Page 56 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

ABBY

My hands are numb.

The plastic zipties bite into the delicate skin above my wrists, a steady pulse of pain that’s gone from sharp to throbbing to something worse— familiar . A signal that I’m still here. Still stuck.

My back aches from the chair. My mouth is dry. Every breath tastes like rosehip and vanilla from the candle Lisa lit hours ago. It smells like my bedroom.

She’s humming again, low and tuneless. Like she’s waiting for her cue.

She changed into the yellow sundress I used to love. She touched up her curls, she’s been playing with my makeup for the last twenty minutes. She tilts her chin and practices my laugh in the mirror.

“Iced shaken espresso, please,” she says softly. Then tries again, modulating the pitch. “You didn’t have to do that, Mason. But thank you.”

My stomach rolls.

Across the room, Beth sits stiffly in an armchair next to me, knees pressed together like a nervous schoolgirl. She’s holding a mug— my mug . The speckled ceramic one from Seattle, the one I always reach for first. Steam is rising off the top.

“Tea,” she says for the third time. Her voice is too soft. Too careful. “I made it with that blend you like. The chamomile and fennel one.”

I don’t answer.

Because I can’t decide which is worse—being drugged, or being watched.

Beth’s eyes flick to Lisa, then back to me. She looks like she’s going to start crying. Which is ten different ways of ironic. Her hands tremble as she lifts the mug slightly, like offering peace. “I just want you to feel safe, Abby.”

“You ziptied me to a chair,” I whisper. My voice cracks around the edges. “I don’t think tea is gonna fix that.”

Beth flinches. Lisa doesn’t stop practicing what she thinks I sound like.

She’s focused on her reflection. “Do you think he’ll notice if I change the perfume?” she murmurs. “I ran out of the rose one. But I think the vanilla one’s better anyway. Sweeter.”

I close my eyes and force myself to regulate my breathing. I practice my techniques, praying it works to hold off the panic rising up my throat like a tidal wave.

The inhale, the hold, the slow exhale. The numbers in my head anchor me to the floor, to my body, to the here. But the here is a funhouse, and the mirrors are all cracked. And I want to leave.

Lisa turns, raking her hands through her hair—my hair, or as close as she can get it.

“You know, you didn’t make it easy,” she says, almost wistful.

“All those years of being the golden child, the favorite, the one everyone remembered and no one could ever quite replace. Until now.” Her voice lilts upward, bright as a knife.

“I tried to be you once, a long time ago. Did you know that? I bought a dress just like the ones you wore when you visited during the summer. I did my hair like yours, wore your color palette. I even got Mason to look at me, for a minute, but he was always looking over my shoulder.” Her mouth twists, half triumphant, half broken.

“He only ever looked at you. Even when I was in his lap. But that was before, when I was Analisa. Before I transformed into who I was meant to be. Now, I’ve taken my craft seriously.

I stayed in your apartment in Seattle, I spent time in your cabin in the woods.

I’ve walked life in your shoes, Abigail Cater. And now, I’m going to be you.”

I swallow back bile.

She drops her hair and saunters over to me.

She grips my chin between her thumb and index finger, tilting my face toward her.

“Don’t feel bad about Mason. I gave him the one thing you never will: Theo .

” Her attention slides to my hair, and her free hand smooths over it.

“Though, I suppose we could make sure the tide stays in my favor and change a few things. Maybe we should cut off all this pretty hair, hm?”

Beth stands suddenly. “You said you wouldn’t hurt her.”

Lisa doesn’t release her hold on me. “I haven’t touched her, Bethy.”

“You’re touching her right now,” Beth says.

Lisa’s grip tightens, her nails pinching the soft skin under my jaw. She leans in, so close I can taste her perfume— my perfume—and says, “Don’t be dramatic. I’m only teasing her.” Then she lets go, wiping imaginary residue on the hem of my sundress.

Beth’s lower lip trembles. She sets the mug down and wipes her palms on her dress, like she’s trying to rid herself of something sticky.

“Can we just—can we go? Please? You got what you needed. You have everything set up. Let me take Abby back home to Seattle.” Beth turns toward me with a smile.

“I leased your apartment for us. I stocked the fridge with all your favorite things, and I even?—”

“Stop,” I say, barely above a whisper.

Beth blinks. “What?”

“Just, stop, Beth. Whatever this is, whatever you’re trying to do, just stop . Let me go. Please .”

A sound breaks through the hush. A real sound—muffled, but sharp. The slam of a door, shouts echoing up a stairwell. For a split second, all three of us freeze. Then it happens again, closer this time. A voice, low and unmistakable, roaring my name.

“Abby! I’m coming!”

The world lurches sideways. Lisa recoils, eyes wide in sudden panic. Beth claps both hands over her mouth and stares at the door, wild and wet-eyed. I hear boots pounding up the hall. The thump of something heavy. My pulse spikes so hard I nearly black out.

Beth moves first, hands trembling as she scrambles for the window. Lisa rushes to the mirror, smoothing her hair and yanking the part to the exact angle I wear it. It’s uncanny, sickening. She doesn’t even flinch when the outer door bursts open and Mason’s voice ricochets down the corridor.

“Abby? Abby!” It’s desperate and raw and so loud it hurts.

The sound of him, so close, nearly buckles my knees even though I can’t move.

My body is still lashed to the chair, wrists hot with pain, but I lean as far toward the door as the zipties will let me, every cell on fire with the need to get to him.

The next few seconds are a tornado. Lisa whirls to the door as Mason fills the doorway, my brothers close behind him. Beth wails, just once, before she collapses onto the arm of the couch.

Mason’s face twists with panic, his eyes lasering in on mine like he knew exactly where I was.

“Mason,” I sob out his name.

His boots barely hit the floor. He’s at my side in three strides, hands smoothing over me everywhere.

“Baby, look at me. You okay? Are you hurt? I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry, Abby. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it.

I love you, and I’m sorry.” He doesn’t pause, doesn’t even look at the other women, just kneels before me and tries to work the knot of scarves at my wrists, his words tumbling out like he can’t stop the flow of them.

His hands are shaking, but his grip is steady—knuckles blanched, jaw set hard.

And behind him, everything goes to hell.

Beau grabs Lisa by the wrist as she tries to bolt, but she twists and slaps him, hard, across the face. He reels, more shocked than hurt, and she uses the opening to dart around the coffee table. Graham blocks her exit, arms folded, and face stern.

“Mase, the ziptie—there’s a zip—” I can’t finish. It’s all I can do to keep from sobbing. The pain, the fear, the relief of him here, his smell and the heat of his body so close, and the relentless, furious urgency in his touch. My vision is a smear of tears.

Mason’s thumb brushes my cheek. “Hey, hey, look at me. I’ve got you.

” He digs into his pocket, produces a folding knife, and with a single flick, saws through the ziptie.

The plastic snaps. My arms collapse forward, useless and tingling.

He catches them in his, pressing my palms to his chest. The thump of his heart is violent, frantic.

I can’t stop crying. Not even when I taste the salt of it.

He lifts me out of the chair—no warning, just slides his arms around me and gathers me into his arms. “It’s alright, baby. I’ve got you. Are you sure they didn’t hurt you?”

His voice is ragged, equal parts terror and rage.

He sets me on his lap, like I weigh nothing, and tucks my head to his shoulder, shielding me from the room.

My whole body shakes, but he just holds me tighter, one hand stroking my hair while the other wraps around my wrists, thumbs careful over the angry grooves left by the zipties.

He whispers, “I’ve got you, baby. And I’m never letting you go,” over and over, until the world starts to come back together.

Behind us, the chaos blurs.

Police officers, voices screeching through radios, blue and red flashing lights, my brothers shouting, Lisa screaming, Beth crying.

And through it all, Mason doesn’t move. He sits with me tucked into his lap, as far away from the chaos as physically possible, his body a shield between me and everything else.

“I was so scared,” I murmur into his shirt once I get my tears under control.

“You’re safe now,” he whispers. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“That woman—she was trying to steal my life. She said—she said she’s Theo’s mom .”

He pulls me back just enough to see my face, his hands bracketing my cheeks. His thumbs sweep away the tears, rough and reverent. His breath is sharp, his eyes wild, but his voice comes out steady, a hard promise: “No, she’s fucking wrong. And so was I. You’re Theo’s mom, baby. No one else. Ever.”

I sob, a raw, ugly sound, and wrap my arms around his neck, clinging to him so tight it must hurt. He just squeezes back, like the pressure in his bones is the only thing holding him together. Every word he says is a lifeline, and I gulp it down like it’s the only air I’ll ever breathe.

Mason’s hand finds the back of my head, fingers tangling so gently in my hair. “You’re the only one who matters, Abby. You and Theo. You’re my family. Don’t ever let anyone—don’t let me—make you think otherwise.”

His words bury themselves in the hollow places inside me, the ones that never felt real or worthy or permanent. I can’t stop shaking, but I nod, over and over, until he kisses my forehead, my temple, the bridge of my nose.

A radio squawks from the hall. The noise outside the apartment spikes.

I can’t see what’s happening past the wall of Mason’s body, but I hear the thud of boots and sharp, trained voices: "Clear the back," and "Suspects located.

" I catch the heavy tread of my brothers and, somewhere, Lisa shrieking—high and hysterical, the sound of someone losing a fight with reality.

Mason shields me through it, every muscle in his back tensed like he’s ready to take a bullet if it comes to that. The tremors in my hands match the aftershocks in his voice.

"I love you," he murmurs into my hair, his hand brushing over my stomach. “I love you, Trouble. I love you so fucking much.”

“I love you too.”

I’m crying again, but they’re not scared tears—they’re relief, exhaustion, the collapse after sprinting through life and finally finding your person.

I hear Beau’s voice, closer, the familiar depth of it pushing through the static. “Is she okay?”

“She’s okay,” Mason says, not taking his eyes off me.

I breathe in and push away from Mason’s chest, one hand braced to his shoulder as I try to stand. My legs wobble. I expect to collapse, but he’s there, steadying me, thumb tracing the inside of my wrist. The skin is welted and angry, but it’s nothing compared to what’s spinning in my head.

The room is chaos. Two officers are at the door already, one with a radio pressed to his shoulder, the other wrangling Lisa.

Her voice claws through the room like nails on glass, high and cracked. “You don’t know what you’re doing! I’m his mother—I’m the one he wants,” Lisa wails.

The officer nearest her doesn’t blink. He steps in, quick and smooth, his partner moving to Beth, who doesn’t resist. She just stares at me with glassy, damp eyes like this is some awful dream neither of us can wake from.

I hold tighter to Mason’s shirt.

His arm is still around me, anchoring me. One hand cradles the back of my head, palm splayed wide like he’s trying to shield me from everything—noise, chaos, the tremble in my knees.

“Ma’am?” A third officer approaches me. His voice is gentle. “We’d like to get you looked at. Do you want a ride to the hospital?”

I open my mouth and close it again. I don’t know.

“Yes,” Mason says, before I can answer.

“I’m fine,” I manage. It’s automatic, like muscle memory I haven’t unlearned yet. “Really.”

He turns me toward him, cupping my jaw. His thumb brushes just under my cheekbone, eyes burning like twin points of gravity. He’s soaked to the bone, rainwater still dripping from his collar. His knuckles are scraped. There’s a gash on his forearm I didn’t notice before.

“I found your letter,” he says, voice so quiet it lands like prayer.

The air leaves my lungs in one hard gust. My hand finds his wrist, curls there like I’m afraid I imagined him.

Everything in me threatens to crack open.

Mason’s gaze never leaves mine. His thumb moves to trace the damp strands of hair clinging to my temple. And suddenly I feel seen —not just rescued, but claimed. Not just carried out, but found .

I nod, once. The rest of me trembles with it.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Hospital first.”

He presses a kiss to my forehead. Then we step toward the door together—his jacket still around my shoulders, his arm tight around my waist.

The night outside smells like petrichor and clean rain. Somewhere, behind us, Lisa screams again. But I don’t look back.

Because I’m walking forward into the rest of my life with Mason at my side.

And I’m finally free.