Page 56 of Man of Lies

The soaked cotton peeled back in damp strips beneath the edge of my knife, and I got my first good look at the wound. My ears started ringing. The bullet had torn through the muscle just above his hip, leaving a raw, mangled cavity of flesh ringed in angry red. Blood dripped sluggishly over the torn tissue before spilling over, streaking the sharp cut of his abs in glossy red. I’d expected a neat little bullet hole, but this was a jagged, cruel mess that would scar ugly if it didn’t get infected first.

I was so focused on the wound that I didn’t notice the phone in Dominic’s hand until it was too late.

“No hospitals!” I snapped, latching onto his wrist before he could lift the phone to his ear.

Dominic didn’t startle, and he didn’t lower the phone. He ignored me, speaking in a tone that sounded almost bored. “Gunshot. Through the side. Not clean, but it missed the important shit.”

There was a beat of silence as he listened to whoever the hell it was on the other end, and then he released a slow, irritated breath through his nose. “I don’t care if it’s your grandmother’s funeral. This is what I pay you for. Just bring what you need and don’t make me wait.”

He disconnected the call with a careless flick of his thumb and leveled me with a disgusted look. Like he was thankful we only shared a name and not actual blood.

“Don’t insult my intelligence, Mason.” He said it with enough bite to let me know I was walking a fine fucking line. “Nobody comes to me when they want something done legally.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

SILAS

Wakingup in an unfamiliar place wasn’t new—hell, it came with the territory. A side effect of living the lives of a dozen different men over the years. I’d cracked my eyes open in roach motels, backseats of cars that weren’t mine, and once, an abandoned church with a bloodstain on the altar. I’d learned to keep my head down and get my bearings before signaling I was awake.

That’s the way to survive.

I was on a cushion, at least. Soft sheets brushed against my shirtless skin, a luxury I wasn’t used to. The faint smells of leather, wood polish, and something else—something distinctly Mason—drifted through the air. His cologne, that fucking expensive scent. It soothed the uneasy twist in my gut.

I cracked an eye open.

Dim light. Either the room was sealed off from the sun by some damn good blackout curtains, or I hadn’t been out long. I lifted my hand, staring at the vaulted ceiling through my spread fingers. No tremor, no weakness. That was something.

I wasn’t waking up in a safe house, a holding cell, or the back of some stolen truck with my hands zip-tied. But I still didn’t know how I’d gotten here, and it gnawed at me.

Pain slithered up my side, dull at first, then sharp enough to cut through the fog in my brain as I shifted onto my side. My breath caught. A white bandage wrapped around my torso, and the memories clicked back into place like a slideshow: the rapid crack of a semi-automatic, the bullet slamming into me and throwing me into Mason, and worst of all, the gut-wrenching terror of trying to shield him.

I’d been in my share of messes, shit that made me break out in a cold sweat just thinking about it, but nothing like that. Nothing like the fear I felt for him—and for myself, because I had something precious to lose for the first time.

The rest of it was a blur. I remembered the bike and Mason’s hands gripping too tightly, like he could keep the blood inside me with nothing more than willpower. I’d told him it was just a scratch. A lie. But I’d stuck to it.

I propped myself up on one elbow, moving slower this time. The second I tried to push up, pain shot through my stomach. Fuck. That was gonna be a problem.

I gritted my teeth, sucked in a slow breath, and finally looked around.

The apartment screamed custom luxury. A gas fireplace was set into a dark slate accent wall, its mantel bare except for a heavy-faced antique clock. The couch beneath me was wide and deep and made from buttery soft leather. The kitchen gleamed with stainless steel, deep walnut cabinetry, and enough gadgets fora showroom. A half-empty whiskey decanter sat on the island, abandoned mid-pour.

It was all too spacious and comfortable. Not the kind of place you lived alone—or if you did, it wasn’t because you wanted to. Like someone had built the life they thought they wanted, but at some point, quietly stopped trying to live it.

A change in the air caught my attention. Not a sound, or at least not one that registered in my conscious mind, but my hindbrain sensed movement.

Dominic watched me from the threshold of the balcony, remote and curious, head tilted like a bird sizing up its next meal. “You’re still breathing,” he observed, dry as dust.

I licked my lips, but it took a couple tries before I could answer without sounding like I’d crawled from a grave. “Seems that way.”

His lips twitched—close to a smile, but not quite. “Good. I would’ve hated to waste an expensive favor. Maybe now he’ll take the bed.”

He gestured, and I followed his hand.

There he was, curled on the floor at the foot of the couch.

Mason.

One arm was pillowed under his head, the other hand resting loose over his stomach. He was wearing a borrowed sweater, too baggy in the shoulders, shoes off, and glasses nowhere to be found. The hollows under his eyes were dark and bruised-looking, and his face was tight, even in sleep.

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