Each time I think Mason and I are making progress, I catch a glimpse of the finely honed weapon underneath and am left doubting myself all over again.
It’s been two hours since the scene in his office, and I still have a bad taste in my mouth.
I have the urge to step into the shower and scrub my skin raw, except I don’t think it’ll chase away my disgust.
And the worst part is knowing I’d let him do it all over again just to feel better.
Maybe Noah was right.
Being with Mason is chipping away at little parts of me, and as I stand there in the quiet of the library, surrounded by shelves of books, I’m forced to confront my greatest fear.
What if, when all is said and done, the version of me that remains is nothing like the one Mason wants?
What if I become a shell of a woman, unable to recognize my reflection?
You just have to make sure that doesn’t happen. Focus on what you can control and compromise where you can. And keep one foot in front of the other.
A strong gust of wind rattles the windows, startling me. Silver moonlight pours in through the window, casting tiny particles across the hardwood floors. I rub my hands up and down my arms, but it does nothing to ward off the chill in my bones.
I’m not supposed to be here.
Katia has better things to do than lurk in the bowels of the library.
But other than a brief, bored look, she dismissed my attempts to get her to leave.
It’s been a long day. You should get some rest. Mason will come and find you soon and make things right.
Shaking my head, I step away from the fire and take in the shelves stocked with pristine hardcovers and first editions. The tightness in my chest eases as I drift closer and run my fingers along the spines. Then, I wander until I’m standing under a portrait, half-concealed under a dusty, worn sheet.
My heart is pounding in my ears. I reach forward and pull the sheet off.
I recognize a young Mason almost immediately by the quirk of his lips and the gleam in his eyes. Mathew is standing next to him with a scowl on his face. Opposite them is a little girl ina dress with thick auburn hair, and a little boy who is leaning away.
Seeing the Mason family in such an intimate position is unnerving.
But not as surreal as seeing Mason’s mother standing behind his father, her bright eyes tight around the edges, and the smile not quite reaching her eyes.
Shit.
“It’s uncanny, isn’t it?”
I drop my hand and wheel around, my stomach twisting into knots when I see Mathew. His shirt is half-tucked into his dark jeans, and his hair is sticking up in tufts.
Mason’s warning rings in my ears as his twin takes a step toward me.
“I’m sure you’ve noticed the resemblance,” Mathew continues. “It makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
I clear my throat. “If you’re trying to imply that Mason is only with me because I look like his mother, it’s not going to work.”
“And yet, you came to that conclusion all on your own,” Mathew says. “I guess Mason keeps you around for a lot more than your looks.”
He’s just trying to get under your skin. Mathew might not be as lethal as Mason, but he obviously enjoys mind games. He’s trying to fill your head with doubt.
Mathew isn’t wrong about the resemblance.
It’s like looking at an older, more tired version of myself, someone who has been hardened and broken by life.
I look back at the portrait, and something hard and unfamiliar settles in my stomach.
