Page 71 of Man of Lies

Then it happened.

The road dipped slightly, but he didn’t see it in time. His back tire hit the water hard and fast, fishtailed once, then again—more violently the second time. His body jolted left, instinct trying to correct, but it was already too late.

The bike skidded sideways, wheels screaming over the slick asphalt, and Mason went with it.

Everything in me locked up.

There was no time to think. I jerked my handlebars hard left, gunning the Scout forward into the arc of his fall. My front tire caught the road where his had started to give, and I rode into the wreck like a battering ram—cutting his path, putting myself between his body and the hard, wet blacktop.

The Ducati slammed down first, metal shrieking, sparks flying out from under the exhaust as it skated across the pavement. Mason was still attached—legs thrown wide, his helmet bouncing once, hard. He was sliding fast, deadweight on a death track.

I hit the brakes just enough to let the Scout drop with him—angled it, leaned in, let gravity drag me down, metal first. My bike slammed into the road sideways, rear wheel lifting just enough to buck me left, and then the world turned to impact.

The Scout hit the ground and threw sparks, momentum dragging us forward in a grinding howl of steel, rain, and adrenaline.

I felt the first impact on my shoulder. The second with my hip. The third was Mason.

My arms caught him as the bikes tangled, momentum spinning us into a heap of heat and metal and flesh. My body wrapped around his instinctively, years of training overtaken by something more profound—raw and personal and full of goddamn purpose.

I let the Scout take the brunt, shielding us both with the cage of the engine, but there was nothing to do about the asphalt shredding my back like a blowtorch.

Pain bloomed bright across my ribs, sharp and full of heat, then gave way to something deeper—something cold. I couldn’t move. My body wouldn’t obey me, not even help when Mason struggled against me, rearing up on his knees to remove my helmet.

“Silas,” he rasped, and his frantic breathing ripped through me.

I thought I replied, but maybe not, because he repeated it. Louder, and thick with fear.

“Silas—”

His hands were on me, frantic now. I wanted to speak, to reassure him that I was fine. All I needed was a smile and a smartass remark, then the terror in expression would ease.

But I couldn’t.

The light bled out of the sky.

And then I let go.

Chapter Thirty

MASON

Something was brushingthrough my hair, light and slow, easy to ignore.

I surfaced hard from sleep, that kind of heavy, body-deep exhaustion where the world didn’t come back all at once. For a second, reality seemed warped, too cold and bright for my watering eyes.

My back screamed first, one shoulder locked from hours spent hunched over, head resting on my folded arms. My right leg was pins and needles, and my jaw ached from the crease of the vinyl mattress digging into it for hours. The air smelled like floor polish, alcohol wipes, and antiseptic.

Fingers threaded through my hair—firmer this time. Impatient and familiar.

I jerked upright with a sharp breath, every vertebra in my spine cracking a protest as I came upright. The world came back in pieces: beige curtains, blue linoleum, the low beep of a machine keeping the rhythm of Silas’s heartbeat.

Silas.

Hope flared behind my ribs, and my eyes snapped toward the man in the bed. But he hadn’t moved. Still out cold, half-swallowed by the tangle of wires and tubes, bruises blooming down the side of his chest in a mess that was painful to even look at.

He couldn’t have touched me. But someone had.

I cranked my head around, rubbed my blurry eyes and snatched up my eyeglasses, and that was when I saw him.

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