Page 70 of Man of Lies

And I knew how to ride hungry.

Nothing mattered to me more than catching up to him. That badge I’d bled for? Years of fieldwork, asset building, and case strategy—gone. No reassignments would be waiting. No more handshakes or citations tucked in some quiet file in Quantico. The mission was already compromised, and I’d put the final nail in its coffin when I turned it over to Dominic.

I’d spent months threading the needle, trying to find a version of the ending where I saved the girls, got Gator and his cronies behind bars, and came out the other side with something left of my name. And somehow…still kept Mason. But it never penciled out.

No man could walk both sides forever. Eventually, he had to choose.

Now that I’d made my choice, it didn’t feel anything like I’d expected. My career was the only stable thing in my life. Losing it should have gutted me, but no matter how closely I searched, I couldn’t find any fury or panic to grab on to. No hollow drop in my gut. Just a powerful quiet clarity that felt like…peace.

I wasn’t mourning the job.

I was chasing the only thing that still mattered.

Mason.

He’d walked out of that apartment like he wasn’t breaking—but I’d seen it. I’dfeltit. His whole body had gone still when I told him who I really was. Like I’d pulled a wire loose and cut the power behind his eyes.

He’d said he needed to clear his head, and I’d let him go, because I knew what I’d done to him and that it meant I had no right to try to keep him.

Stupid.

I should’ve known he’d run straight to Dominic. That damn brother complex of his, always trying to manage threats and build a bulwark against the unexpected. He couldn’t help it. When it came to his family, Mason Beaufort would never turn his back on danger. He ranintoit, chest bared, ready to take the hit for someone else.

I couldn’t take back what I’d done.

Couldn’t make him trust me again.

But I could find him. Ride this road until I saw that red machine ahead of me. Put my body between him and whatever waited at the end of the line. I couldshow up.

And maybe—maybe—that would be enough.

The trees opened up just long enough for me to glimpse him, a flash of red and white slicing through the mist like a flare. He was leaning hard, tucking low against the tank, his back curved like a bow drawn too tight.

My stomach turned to lead.

He’d always ridden the edge. It was part of him, something in his blood that needed to test the boundary between skill and surrender. I’d seen it in him from the start: how he handled that Ducati like it was something he needed to outrun and tame simultaneously. He didn’t ride like it was a machine. He rode like it was a weapon.

But this? This wasn’t edge work.

This was suicide.

He took the next corner too low, his knee damn near grazing the asphalt as he cut through the turn. On a dry day, it would’ve been stupid. Out here, with the highway slick as black glass and runoff pooling in the dips, a wreck wasn’t a matter ofif.Justwhen.

I cracked the throttle harder, pushing the Scout to its edge, every part of me screaming against it—my ribs, stitched-up side, and common sense—but I didn’t back off. Couldn’t. The engine surged, torque dragging me forward, tires hugging the line like it was the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth.

“Mason!” I roared into the wind. “Goddamn it, Mason, slow down!”

But the words were whipped away before they ever reached him. If he heard, he showed no sign. He took the next curve full-tilt, like he was trying to outrun the storm itself.

Maybe he was.

He tore down the highway like he was invincible, but he was smart enough to know better. It wasn’t that he thought he could escape pain. He just didn’t care. He wanted the noise and the speed and the chance to feelsomethingother than whatever was crawling around inside him.

Fear jabbed beneath my ribs,twisting my heart in an angry fist that refused to let go.

Because Mason Beaufort rode like he didn’t care if he walked away from it. I couldn’t let that happen. Not when I’d already chosen my side. Chosen him.

The Ducati’s rear tire started a death wobble, threatening to come loose in the next turn. He was pushing too far past the edge—no margin for error. One twitch. One patch of oil or gravel or standing water, and he was done.

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