, as transfixed as Mason while his brother staggers, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Badly injured, his body suspends, supported by imaginary strings until collapsing to the floor. His chest rises and falls, but the breaths grow ragged, and it barely registers that I’m watching a man die.

Papa does this all the time.

Mason’s eyes stay locked on his, cold and hard yet brimming with unshed tears. His gun rests at his side, his shoulders slumped, defeat etched in his expression.

“Put down the gun.” I don’t realize it’s me speaking at first, too caught up in the surrounding chaos to make sense of anything. “You had to do it.”

“How bad are you injured?” He doesn’t look at me, keeping his attention focused on his dying brother.

“He shot my leg.” At the moment, it’s all I’m concerned about, though my face feels like a sumo wrestler landed an elbow drop and I can’t see out of my right eye, which is rather terrifying. But the gunshot wound saturates my leggings with blood, and my chances of bleeding out are more pressing than my damn eyeball.

Mason tucks his gun in his waistband and rushes over, hovering above when he gets to my side, looking between me and the cot. “He didn’t…” he starts, but I shake my head before he finishes.

Fuck, no.

He drops to his knees, scanning my body. “Where?”

“Left calf.” I bite my lip and stare at his chest. I don’t want to see the injury. This is far worse than the stupid scratches that stung like a bitch. This is next-level pain and damage.

He reaches for my leg but freezes, his hand floating above the ankle’s hem. “May I?”

I nod, figuring he knows more about any of this than I do. The only shots I’ve ever received saved me from measles or prevented an immaculate conception.

He peels back the cloth while I think about vacationing on a beach somewhere, tears burning my eyes as I hold the gun for dear life. “How bad?” I ask after he says nothing.

“Not good,” he says, fishing his hand back to his belt. “I need to cut your pants.”

I’m about to ask why when he extracts a pocket knife and carefully cuts the leggings around my knee in a complete circle. He slides the thin fabric down, leaving it in one long piece before looping it around my calf just above the injury.

“I need your help,” he says, nodding toward his hand. A knot. He’s trying to tie a tourniquet with one hand. He’s hurt, too. And he’s helping me.

Setting down the gun, I grip the other side of the fabric, working with him to fasten it tight while doing my best not to look down. All I see is red, and I know if I see the actual bullet hole in my flesh, I’ll pass out. Imight be a Giambelli, but I’m out of my element. I want no parts of this life.

He’s a Carlyle.

A Carlyle is helping a Giambelli.

Papa’s going to have a stroke when he hears about this. Then again, a Carlyle was also trying to kill me.

“Who was Spencer?”

His eyes drift from my leg to my arm, and he points a bloodied finger at my left shoulder, the digit coated in my blood. “Did he get you here, too?”

“Missed,” I answer, sudden dizziness making the room tilt. Breathe in, breath out. It’s just blood. “Who’s Spencer?”

His fingers skim my sweatshirt’s fabric, peeking at the skin beneath through the hole caused by the bullet and frowning. “My brother.”

His brother killed his brother? Who are these people?Anna is a world-class bitch most of the time, but I can’t imagine hurting her, never mind killing her.

“Are you going to kill me?”

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