37. Hannah

Hannah

S o this is what it feels like to be without a home.

It’s strange. I thought I’d feel empty, but really, I just feel numb.

All the secrets I’ve learned in the past few weeks. The people I thought I’d once known like the back of my hand.

The death.

Death brings about a sense of clarity in times like these.

For example. My mother is not a good person. Everyone knew that—fuck, even I knew that, deep down—but it wasn’t until it was laid out in front of me that I realized just how . . . evil she is.

Michael is not my friend. He may have been at one time, but now, friendship isn’t enough for him. He wants to own me and I’m no genius, but I don’t think love bred out of bartering is the real deal.

And Missy. Or Melissa. I’ve conceded to the fact that Missy Gaines, my twin, best friend, sister . . . is dead. Missy and Melissa are two different people. Missy would braid my hair while we watched old reruns of Buffy: The Vampire Slayer . She’d bake Christmas cookies with me every year and she always let me do the decorating.

In a lot of really messed up ways, Missy and I were like each other’s mothers. We took care of each other when one of us was sad. I made her hot soup when she was sick and she made the best flu tea I’ve ever tasted. She’d dry my eyes over whatever stupid boy had broken my heart and I’d stick up for her at school when the girls in our class tried to tease her about the gap she used to have in her two front teeth.

Missy was loving, kind, and caring.

Melissa is vile.

Say it was all for love. Seems like a pretty fucked-up excuse to me, for helping kidnap people. Helping rape them. Sell them into the sex trade.

She drank the poison and that poison wasn’t some illegal absinthe, imported from overseas. It was Marcus Parker. Pure evil Marcus Parker.

The stepfather of the man I’m helplessly in love with.

Sure, he has his faults, but so do I. I can be rash. I can be cruel if I’m angry or hurt. I can even be stupid and walk to the convenience store for slushies when someone tried to kill me the night before.

I know he hid the nature of his long nights in the garage from me. I know he wants to see my mother dead. I know he hates my sister with everything in him.

I also know a man who’s still willing to help me find said sister, even though doing so could literally mean death for him . . . is not a man I want to give up.

My chest constricts at the thought of losing him. Of what will happen when this is over.

Can we survive in the mundane after our relationship was built on destruction? Will he still look at me like he did tonight when I shot a rapist in the dick? Like I was the only other person in the world. Like I was handpicked by God, just for him?

I convince myself it’s water slipping down my cheeks, even as quiet sobs rack through my shoulders. I scrub my skin, even though the blood of that poor woman is long gone, until it’s red and stinging under the hot water.

I move to the other arm with my washcloth, but a big hand stops me, another pulling me back into a solid chest.

Mason’s voice is rough and quiet in my ear.

“Let me,” he murmurs gruffly. I hadn’t even heard him come in.

Disaster looms in the distance, but I push it from my mind, forcing myself to focus on him under the heavy flow of the shower. I lean into him, soaking in his warmth because my mother made it clear tonight. He’s going to show up and when he does, he won’t leave without me.

And then my mother’s going to sell me to Michael, in the most barbaric, public sex trade she can.

Sometimes Mason can be rough, but right now, he’s gentle. Tender. In a lot of ways, it feels like a sin—maybe if those girls had a Mason Carpenter on their side, they would still be alive.

Maybe if I could walk away, he’d be safe.

“You’re so pretty, it hurts to look at you,” he murmurs in my ear while he washes the tiny flakes of blood off my skin.

And then I know it’s not just water on my face.

“You should moonlight as a hairstylist. Or a cheeseburger chef.”

Mason’s cheeseburgers are among some of the best food I’ve ever tasted.

“You’re saying I should work at McDonald’s?”

I shake my head.

“No. This is high quality. At least a Wendy’s.”

That earns me a chuckle.

He takes my empty plate and his, carrying them to the sink. “Well, I’m happy to see you like cheeseburgers better than fish.”

“I hate fish,” I grumble, taking a drink of the sweet red wine he’d poured me before dinner. Well, midnight dinner, I guess.

It’s past one now and though I’m exhausted, I’m not ready to sleep yet. I don’t know if I can, even if I tried. My nerves have been all over the place since we got home. I’m either calm and tired or so high-strung, I feel like I’m going to bounce my leg off.

There is no in-between.

“Why do you go?” he asks suddenly, turning back to look at me from the sink. I pause for a second. He should really start wearing a shirt if he’s going to be asking me questions.

“Because . . .” I stammer. I don’t really have a good reason. “I just have to. Or had to, I guess. I don’t think I’ll be going to another one.”

“Why go at all? You don’t like the food. You don’t believe in politics. You definitely don’t like the people.”

I’m ashamed to admit, I never thought of not going. It was never an option.

“It’s just what was expected of us. You never had to go to any functions for Parker?”

He takes his seat, downing half his beer in one drink.

So I’ve struck a nerve . . .

“Parker didn’t own me. He couldn’t control me like he could my sisters.”

And then it dawns on me. I want to know everything about him.

“Mason . . . why did you choose to go live with your grandma over your family?”

He’s quiet for a moment, calculating.

“My grandmother was a good woman. You would have liked her.”

“She took you in.”

He shakes his head. “She gave me everything. This house. The garage. She made sure it stayed with the family. And she made sure Dad wasn’t forgotten.”

“How did your sisters feel about that?”

He chuckles bitterly.

“They went to live with Mom and Parker. They had no need for this place anymore.”

“And you were . . . left behind.” Tears well in my eyes, but I don’t let them fall. Not right now when he’s finally opening up to me.

“You want to know why Savannah was so against you when she first met you?”

My heart bottoms out in my chest. Of course, I always thought it was because my sister had an illicit affair with her stepfather, but it never occurred to me that there could be something deeper.

“Parker was a part of a club,” he murmurs darkly. “Some fucked-up, high society sex club. I’m talking politicians, people you see on TV, CEOs. It was invitation-only and the best-kept secret in LA until last year.”

“Like the Inner Sanctum?”

“Worse.”

I suck in a deep breath, reaching for the bottle of wine.

“I have a feeling I’m going to need another glass.”

“Probably.”

While I pour myself another glass of wine, Mason continues.

“One of the requirements of long-standing members was to bring someone to auction. Called party favors. Most of the time, they were brought in like slaves. It wasn’t consensual and the things they’d do to people were horrific. Like a cattle trade. They’d pay big money to fuck whoever was auctioned and the auctioneer, or whatever the fuck you want to call it, would keep that money.”

“Please don’t tell me Savannah was one of the party favors.”

His jaw ticks and he doesn’t say it, but I can tell from the stiffness in his shoulders that’s exactly what happened.

Though my stomach feels queasy, I reach for the bottle of wine. Turns out, I need the whole damned thing.

“The Brethren, more importantly, the children of anyone associated with the Brethren, are who your mother is trafficking.”

“And . . . I suppose my sister fits in here somewhere, as well,” I murmur slowly and he nods.

“Hannah . . .” he starts, letting out a deep sigh. Like he doesn’t want to say whatever’s on his mind. “I’m sure your sister was good. Once. But once Parker got to her . . .”

“Was she a party favor, as you called it? Or something else?”

“She was a member.”

My chest cracks at the thought.

“And that’s why my mother gave her up.”

Neither of us has spoken it out loud, yet, but it’s evident my mother is solely responsible for my sister’s disappearance. As well as countless others.

I feel like I’m drowning.

“I don’t want to tell you this, little doe, but I need to. Prince told me this morning,” Mason murmurs gruffly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “They found a body washed up on the beach down in Huntington last night. It was unrecognizable, but . . . it was a woman.”

I swallow over the lump in my throat, staring at a bead of wine that slips down the inside of my glass.

“And . . . was it missing a finger?”

“It was.”

Silence is loud. Especially when there’s a ringing voice in the back of your head telling you it’s finally over. This part of your search is done and there’s nothing left for you to do.

“I expected tears, not silence,” Mason says, as though the absence of my tears disturbs him. “What’s going on in your head, little doe?”

I grimace, scrubbing a hand over my face. I’m suddenly very, very tired.

“I . . . I don’t know what’s going on in my head. I feel like we’re dodging bullets left and right with no end in sight. I want to be relieved the mystery with Missy is over, but I don’t want to be relieved because . . .” I suck in a deep, shivering breath. “That makes me a bad person.”

Mason’s gaze is caustic, glinting in the light overhead. “You’re the best fucking person I know, Hannah, and I don’t say that lightly.”

I stare at him for a long moment, studying his face for any sign that he himself doesn’t believe it. Nothing. Not even a glimmer of doubt, but . . .

“I wish I could believe that.”

“What are you afraid of, little doe?”

I suck in a deep breath, my chest aching. A heavy heart, my mother would say.

“I’m wondering when it will all end. How it will end. What happened to Melissa . . . What’s going to happen between us if we make it out of this alive.”

Now that I’ve said it out loud, I wish I could take it back. How stupid is it that despite everything we’ve been through together, coming off as clingy and lovestruck makes me want to cry in shame? Perhaps it’s the way women have been conditioned to always let the men come to them. Maybe I’m just emotional after tonight.

“I don’t get attached,” Mason says after a long moment. He stares at his fingers on the empty beer bottle in his hand as if it’ll tell him the secrets of life if he stares hard enough. “To anyone besides my family.”

Oh . . .

I nod, ashamed at the warmth that pools behind my eyes.

“Until you.”

I pause, daring to raise my gaze to his, my heart stopping in my chest when I see the look in his eyes. Possessiveness. Warmth. Adoration. Affection. And something else, burning so hot, I have to look away for a moment.

Oh . . .

“Your family hates me.”

“They don’t. And if they did,” he shrugs. “It wouldn’t change anything.”

“My mother is going to try to kill you.”

“I’m not afraid of death.”

“I come with a lot of baggage,” I say, almost whispering. Giving him any reason to find an out.

“I’ll carry it.”

My heart stops.

“Come here.”

I stay frozen.

He cocks a brow.

“Little doe, don’t make me come over there.”

Fine. Slowly, I stand, stepping around the table to stop in front of him. He turns to face me, leaning back in his chair and pulling me between his legs.

And then he does something so unlike Mason Carpenter, I think I might melt into a puddle on the floor.

Leaning forward, he wraps his arms around my waist and lays his head on my stomach. Holding me gently, as if I might shatter.

Right now, I feel like I might.

Gingerly, I reach up, stroking through the short strands of his hair, forcing myself to see him in full. He’s not just a powerful man, a dark and dangerous protector, or even an asshole. He’s also kind, loving, caring, and the best damned cheeseburger maker in the state. I’d put money on it.

A shudder rolls through him and he peers up at me for a moment, before tugging me forward to sit on his lap. And then he presses his lips to mine while my heart threatens to bruise my chest with how hard it’s racing. He kisses me like he needs to. Like it’s his last breath.

When he breaks away, our breath is ragged. “You can call me your boyfriend, Hannah. Your person. Your lover. Your fucking husband.” My heart bottoms out at the mention of husband and the rough way he growls it. “Just fucking stay.”

Carefully, I lean forward, pressing my lips to his gently. “I’ll stay,” I murmur against them. Is it even a question?

He rolls his hips against me and I wince, still sore from last night and the car this evening. Still, my body warms at its center, as if no matter how much I get of him, it’ll never be enough.

“I’m sore,” I breathe into his mouth.

He chuckles darkly, carefully lifting me and standing from the chair.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No.” I’m surer about that than anything else in life, right now.

“Little doe, I think I’ve ruined you.”