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He slowly lifts his head, his corded muscles rippling. For the first time since I’ve been with Mason, after months spent falling in love with him, I feel realagony. The small involuntary shudder my body makes proves there’s a bit of fear present too.
The sharp lines of his jaw look more intense in the dim light, the shadows only making them seem more severe. His steel gray eyes are like daggers as he captures my gaze.
I can’t breathe; I can’t look away. I hate him for what he did then and I hate him for how he’s making me feel now.
“You don’t,” he says and his voice is rough and deep. He sounds stronger than before. But it’s a lie. All lies.
I do. I hate him more than I could ever express.
Finally, I gasp for air rather than crying any more tears, breaking his gaze to stare up at the ceiling. Even that minor movement makes the raw wounds at my wrists hurt. I try to hide it, though.
I gave this man everything. How could I have been so foolish? “I hate you more than you’ll ever know,” I murmur to the ceiling in an eerily calm voice although my heart is anything but.
The creaking of the floorboards grabs my attention, and my gaze whips to Mason as he stands. Goosebumps spread slowly over every inch of my skin as he rises.
His muscular frame seems so much larger in this moment, and a hint of a lethal concoction gives a low stir in the pit of my stomach. He’s always been dominating and intimidating, but this is something darker … something more.
I have nothing to protect me, not even a sheet. He stripped the linens off the bed before tying me up and I was left in only the underwear and baggy, thin cotton T-shirt I slipped on this morning. The chill is getting to me.
The bed dips and groans as he places a knee on it only inches away from me. I would struggle to pull away, but I’m stuck here. Both of us know that.
“I love you, Jules,” he murmurs and his words are a mix of strangled pain and determination. He’s a broken man with a tortured soul.
I don’t know how I could possibly look at a man who’s done this to me and feel any kind of sorrow for him, but I do.
I’ve met men before who’ve been wound tight, waiting to go off like a bomb. They were always constantly on edge and ready for a fight at a moment’s notice. Mason’s not like that. Insteadhe’s like thread loosely wrapped around a spindle, nothing but a mess of tangles. It’s not soft string; this thread’s sharp to the touch and there’s no hope at unraveling it without cutting yourself.
I never knew how deeply he’d wounded me. I had no idea that while I was busy mending myself and leaning on him for support, he was watching me bleed out, saying nothing. The closer he got, the deeper the inevitable betrayal, but that didn’t stop him. He had so many chances to tell me what he’d done.
I let my head drop to look him in the eyes. It makes my heart swell with an unbearable pain to have him so close to me. To see how injured he is, but knowing it’s nothing compared to what he’s done to me.
I truly loved him. I thought fate had given me a second chance at love and happiness. I knew it was too good to be true.
“How could you do that?” The aching question isn’t what I’d planned to say when I narrowed my eyes. “You’re sick,” I add and the words are gritted out somehow, bearing the strength I was aiming for and I wait for him to strike back with the same venom I’ve given him.
His steady breathing is somehow calming and it irritates me as I watch his chest rise and fall. “Maybe,” he says before rising off the bed and turning away from me. My heart plummets at the sight of his back to me and my expression crumples. It physically hurts me to know he’s hurting too. I thought I knew agony before. My God.
Why did this happen? How could it happen?
Tears threaten and I shove them back, hating all of this and praying to just wake up and find it’s merely a bad dream.Please! Please, I would give anything for this to only be a nightmare.My silent prayers are disrupted by the wood floors creaking as Mason heads toward the door, leaving me here and not giving me any indication of what’s to come.
“Aren’t you going to say you’re sorry?” I whisper the ragged question. Maybe that’s what’s most shocking; he hasn’t said he’s sorry. Not for tying me up and keeping me here … not for murdering my husband almost a year ago.
His tall frame pauses in the partially opened doorway, stopping in his tracks as he registers what I’ve said. He turns his head slowly to look back at me over his shoulder, his hand still on the carved glass doorknob.
“I already told you that I’m sorry. You were never supposed to know the truth.”
“You’re only sorry that I found out?” I ask with equal amounts of disbelief and hurt.
His eyes dart to the floor and the bedroom door groans as it opens slightly wider.
He glances up at me hesitantly, as if debating on telling me something. It would be the truth; I can see it, can feel the intensity. Instead he says nothing, walking out of the bedroom with even strides before slamming the door shut behind him.
MASON
The past is dark,
And filled with pain.