34. Hannah

Hannah

E xpectations are fickle things.

For example, I expect the Plan B to work and not make me feel like I’m either going to vomit or pass out at any second.

I expect Mason to be at home this morning like he always is. For things to go back to some form of normalcy when I was just the annoying sister of the woman he detested.

I expect not to care when he’s not at work when in reality, my heart is aching to see him, even if he won’t speak to me.

As I said . . . fickle things.

I’ve screwed up a lot of things in life, but this one has to take the cake. I’ve never not remembered condoms. Not until I got his hands on me.

Neither of us spoke after the pill. He asked if I’d taken my “medicine” and I said yes before he disappeared out to the garage. That’s been the extent of our conversation in the last twenty-four hours.

Something about the cold indifference in his eyes stung.

And for that, I hate myself.

I shouldn’t care. He doesn’t, but yesterday was both the best sex I’ve ever had and the most connected I’ve ever felt to another human being. Like we were a part of one another. One person.

Like he knew every piece of me.

I guess I’ve been reading too many romance novels. Shit like that doesn’t happen in the real world.

I stay up at my desk most of the day. My body aches. My limbs feel like I ran a mile last night and there’s a soreness I’m not accustomed to between my thighs.

Like I’d been ridden hard and put away wet.

I guess that’s the truth.

Every time I sit, see the light purple bruise on my neck from his teeth nipping that pulse point, look at the empty office door and see that damned chair, I’m reminded he was there , and the feeling of rejection comes full circle.

Mason doesn’t want to be tied to me by a child. I get it. Kids are a big commitment, especially with someone you really aren’t supposed to like.

But did he have to act so . . . disgusted by the idea?

He wouldn’t even look at me and it stings to know he detested the idea so much, even if it would be the worst possible decision either of us could make at this point in our lives.

The cartel. My sister. My mother . . . my secrets.

No. I can’t bring a baby into that mess. Nor do I want to. I’m just saying . . . I don’t know what I’m saying.

What’s worse is now that I know he actually cares, at least to some degree, the sickening feeling in my stomach can only mean one thing.

I’ve fallen for him.

Mason didn’t come home last night, or if he did, I didn’t see him. His door was closed, but his truck wasn’t in the drive. With a bitter resentment that surprised even me, I found I hated the thoughts of where else he could be. Another woman’s house. A bar. Anywhere I wasn’t so he wouldn’t have to deal with me.

Because that’s what I am to him. A problem he doesn’t know how to solve.

Throughout the day, I find myself creating the perfect woman for him in my head, because it’s better than allowing myself to worry about things that can never happen, anyway. She’d be gentle and sweet. Probably a schoolteacher or a nurse. She’d be someone who helps people and she’d probably have a cat or a cute little dog. She’d wear sundresses and vanilla-scented perfume and she’d give him her all because she wouldn’t have anything to hide.

I name her Sabrina, in my head, because I once knew a Sabrina that was as sweet as sugar on the outside, but a vindictive snake underneath.

Seems fitting.

Guess you can say I’m bitter.

By the end of the day, Mason’s still not shown up and I’ve given up hope.

It’s around four when a bright blue cupcake is sat down on the counter in front of me.

“Puke’s mom made them for his birthday,” Ian smiles proudly.

“Is it his birthday?”

“No, tomorrow is. A bunch of us are going out for drinks since he’s turning twenty-one.” He leans back against the counter beside me. “You should come out with us.”

“Sorry, I can’t. Responsibilities and all that.”

The thought of going out makes my skin crawl. Especially after everything that’s happened recently. Even though . . . I can’t help but wonder if Mason will be joining them.

Ian chuckles, shaking his head. “Right. I just thought you’d like to have some fun . . .”

“Yeah.”

An air of awkwardness hangs between us now. After I moved in temporarily with Mason, I feel like both he and Puke have been keeping their distance. Not that I blame them, but it just adds to the air of Hannah’s a whore that’s been hanging around in my head all day.

“Ian, about—”

“You deserve a night out, though . . . every now and then,” he says, cutting me off without regard. I pause, a strange, unease settling over me. It’s nothing. I know I’m just emotional, but . . . it’s still there. “Even if it’s not with a bunch of greasy mechanics.”

Okay . . .

“I get out.” It’s totally a lie. My first— and last— time I’d been out in months had been when Mason took me to the Inner Sanctum and we all know how that went.

Ian stares at me for a beat, boredom clouding his chocolate gaze as if he doesn’t believe me. He’s entirely too close for comfort, but with the edge of the desk behind me and the counter in front of me, I have nowhere to go.

Plus . . . this is Ian . My friend . He’s been nothing but kind to me since I started and better yet, he was the only person that spoke to me here for days. At least with any kind of humanity.

And so I’m reminded of Mason again and everything that happened between us yesterday. Maybe the Plan B isn’t what’s making me sick. Maybe it’s just his absence.

“You and I both know that’s a lie,” Ian goads. “When was the last time you did something for yourself?”

Well, every time I do something for myself, I also do something stupid. Like forgetting condoms or locking the back door.

“I do,” I stammer, skin burning from being put on the spot like there’s a military-grade spotlight shining down on me. “I read. I . . . I go visit friends.” Used to visit friends. “I do a lot of things. Plus, I like being independent.”

Ian inches closer, his gaze burning into mine. My heartbeat quickens, pounding in my ears, but it’s not for anything good. It’s a sick, uneasy feeling in my stomach and though I know I’m overreacting, I still don’t like the insinuation in this conversation.

“You need to take time for yourself.” He reaches up, surprising me when he pushes a strand of hair back from the hickey on my neck with a brush of his fingers. Fingers that don’t feel like the ones ingrained on my skin. “Did he hurt you?” he asks, so quiet, I’m almost sure I missed it.

I arch away from him and open my mouth to snap at him to stop touching me, but before I can . . .

A throat clears in the doorway. Ian leaps away from me like he’s been poked with a cattle prod and nervously runs a hand over his short hair.

Oh. Shit.

If I thought things were bad before . . . they’re about to be fucking awful.

Mason stands in the doorway from the garage, flowers in his hand and murder in his eyes. Violence seeps off him in waves. Only that gaze isn’t aimed at me.

It’s aimed at Ian.

Suddenly, my heartbeat is racing for a different reason.

Mason doesn’t even say anything before Ian’s making off toward the door, his head hung low and a mumbled apology falling from his lips. He points to the cupcake, dejected on the counter. “I just thought Hannah might enjoy a cup—”

He stops talking when Mason’s gaze flashes with venom. Honestly? I would, too.

Ian disappears out the shop door without another word, scooting past Mason who doesn’t move even the slightest inch. Part of me wishes he would stay. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mason so thoroughly pissed off. Not even when I cleaned the office. The other half is glad to watch him go. Things were just getting way too weird.

Mason doesn’t speak to me, nor does he look my way as he strides past, tossing the flowers on the counter in front of me. Daisies. My favorite.

“He just brought me a cupcake,” I snap, trailing after him. “You don’t need to be rude to him.” How dare he bring me my favorite flowers, throw them at me, and then leave .

Mason whirls on me so fast I stumble back under that wild gaze. Like a hurricane on the horizon. “In case you forgot, they’re my employees. Fucking me doesn’t mean you get a say in how I handle them.”

Ouch.

Tears burn in my eyes for the second time today, only this time, they manage to break free, slipping down my cheeks and burning like acid.

“Yeah, and I wish I never had.”

His jaw ticks, his nostrils flaring with heat before it’s quickly masked by something else. Something dark and pissed off and bleeding.

Did I . . . did I hurt him, too?

The eye contact sears, burning me from somewhere within. Still, I can’t fight the anger and rejection pouring through me. The bitter resentment I’ve been shoving back at all day coiling like a snake, ready to strike.

It’s already ruined between us. Why not burn it to the ground?

“You can bring me flowers.” My favorites . “You can carry me to bed when I fall asleep .” Like I’m the most precious thing in the world . “You can tell me I’m beautiful.” Look at me like I’m the only woman you’ve ever seen. “None of it means anything if you don’t actually care and I’m not willing to get my hopes up and wait around until you decide you’re done with me.”

I turn to leave, angry and ready to fight. Ready to cry. Ready to apologize because I know I just took everything he did for me and threw it back in his face and I hate myself for it, but I don’t stop.

Not until his voice comes out, barely above a whisper, and I freeze in my tracks.

“I don’t care.” He chuckles sardonically and slowly, I turn back around to see him shaking his head. “You want to know where I went last night? This morning?”

I pause, a mixture of harsh words and hurried apologies on my tongue.

“I was with Prince, interrogating the asshole that tried to kill you because even if I wanted to, I can’t fucking walk away. I need Prince because I’ll be damned if your mother takes you away from me. Not because of you ,” he bites. “But because I’m selfish enough that I can’t stand the fucking thought of losing you. I visited Parker this morning to get whatever information he has on your missing cockroach of a sister.” He shakes his head as if the thought of doing all that for the likes of me is despicable. “I’ve dealt with the fucking cartel for two years because it meant you were safe. Still . . . every other day you try to find a reason why I’m not worth sticking around for.”

My chest cracks at his words, but still, the venom burns inside me. I’m in love with him and it fucking sucks.

“I waited for you. Two years ago and you never showed. You made me feel like I meant nothing to you.”

Cocking a brow, he chuckles darkly, stepping forward to get in my face. His eyes like midnight only amplify the icy darkness rolling off him in waves and a shiver rolls through me at his proximity.

This Mason is fucking terrifying.

Tears stream freely down my cheeks now, but I don’t stop them. I don’t have it in me. “I brought you flowers because I knew they would make you smile. I carry you to bed because I just need some fucking excuse to hold you. And beautiful? You were fucking made for me. You just can’t see it.”

He can’t mean that.

“So, yeah, you can preach at me about treating Ian kindly. He and I both know he touched something that’s mine and I really don’t like people touching my things.”

His words cut internally, wrapping my heart in cold steel and constricting my lungs to the point of pain.

My heartbeat slows at the angry vulnerability he let me see. While I’ve been cowering behind my fear of abandonment and my feelings of inadequacy, I failed to realize he shared the same fears.

My throat tightens at the thought that I'm the source for those feelings. Whoever had left him in the past . . . I was no better, demanding perfection when I am far from it.

He’s silent for a moment, watching me with what he’s trying to play off as indifference, only I can see through it now, to the man beneath. He’s not as cold-hearted as he’d like me to believe.

Please kiss me.

He turns away.

“Go,” he murmurs coldly. Like ice slipping through my veins. “Go home. I have stuff to finish here.”

“Mason—” He cuts me off, dismissing me completely by turning his back to me. I want to go to him. Apologize. Just freaking be near him for the first time in nearly twenty-four hours.

But he doesn’t want that. Not right now.

“Hannah.” His voice is so quiet, so calm, I know he just wants to be alone.

I take in the strong lines of his shoulders where he stands at the desk, back to me, and accept that sometimes, even the people you want most need time away from you.

So, I don’t say another word and slowly back out of the office, shutting the door behind me with a final click.

Mason’s father was handsome. Not nearly as handsome as his son, but a good close second. It’s easy to see where the hurricane eyes come from, as his father had the same ones. He smiles back at me from the picture in Mason’s home office, surrounded by his three older children while holding Mila.

They looked so happy.

Even Monica grins from the side of the picture, her arm around Mason’s shoulders.

Funny how things change.

I came in here a little over an hour ago because I ran out of things to do. I cleaned the house when I got home, even scrubbing the baseboards. While Mason’s tidy, you can tell those hadn’t been done in a long time. I made dinner, picked at it, and opted to put it away, leaving a plate for Mason in case he decided to come home.

I tried watching TV, but nothing could hold my attention, so, I started cleaning again.

I’m beginning to think it’s become a nervous habit.

Now, I’m in his office, sitting at his big desk in his giant chair and thinking about all the things I said and staring at the single text he sent me when I asked if he was coming home.

Mason: With Prince.

The little girl in me wanted a Hallmark movie ending. Where he would come home, we would kiss and make up and I could profess everything I felt about him.

But . . . Mason and I aren’t a Hallmark movie. We never have been.

We’re darkness and lust and seething passion that threatens to drown me in a pool of my own making. I’ve been standing at the edge of that pool, afraid to jump in, but now that I’ve had that glistening moment of Mason’s affection, I find I’m fucking destroyed without it.

I want to go to him. I want to help. I want to apologize and wrap myself around him, but the knowledge that his refusal could end me keeps me pacing the floor in the living room until I worry the carpet is going to wear down.

He can’t just leave me here. Wondering what the hell’s going on. It’s my right to know why that man tried to kill me as much as it is anyone else’s. I’ve been good, thus far. Listening. I’ve stayed inside. I’ve avoided all contact with my mother or Michael.

“It’s bullshit,” I murmur angrily to the picture of Mason’s family on his desk. “I should be there.”

They don’t reply, but I have a feeling his father would agree if he were here.

And then it dawns on me when my gaze catches on a young Savannah.

Fortunately, she answers.

I’m going to be in so much trouble.

“Hello?”

“Savannah, I need your help.”

“I know why you’re calling Hannah, and trust me, it’s not a good idea.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve been there. Sneaking out when I’m someone’s out to kill me. I was nearly murdered again.”

I shake my head. “The man who wanted me dead is being interrogated and I would like to know what he’s saying.”

She lets out a sigh.

“Mason’s already pissed off at me.”

“He’s pissed off at me, too, but he’s not in control of me.”

“And what are you going to do when you get over there? Just barge in?”

I hadn’t thought that far ahead.

“I’ll handle that when the time comes.”

“Hannah . . .” she growls, soft voice riddled with anxiety. “If I tell you, Logan’s going to have my head.”

“Nonsense. I won’t tell him you gave me the address.”

“And what’s your big plan there? Did you think of that one?”

“No,” I admit, scrubbing a hand over my face. “But I’ll think of something on the way.”

She’s silent for a moment, contemplating.

“Look, Savannah. You were right, the other day. I do care about your brother. I think I might even be in love with him.” I suck in a deep breath, my chest aching. “You were also right when you told me I’m putting him in danger. If this is about me, I want to be involved.”

“God,” she grumbles. “You really know how to drive a hard bargain.”

“Politics,” I explain and she chuckles humorlessly.

My phone pings against my cheek and I pull it back to check it, in case it’s Mason.

But it’s not. It’s the address.

“It’s a house in Compton. Doesn’t look like much from the outside, but inside is where they’re interrogating him.”

“Thank you,” I rush, climbing to my feet and moving toward my room. “I’m indebted to you.”

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Especially after Logan finds out I gave you the address.”

“Forgive me for saying this, but he seems a little harsh.”

“No,” she chimes. “He’s fair. Goodnight, Hannah.”

“Goodnight, Savannah.”

The driver of my clandestine Uber is on her phone when I climb into the back of the car.

Good. She doesn’t pay an ounce of attention to me as he starts back down the road and I sink back into the seats. The windows are tinted, but I still feel like at any moment, one of the guards is going to sniff out my scent like a bloodhound and drag me back into the house to sit and wait some more.

I’m not a waiter.

I’m also not a runner. Not anymore.

Absentmindedly, I play with a loose thread on the bottom of my t-shirt while the driver talks about something her kid did at school to whoever’s on the line.

My stomach is in knots. This is either a really bad idea or a really bad idea.

There is no other option.

Still . . . if this concerns me, I refuse to be put on ice. Mason may care, but he’s not going to keep secrets from me.

He can’t hide anymore.

When we pull to a stop in front of the building, I tip the driver, who doesn’t even notice, and climb out in front of the dingy little house. From the outside, it looks like any other house in Compton. Still, Mason’s truck is outside and all the windows are dark, so I stride right up to the front door.

Locked.

Should have known.

“Who the fuck are you?” a voice growls behind me.

Well, shit.

Busted.

I raise my hands in surrender when the click of a gun at my back sounds in the night air.

This is the second time someone’s held a gun to my head in forty-eight hours. It’s getting quite old.

“Hannah.”

“Hannah who?”

“ Mason’s Hannah.”

“ID.”

Rolling my eyes at the front door, I slip my hand into my bag and hand him my wallet over my shoulder. He wastes no time checking my ID and scanning me as if I’m wearing a skin mask of the real Hannah’s face.

“Inside.”

That’s what I was trying to do, I think darkly, then scold myself.

He’s just doing his job. I’m the one sneaking around in the dark like a maniac.

He pushes forward, waving his hand over a card reader next to the door that looks like one of those doorbell cameras and the door clicks, unlocking.

He opens it and pushes me inside before quietly shutting the door behind us, again.

“You aren’t supposed to be here.”

He’s a young guy, no older than his twenties and I can tell by the disgruntled look on his face, he’s not happy about my appearance.

“Would you like me to walk back home?”

His jaw tightens and he pushes me forward with a sigh.

That’s what I thought.

He leads me through an empty living room, down a hallway, and to a kitchen. It’s not until he stops at a door that surely leads down to a basement that my stomach does a somersault.

“They’re going to be pissed, you know?” he murmurs, opening the door. Voices drift from downstairs, followed by the disgusting smell of blood and ammonia.

Okay . . . this was definitely a bad idea.

“Have fun, Mason’s Hannah.”

Dick.

He shoves me onto the landing and closes the door behind me, sending me into the dim lighting of the basement stairs. Slowly, quietly, I descend, making my way toward the bottom when I hear the gut-wrenching sound of flesh on flesh.

The painful kind.

Mason shakes his hand when I reach the bottom of the stairs, having just punched the guy who tried to kill me so hard, his head fell back. His back is to me, but the strong lines of his shoulders are tense under his t-shirt.

They’ve been at this a while.

A two-way mirror separates this room and that, but the small intercom on the wall lets me hear every word as if they’re wearing microphones.

Mason’s voice drifts through the speaker, cool and deadly and unlike anything I’ve ever heard from him before.

Ice fills my chest. This isn’t Mason. This is the devil.

“Do you like choking women, Montclair?”

“No,” the man whimpers, clenching his eyes against the blood and sweat streaming down from his forehead. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t believe you,” Mason murmurs, voice like a purr.

There’s a strange soft hum and then the man in the chair—Montclair—is screaming in agony, his back bowing off the harsh metal.

“This is madness,” I whisper to my own reflection shining back at me in the mirror.

The hum cuts and Montclair falls forward, his chin resting on his chest as violent shivers rack through his body.

Still, Mason’s voice comes out low and concise.

“You attempted to murder her, in turn attempting to steal from me.”

“I didn’t want to hurt anybody.”

Oh, fuck. He can’t possibly be—

Mason hushes him and Logan lands another shot to the man’s face, cracking his knuckles after, but it’s what’s under the chair that really makes my stomach turn.

A battery. Two long jumper cables.

A lack of . . . pants.

“Oh my God,” I breathe, panic surging through me.

The room smells awful. Like body odor, blood, and urine. But it’s the sickening heat that really takes its toll, turning everything tenfold.

“You won’t answer our questions,” Logan Prince chimes from beside Mason. Other people I recognize from that night at my house stand around, but no one notices me as I stand in the shadows for a moment longer. “You say you don’t remember what happened to you or how you got this in your stomach.” He holds up a plastic baggy with something small and reflective inside. “I for one am tired of asking. I’m going to start cutting things off soon.”

The man whimpers as fear takes hold, sliding down over the bruises covering his face.

Jesus. It’s a wonder he’s still alive.

Guilt washes through me, despite the knowledge that this is the man who tried to kill me.

They’re torturing him . . . for me.

“Can I ask him some questions?”

All eyes in the room turn to lock with me and suddenly, I feel a tad out of place. A set of stormy gray ones, in particular, bore into mine with the intensity of a thousand hurricanes from across the room.

Mason’s pissed .

My cheeks flame as I take in the other people. All people I don’t recognize. Some I do. The two that checked out my throat the night of the attack are here, but neither shows any expression on their faces. Logan Prince, sans the suit, stands in front of the man, little flecks of blood on his white dress shirt. Other people I don’t know, but who all seem to know me as they look amongst themselves.

“And what do you need to ask him, Ms. Gaines?” Logan sneers. You know, for as handsome as he is, he really is an ass sometimes. Must be the FBI in him.

I shrug. “That’s for him to know.”

Mason looks like he’s ready to either kill me or fuck me into oblivion. I can’t decide which. Maybe a bit of both.

“Look, he attacked me, not you guys and he’s pretty well tied to that table, so I don’t think it’s going to happen again. You can stand right outside, but I don’t think torturing him is the best course of action.”

“You know we have guards who should have shot you for coming in here?” Logan challenges, completely glossing over the fact that I just asked to speak to the man he’s currently torturing.

“Well, they didn’t.” When he stares at me some more, I roll my eyes. “Look, that’s between you and your agents. I just want to get to the bottom of this and you don’t seem to be doing a very good job, considering there’s a battery hooked up to his, um, bits.”

Logan stares at me for a moment and I have to admit, he’s fucking terrifying. It could be the dark, dark-gray eyes, but there’s also this unkillable energy. Like he could walk through the fires of hell and come out with a light tan.

“You have ten minutes.”

He stalks toward the door and with a wave of his fingers, the others follow like he’s a king in a room of peasants. I resist the urge to roll my eyes again. Mason, on the other hand, hangs back, staring at me darkly from across the room.

“I’ll be fine,” I assure him, but he doesn’t seem convinced, looking back at the man who stares between us like if he moves a single muscle, he might get ripped to shreds. Hell, he’s probably still scared of Mason and his diabolical crowbar swing.

He points a finger at the man, his eyes flashing dangerously. “You touch her, it’s your life.”

Mason shoots me a look that tells me I’ll have hell to pay for this later. Then he stalks toward the door and shuts it behind him with a harsh slam.

I’m now completely alone with the man who tried to murder me.

Now that I’m seeing him in this light, I can tell he’s young. Younger than me. He’s practically shaking when I approach, stepping gingerly over the puddle of bodily fluids mixed on the floor.

He hisses through his teeth when I very cautiously kneel down beside him, gingerly removing the battery cables from his balls.

“I’m sorry they did this to you,” I murmur softly and he doesn’t respond as I very quickly drop the cables from whatever they could have on them.

Ew.

I take the chair in front of me and move it around to sit next to him, away from the urine and blood staining the floor.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me.”

“I’m not. I’m afraid of them.” He looks behind me and I follow his gaze to the two-way mirror.

“Yeah,” I agree, turning back to him. “I imagine I would be, too, in your shoes.”

Finally, the kid’s gaze turns to mine.

“My name is Hannah, but I’m assuming you already know that?”

He pauses for a moment, searching my face. “I don’t know what I know.” He breaks down, a tear slipping down his cheek. Under different circumstances, I would feel bad for him and, in a way, I guess I still do. He’s too young to end up in this life. He can’t be more than nineteen or twenty.

“What’s your name?”

“Dawson,” he says through tears.

Sucking in a deep breath, I reach into my bag and pull out a tissue. When I reach forward to dab at the blood oozing from his nose, he flinches, but he doesn’t move.

“Why did you try to kill me, Dawson?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I can’t remember much. Just that they dropped me at your house and said you had the cure.”

“The cure for what?”

“Poison. Whatever they were giving me.”

Black Dahlia.

“And who’s they?”

My line of questioning runs short because I can see in his eyes, he doesn’t know.

“Where did you come from, Dawson?”

“Bel Air.” He pauses, looking back at the two-way mirror. “I really don’t remember anything. I swear. It’s all just pictures.”

I move to the cut on his lip next, dabbing at that and he seems to relax when he realizes I’m not going to hurt him.

“What’s in those pictures?”

He takes a shuddering breath and I realize his mouth is bloody, too. I reach into my bag and grab the bottle of water I’d brought from home—Mason’s home, I guess—and hand it to him.

“Why are you being nice to me?”

He’s suspicious. I would be too in his situation.

“Because I’ve seen enough people die and I get the feeling you didn’t actually want to kill me,”

He shakes his head. “No. I’m sorry I did that to you.” He nods to the faded bruises on my neck and takes a drink of water. They’re so much lighter now, I’d almost forgotten they were there.

“I survived,” I murmur. “So did you. Now, tell me about those pictures.”

He shakes his head, confusion on his face.

“My . . . sister. They took my sister. I can’t remember why, but I just know they had her and they made me agree to meet them or they wouldn’t give her back.”

“And what happened after that?”

He pauses, wracking his brain.

“Dawson, they won’t stop hurting you if you don’t tell them what you saw.”

He shivers as if the memories are haunting him, even if he can’t remember them.

“I remember a warehouse. Some dusty dirty place. I remember my sister lying on the floor. Her eyes—” He waves a hand in front of his face “—they were glassy. Reflecting some kind of fire. She didn’t look like her, though. Pieces of her were missing.” He looks up at me, his eyes wide with horror as an uneasiness settles in my stomach. “I think she was dead.”

Tears burn in the backs of my eyes as one slips down his cheek to mix with the dried blood under his nose.

“Fuck . . . my sister’s dead.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Dawson. Is there anything else you can remember? One of the people? What they looked like?”

“No,” he murmurs as another shiver wracks through him. “Wait! There was a man who was in control of everything. He and another woman had sex in the cell next to mine.”

I pause. That can’t be true.

“He had dark hair. Dark eyes. Looked like he had a lot of money.”

“And this woman . . . what did she look like?”

He stops, staring at me as if he’s just seeing my face for the first time.

“You . . .” he breathes. “She looked like you.”

Horror breaches his face and then he launches himself back from me, crashing to the ground with a scream of terror.

I don’t hear anyone come in the room, but seconds later, big, strong arms are wrapping around me and hauling me away from Dawson who scrambles to cower in a corner as Logan’s men go to calm him.

“Don’t hurt him!” I screech, but I’m still carried away.

“Stop,” Mason growls low in my ear when I fight at his hold, arms tightening like thick bands around my stomach. He drags me back from the room and to the area behind the two-way mirror before he releases me as if I’d burnt him.

My heart pounds in my chest as I suck in air, that night on my pink kitchen floor coming back full-force.

“Please don’t kill him,” I beg, uncaring if Mason doesn’t want anything to do with me. I can’t allow them to hurt this man because of me. It’s wrong.

Logan just shakes his head, tutting under his breath as he watches them carry the man back to the chair and tighten his bindings.

Mason’s jaw ticks, but still, his gaze remains locked on the man in the room.

“Please, Mason?” I beg, shaking from the tears and shivering as the iciness from the distance between Mason and me bleeds into my veins.

He won’t even look at me.

“Find someone to take her home,” he murmurs darkly, but not to me. “I don’t want her here.”

And then he strides back in the room without another glance in my direction.