Page 4 of Man of Lies (Vendetta Kings #2)

Chapter Four

MASON

The first, crumbling step up the back stairs of Eden House nearly took me down. The second I lifted a foot, my thighs seized up; a deep, biting ache that I'd be paying for all day. I clenched my teeth and hauled myself up anyway, gripping the railing like a safety rope on the side of Everest.

Sweat trickled down my spine, soaking into the waistband of my running shorts. Early summer meant morning was the only time to squeeze in a run without frying like a chicken wing, but the humidity was brutal. I felt soggy, wrung-out, and useless as a limp dishrag.

My lungs still burned from the twelve-mile punishment I'd put myself through, but at least my head was finally quiet. Halfway through the run, my thoughts had burned out, leaving nothing but the whoosh of my breath and the steady thunder of my heartbeat.

The trail had been here long before us, carved through cypress and palmettos by generations of hunters hauling game to the Jesuit priests who once ran an orphanage on this land before it became the Beaufort estate. Now it was mine. No cars. No people. Just me, the crushing humidity, the slap of my feet against packed earth, and the occasional rustle in the underbrush. It skirted the water's edge, then looped back toward the house, uneven enough to feel like penance if you ran hard.

The sky had just lightened to a brilliant, pre-dawn white by the time I dragged my cramping body back to the estate. Somewhere in the fields, a barred owl called, its low, haunting notes carrying over the quiet. The rolling lawns were steeped in blue and gray, and a nearby willow swayed like an antebellum ghost, its long branches trailing eerily in the breeze.

It still hit me sometimes—how crazy life had turned out. For a kid who grew up crammed in a single-wide with a heavy-drinking father and a mother who talked to people who weren't there and spent rent money on tarot readings, my world should have been nothing but missed opportunities and closed doors.

And for a long time, it was.

The day our mother disappeared and our father dumped us at the fire station with a single trash bag stuffed with clothes, my twin brother, Ben, squeezed my hand so hard I thought he'd break it. Neither of us said a word. We didn't have to. We knew what came next—or thought we did.

If someone had told me then that we'd end up here, carrying a name that opened doors instead of slamming them shut, I would've laughed in their face. Or spit in it.

But Boone Beaufort took us in, gave us his name, and ensured we never went without again. He did the same for Gideon, Gage, and even Dominic, though none of us shared a drop of blood. And all he asked in return was everything—our loyalty, our futures, our souls—dedicated to making this parish better than the one that made us.

He'd given us a future, but sometimes I wondered if we'd never left the past behind. We'd only dressed it up in finer clothes. Because, for all the doors that opened, Ben had still spent five years rotting in a prison cell for something he never should have been locked up for. And I'd spent every second working myself to the bone to fix it—blasting through law school at double speed, throwing myself into a career that burned me at both ends, chasing every lead, every loophole, and every corrupt bastard who had helped lock him up.

Ben was always the one to take the hits. Even when we were kids, he'd stepped between me and our mother's worst moods, took the blame when our father was drunk, and made sure I ate, even if it meant going hungry himself. He fought when I wanted to run and stood between me and the world when it turned ugly.

And then, when we finally had a shot at something better, he left me behind.

Not out of selfishness—Ben didn't have that in him. Enlisting was just the next way he tried to carry the weight alone. He always said I was the smart one who could take Boone's second chance and make it count. So, he tried to set me free; signed up, shipped off, and let the military chew him up and spit him back out.

All so he wouldn't drag me down with him.

He'd barely found his footing as a civilian before they tossed him in a cell for saving Gage's life. All it took was one wrong blow when Gage's old man came at him with drunken rage and a gun. The bastard went down and didn't get back up, and Ben's self- defense claim crumbled when the gun disappeared. He did five years; it would've been life if my buddy Colton hadn't turned up the missing weapon.

Ben had been granted supervised release—but not freedom. His original conviction hadn't been vacated, just called into question, which meant he was stuck in limbo while the post-conviction review dragged on. The court hadn't overturned the charges, just loosened the leash to cover their ass. He was out, but only under strict conditions: ankle monitor, regular check-ins, and a curfew tighter than most parolees.

One wrong move and he'd be back behind bars.

Until Ben was safe, I didn't have time to think about anything else—least of all a reckless, leather-clad mistake I couldn't quit despite my best efforts. But this morning, I'd finally exhausted myself enough to silence the craving.

I stalled out on the steps, clutching the handrail, and waited for a wave of dizziness to pass. My whole focus narrowed to the fridge inside the house—Gatorade, water, salt, anything to keep my legs from locking up before I could drag myself to the shower.

"What, you training for a marathon?"

I dragged my head up, still catching my breath, and spotted Gage sprawled on the porch swing like he didn't have a care in the world. Damn near gave me a heart attack.

Barefoot, shirtless, and sunk deep into the cushions of the swing, he looked like he'd either just rolled out of bed or never made it there in the first place. A half-eaten piece of cold fried chicken dangled from his fingers, grease shining on his knuckles.

I swallowed hard, but my throat was still dry as hell. "Something like that."

"Figures," Gage muttered, resting an arm over the back of the swing. "You keep pushing yourself like this, you're gonna drop dead before forty."

I dragged a wrist across my forehead and shot my youngest brother a dry look. "Then I'd better make this decade count."

Gage snorted, stripping a bite of chicken from the bone. "Yeah, well, let me know if you need help picking your headstone. I know a nice little grassy spot in the family cemetery. Right beside Boone. You two always had the most in common. Workaholics with a martyr complex. Never let anybody help 'til it's too late."

I squinted and looked away, past the edge of the porch where dawn had just started painting gold on the treetops. Sweat was cooling fast on my skin, leaving me clammy, every inch of me aching from the miles I'd used to punish myself. I flexed my tingling fingers, shaking out the lingering tremor. The worst part wasn't the exhaustion—it was knowing it wouldn't last.

The swing creaked as Gage rocked it with the lazy drag of his foot across the porch planks.

"I get it, you know," he said after a pause, sounding like he'd rather be prying his nails out with rusty pliers than having any kind of heart-to-heart. "You think if you keep moving, nothing can catch up. But you can't outrun the past. Trust me. I oughta know."

"I'm not running from anything," I muttered, flicking him an annoyed glance.

Gage made a skeptical noise, tearing off the last bite of chicken before wrapping the bone in a napkin. "Yeah? Then what the hell do you call this?" He waved a hand at me—sweat-soaked, shaking, and still gasping like I'd just gone twelve rounds with my own demons.

"I call it doing what needs to be done." I dragged a wrist across my forehead, flicking sweat onto the steps. "Gideon won't touch paperwork, and the foster program's got me running in and out of court every week. And let's be real—you and Dom flirt with trouble like it's a goddamn first date. Somebody's got to clean up the mess."

Gage snorted. "Uh-huh. And what's the endgame here? Keep going 'til you drop?"

I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck, rolling tension from my shoulders. "I'll rest when Ben's safe."

Gage's foot stilled against the porch. "And what if that day never comes?" He wasn't teasing now. "What if you fight like hell, do everything right, and it still ain't enough? You gonna run yourself into the ground forever?"

I turned my head just enough to look at him from the corner of my eye. Gage had learned the hard way that not all fights ended clean. Sometimes, you could claw your way out of hell only to find the devil waiting at the exit.

He was our youngest by nearly a decade, but life had put him through the wringer early. For years, he'd been all wild temper and bad decisions, throwing punches at the world like it owed him something. It was good to finally see some peace in his eyes. That was Wyatt's doing. Gage had loved him his whole life, but it wasn't until he stopped running and owned it that he'd finally settled down.

The rest of us weren't likely to be that lucky.

"That's not going to happen," I said flatly. I couldn't afford to believe otherwise.

Gage studied me for a beat, then sighed, rubbing a hand over his unshaven jaw. "Boone used to say the same thing."

"Yeah, well. Good thing I'm not a sixty-year-old with a heart condition."

Gatorade felt like a fever dream for a moment, so I climbed the steps wearily and dropped onto the swing beside Gage. The wood groaned under our combined weight, but neither of us paid any mind. "It's too damn early for your philosophical bullshit," I muttered, bracing my forearms on my knees. "What are you even doing up?"

Gage shot me a look that said he knew exactly what I was doing, but he let it go for once. Instead, he stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles with a sigh. "Ivy had a rough night, so I sat up with her."

"She doing okay?"

Gage sighed, glancing out at the gold-dappled oaks. "She will be," he said softly.

Ivy wasn't like most of the kids in Eden's foster program. She hadn't come through the system; she'd slipped through the cracks. From what I gathered, she'd spent months crashing in the back room at the Dead End—just like me—but Silas never let her get too comfortable. He'd tried to protect her, but the Dead End was dangerous, especially for a teenage girl.

Some thugs jumped her in the parking lot one night. If Gage hadn't been there, she might've disappeared across state lines, just another victim of interstate trafficking. After that, I pulled some strings, placed her in Eden's foster program, and ensured nobody came sniffing around.

That kind of shit happened all the time. The same world that ruined girls like Ivy was the one Silas moved through like he owned it.

And I still wanted him—desperately.

It was a nasty thought that lodged like a splinter under my skin. Impossible to ignore. I spent my days working with the Attorney General's task force, fighting to put men like Silas behind bars, and my nights pulling kids like Ivy out of trouble that had his fingerprints all over it. Yet every time I tried to stay away, I ended up right back where I started—circling him like a dog on a short chain.

Not all of us were as lucky as Gage and Wyatt.

I could still taste Silas—faint traces of salt and heat lingering on my lips like a brand. I could feel the weight of his hands, the hunger in his mouth, the quiet confidence in every move he made, like he knew exactly what I needed before I did. And maybe he did.

That was the problem.

It wasn't just about sex. It was how he looked at me, not with softness but with certainty. Like he saw straight through the walls I'd spent a lifetime building and had no intention of letting me hide. I wasn't used to that, and I hated how much it mattered.

I didn't regret leaving him on the side of the road without looking back. Maybe it made me a coward, but it was the smart play. I had responsibilities and a job that didn't leave room for indulgence. I'd taken what I wanted, watched the strain break across his face when he came, and bailed before he could return the favor. I couldn't risk him rewiring my brain for pleasure, but I had a sinking feeling it was already too late.

If I was being honest—and I usually was, at least with myself—I was unraveling. The tighter I pulled the threads, the faster everything slipped through my fingers.

Silas was a distraction I couldn't afford.