“Is this why you always carry a weapon?”
“Yes, though I prefer to use my hands.”
“And these words?” I ask, tracing the tattoo with my index finger.
“Something they said before they dropped dead,” he replies, measuring my eyes.
My finger traces the length of his scar again. “Good,” I mumble.
“Does the morality police approve of capital punishment?” He chuckles.
Mason’s moral standards are so low that he actually thinks I’m some beacon of righteousness—I’m far from it.
“In extraordinary circumstances.” I nod.
“Like?”
“Like when someone hurts someone I love.”
His eyes meet mine again, and the air pulses between us like a heartbeat.
“Did you just confess you love me, princess?”
Did I?
I’m not one to fall head-over-heels for guys. Neverunderstood the kind of fatal attraction that burns people down to wax and wick. But then I hadn’t met Mason Grant. Didn’t know what I was up against from the first time I was alone in his magnetic, dominating presence.
I tried to escape it. But my defiance only fed his hunger. Each attempt to push him away only made me what he desired most—his willing prey.
Not only did he tear down my walls and feast on every dark piece inside me, hebaskedin it. I was drowning. In memories. In pain. In the shadows. He yanked me out and poured life back into my soul. I will never admit this to anyone, but part of me wished I died with my parents.
I don’t anymore.
And he is the reason why.
“Do you?” Mason tugs me closer by the waist. “Love me?”
“Maybe.” I smile. “But at this point, it’s probably just Stockholm syndrome.”
Mason bursts into laughter and pulls me onto the bed with him, hugging me to his chest and tucking us beneath the covers. Our naked bodies coil around each other as his arms swallow me in an unyielding grip.
“Sleep little dove, or you’ll get dark circles,” he jokes with a smile to lighten the mood. But I don’t want this weight on my chest to lift. I want it to press down, squash me if it must. He reads my face, stroking my cheek with the back of his curled finger. “Don’t have unreasonable expectations from me, princess. You’ll be disappointed.”
“So, I should give up hope you’ll love me?” I hate how my voice cracks.
“Love is easy, little dove. I don’t do easy.”
I was braced.
It still hits me like a bullet.
Heat clinging to my skin, I edge closer, resting my face on his shoulder and refusing to meet his eyes again. “And what isMason Grant’s version of hard love?” I manage in a small voice.
“Do whatever it takes to keep you mine,” he says in a deep voice.
“We should probably talk about what ‘whatever’ means for someone like you.”
He lets out a dark chuckle as he crushes me to his chest, legs caging mine like vines. “Later. Now, sleep,” he orders.
