Page 12 of Man of Lies (Vendetta Kings #2)

Chapter Twelve

SILAS

It had been three days since that night at the jazz club, and Mason was still haunting me. Not in some soft, poetic sense. More like a tension headache I couldn’t stretch out or a craving I couldn’t shake.

We’d traded a handful of texts, circling each other with the same careful restraint he preferred in person, but something always came up to keep us apart. Work, mostly—or that was just the bullshit excuse he gave me.

Now, sometime past midnight, I was halfway up the gravel drive to the Beaufort estate. I hadn’t told Mason I was coming. If I gave him a heads-up, he’d have time to talk himself out of it—and I wasn’t in the mood to be reasonable.

He’d been clawing at the back of my brain for too long. The taste of him clung to every cup of coffee, the snarl of his breath rode the exhaust on my morning ride, and his scent ghosted the collar of my shirt no matter how many times I changed.

Enough.

The thought of being with him had become the only part of my life that didn’t feel like a performance, and I knew I wasn’t the only one getting frustrated.

Mason didn’t need to say a thing for me to know how much he needed this. Needed me. The man was strung tighter than a tripwire, and he was kidding himself if he thought he could keep that tension locked inside forever.

As the estate emerged through the trees, sprawling and defiant against the dark, a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. Eden, they called it. I hadn’t explored this half of the parish much, so tonight marked my first in-person glimpse.

I couldn’t decide if it was a disappointment or not.

The house was a paradox of decrepit history and meticulous upkeep, complete with white columns and a wraparound porch too cinematic to be accidental. From a distance, it had the bones of an old southern belle, but the closer I got, the more the cracks began to show. Ivy jammed hooks into the siding, and the wings on the angels flanking the driveway looked like they’d fractured mid-flight.

Any fool could see the place was bleeding money. Most folks would see a relic, past its prime and sliding downhill one slow inch at a time. But even a northerner like me could appreciate the history. It started as a Jesuit monastery back in the French Colonial era, then turned into an orphanage when war and disease left more kids than families, and finally, during the lean years of the Depression, fell into the hands of the Beauforts—one of the few families flush enough to buy property when the Church sold off its holdings. Since then, it had been remodeled, repurposed, rebranded—but never truly changed.

What a weird place to live.

I killed the engine at the end of the driveway, not wanting to break the uneasy atmosphere with twin exhaust pipes and bad intentions. The place didn’t exactly invite company. The silence here had texture. Ancient branches creaked in the magnolia-scented breeze, night birds called from the leaves, and somewhere nearby, a bullfrog croaked. Sounds over sounds, layered so thick the property seemed to be murmuring.

Maybe that was why Mason didn’t stay here much. He was always at his office or slouched at my bar with that glassy look in his eyes. That man had way too much noise in his head to sit still and listen to the ghosts.

It made tonight an anomaly. He’d told me he was working from home and too buried in deadlines to meet up, but that didn’t stop me from needling him by text. Why would it? Watching him dodge my questions was half the fun. I could practically hear his irritation in every three-dot pause.

“You’re ignoring me, counselor.”

His response had been one word: “Working.”

“At this time of night? In Devil’s Garden? Not safe, sweetheart.” That was bait, but it didn’t land how I’d hoped.

“Home,” he’d replied. Still one word. If he kept that up, it might just hurt my feelings.

“Thought you hated that place,” I fished, though I wasn’t sure it was entirely accurate.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t use the desk.”

“Bet you’re not using the bed, though. Need me to come teach you how to relax?”

I could picture him, hunched over some tiny desk from his high school years, typing away on a laptop while those pretty blue eyes turned bloodshot behind his fancy glasses.

“Good night, Silas.”

“We both know you’re not sleeping.”

That was the last thing I sent. His end stayed silent…but he didn’t tell me to leave him alone.

That was the thing about Mason—he built walls like a pro, but he always left the gate cracked just enough to let someone slip through if they dared. Might as well be me.

I caught myself grinning as I swung off the bike and peeled off my jacket. Mason was going to hate this. He’d accuse me of being reckless and selfish—and he’d be right. But he wouldn’t send me away.

I wheeled the bike into a patch of deep shadow where it wouldn’t be visible. No fence or guard dogs. That was something. Still, I wouldn’t bet against security cameras on a property like this.

I kept to the tree line, boots sinking into the moist earth, and stopped shy of the porch. My gaze swept the mansion as I tugged off my gloves, one finger at a time. My hands were steady, breath even, but every inch of me was on high alert. I wasn’t here to make a scene, especially not with the foster program I knew they ran in the back wing. This wasn’t that kind of visit.

I just couldn’t stay away.

I paused in the shadow of a live oak, tilting my head to get a better view of the house. Midnight had come and gone, and the house had clearly settled for the night. Most of the windows were pitch black, except for two small squares of light at opposite ends of the upper floor. Access to the front window would be bannister to trellis to window ledge. The rear window was one swift climb up the branches arching like a cathedral ceiling overhead.

Pulling my phone from my pocket, I leaned against the trunk and thumbed through my contacts until I landed on Mason’s name. I didn’t expect him to pick up. Hell, I’d have bet money on it. But to my surprise, he answered on the second ring.

“What?”

“You got an oak tree outside your window?” I asked casually, eyeballing my footholds in the knotted bark.

“What?” The irritation in his tone wasn’t posturing this time. He sounded like I’d just asked what color underwear he was wearing. That would have probably been better received, all things considered, but damned if that sexy fatigue-rasp didn’t wind me up.

“You heard me,” I said, letting my smile spill out across the phone. “An oak tree. Outside your window?”

There was a pause on the other end, followed by an exhausted sigh and the faint rustle of papers. “Silas, this is the most ridiculous?—”

“Don’t overthink it, sweetheart. Just answer the question.” I lowered my voice a little, twisting it into that smooth, commanding tone he responded to every time. “Do you have an oak tree outside your window?”

He was quiet for so long I was sure he was about to hang up, but then I heard it—an unexpected chuckle.

“Yeah,” he said wryly. “I have an oak tree.”

“Good. Hang on.”

Before he could get another word in, I slid the phone back into my pocket, still connected. Let him listen and wonder.

The oak’s branches twisted toward the upper floors like a ladder custom-built for sneaking in and out. I blew on my palms, rubbed them together, and caught the lowest branch, testing its give before hauling myself up.

Not the suavest way to make an entrance, but grace wasn’t my currency. Climbing trees wasn’t a childhood memory. I grew up in a shotgun house in Dorchester, where winters froze us solid and summers were a cacophony of heat, sirens, and neighbor shouting matches.

Mason could use some unpredictability in his routine, anyway, and I was more than happy to provide.

By the time I reached the top branches, sweat slicked the back of my neck, and my breath had picked up. My new smoking habit was starting to take a toll, but I took a minute to intentionally slow it down before rapping my knuckles against the glass. Couldn’t be panting like a teenager on my first break-in.

The shadow of Mason’s shoulders moved behind the sheer curtain, and my pulse jumped like it hadn’t been briefed on how this was supposed to go. Just a man, I told myself. Nothing but a silhouette blurred behind a sheet of gauze. But it didn’t matter. The way he moved, with strength and restraint, was enough to set me off. He didn’t need to touch me to get under my skin.

The curtain rippled as he pulled it aside. He fiddled with the window latch, brow furrowed, muttering something profane under his breath when it stuck at an inch. Bracing a shoulder against the frame, he gave it one solid shove. The window creaked open, dragging the thin curtain outward on a funnel of air that carried the dark spice of his cologne straight into my lungs.

He tilted his head, bracing one forearm against the sill to lock eyes with me. “Tell me something,” he said. “That prison sentence you served…any chance it involved breaking and entering?”

“Not breaking.” I grinned suggestively. “Just entering. Figured it was time to test if the fit’s as tight as it looks.”

His mouth twitched, but the rest of his expression held neutral. “And if it isn’t?”

“I’d keep trying until it was perfect.” I held his gaze, waiting for him to blink first—but he didn’t. Instead, he coolly stepped back, allowing me to hook a leg over the sill and pull myself in.

“You’re insane,” he muttered, but there was no bite. Just a hint of disbelief and amusement.

“Takes one to know one.” I dusted off the seat of my jeans, scanning the room with a quick sweep.

The bedroom wasn’t what I’d expected. Mason moved through life like a man with a system: polished shoes, starched collars, and a brain like a scalpel. But this space was chaos. The bones were old money: carved walnut bed, brass-handled dresser, and a wingback chair that looked like it belonged in a library that smelled like Cuban cigars. Mason’s personality came through in the modern touches—a flat-screen on the wall, a steel lamp on a glass desk, and an open laptop plugged into a portable battery. Case files teetered beside the desk in a precarious, knee-high stack. The space didn’t look lived in so much as worked in. A battleground for the terminally driven.

But I hadn’t come for the room. I’d come for him.

He was watching me warily, amused despite the dark smudges beneath his eyes. For once, he wasn’t wearing one of his armor-plated suits, just sweats and a fitted t-shirt that clung to his lean runner’s frame. He looked wrecked. Not the kind of tired a nap could fix. I’d seen that look in the mirror too many times over the years not to recognize it. He was hollowed out and running on fumes because stopping wasn’t an option. Not for men like us.

I reached out, letting my thumb skate the top of his cheekbone, just enough to brush the shadow beneath his eye. His lashes flickered, drooping like he wanted to lean into my touch but couldn’t allow it.

“You haven’t crashed at my place all week,” I said softly. “I know you weren’t always doing it for my sparkling company. You need the break.”

“I don’t have time for a break.” At least he sounded regretful. That was a start.

“Sure, you do,” I coaxed, putting every drop of seduction I had into the words. “Your brother’s back under a real roof, yeah? Whatever you’re digging into at that warehouse downtown hasn’t exploded yet, so unless I’ve missed a headline, you’re finally ahead of the curve.”

The corner of his eye twitched, just barely, a flicker of something that looked like surprise. Yeah, I bet he’d thought he was pulling one over on me with that slick little warning about someone digging into the Dead End. But I had tricks up my sleeve he’d never see coming.

“Face it—you’re a control freak, counselor. That’s half the appeal for me, I’ll grant you, but the monkey on your back’s gonna shove you off a cliff one of these days. So, take a break.”

“And I suppose you’re to provide that?” he asked, searching my eyes skeptically.

I dropped my hands to his waist and tugged him close, our bodies slotting together like they’d never been apart. “What can I say? I’m a giver.”

Our lips had barely touched when a knock at the door split the moment wide open.