Page 92 of Bruised

He always finds me.

He always sees the parts of me I’ve tried to hide.

He tempts me in the most irresistible ways, and I always, always give in. But not this time.

There’s no knock on the door. He just turns the handle and invites himself into Oliver’s room like he belongs there.

“Hey, Lane.”

No “Hey, puppy.” No smirk or glittering look in his eyes. There’s something raw in them now, something naked that I haven’t seen before, and it takes me aback for a second, but I can’t let it sway me.

I’m determined not to give him an inch, because when I have in the past, he takes a mile. He takes my heart, too. Swallows me whole. Makes me feel like I don’t matter, but I do matter—just maybe not to him. I can’t let him make me think otherwise so he can get me into bed.

“What are you doing here?” I snap.

“I just want to talk.”

I cross my arms and try to scowl, but in my chest, my heart is doing somersaults at the sight of him. Why does he always make my knees feel so weak and fill my stomach with annoying butterflies?

“Well, maybe I don’t want to talk to you,” I mutter.

“You don’t have to talk; you can just listen to what I have to say.”

He takes a step closer, and I take a step back, just like in the beginning. Unlike in the beginning, though, he stops when I flinch. He doesn’t step over the mattress to get to me; he doesn’t cross my boundaries, at least in that.

“I’m sorry, Lane.”

The softness in his voice makes tears burn behind my eyes. I turn away, hugging myself, closing my eyes so I don’t have to look at him.

“I’m sorry I hurt you.”

It’s not enough to just tell me he’s sorry, but part of me didn’t think he’d own up to it at all. I thought he’d just… take for granted that I’d want him back, that he didn’t even need to fight for it.

My heart is saying don’t let him hurt me again, but on the outside, I’m nodding, giving him permission to continue.

“I lied,” he says, and his hands clench at his sides.

“When?” The word comes out of me without thought. I wasn’t supposed to play along, wasn’t supposed to say anything, but I got too curious.

“When you asked me if this was real. And when… when I said you couldn’t have me in the way you want.”

“Okay,” I mutter. Don’t believe him. He’s just trying to trick you. He’s lying, even now. He just wants you back; he doesn’t want to know you. He doesn’t want to date you. He just wants to fuck you and treat you like shit.

“I was scared,” Mason continues, and when I look up, his eyes flick away before returning, watching my expression with a rare vulnerability. His brows knit with worry, his mouth tightens, and there’s a softness to his face I haven’t seen before. A searching, pleading look, as if he really, really wants me to believe him.

“Scared?”

“Scared that if you knew me—really knew me—you wouldn’t want me anymore. You’d think I was a bad person, like everyone else does.”

“Why would I think that?” My voice is barely a whisper, something I need to choke out lest I choke on my emotions instead.

“You don’t know what I did.”

“What you did?”

“My charge. Why I got locked up.”

“You didn’t kill someone, right?”