“He didn’t mean it,” I whisper again, quieter this time. “He doesn’t love me. He can’t. He left. He?—”
The sound breaks off when fingers curl weakly around my wrist.
I jolt, nearly dropping the scope.
“Mason?”
His throat works, scratchy, raw, but his grip tightens, his eyes cracked open just enough to pin me there.
“No,” he rasps.
I freeze. “No what?”
His voice is sandpaper, jagged, but it cuts clean through me.
“No… he wasn’t lying.”
My chest caves, breath catching like barbed wire. “Mason?—”
“He’s been broken,” Mason whispers, each word dragged out like it costs him blood. “Since the second he let you go. I’ve seen it. Every night. He doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t eat. Drinks like the bottle’s the only thing keeping him upright. And when it’s not enough—” His throat catches. “It’s your name, Cass. Always your name.”
Tears prick hot at the back of my eyes.
“You don’t understand,” I choke out. “He said goodbye?—”
“He didn’t,” Mason snaps, sharp even with his ruined voice. His grip burns into my wrist, weak but desperate. “That man would rather die than admit he loves someone. But he does. He fucking does. He doesn’t know how to survive it, but he can’t breathe without you.”
My vision blurs. My free hand curls into the sheets like maybe I can anchor myself to the steady beep of the monitor.
“He hates me,” I whisper. “Every time he looks at me?—”
“Every time he looks at you, he’s fighting not to fall on his knees.” Mason’s breath rattles, his eyes heavy but unflinching. “He thinks you’ll break him. He doesn’t realise you’re the only thing keeping him alive.”
The sob tears out of me before I can stop it.
Mason squeezes my wrist again, weak but steady, his gaze locked on mine like he’s willing me to believe it.
“He doesn’t love you?” His voice shakes, sharp, final. “Cass, he can’t even fucking live without you.”
And that’s what ruins me.
Not the chapel.
Not the kiss.
Not the bruises he left blooming under my skin.
It’s this—Hearing the truth from the mouth of the one man lying between life and death and knowing deep down—I already believed it.
My tears drip down onto the back of his hand, sliding over skin that feels too fragile, too thin. His pulse is weak beneath my fingertips, but still—he holds on.
“Mason, stop—” My voice cracks. “You need to save your strength.”
His mouth twists, dry, bitter. “Strength’s not what’s keeping me here.”
I shake my head, pressing the gauze tighter to the line in his arm, focusing on the numbers on the monitor because I can’t focus on the words leaving his mouth.
“Mason—”
