Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Mason should tell her to leave, to run as far from him as she could.
But he didn’t, because he needed her. That had become crystal clear on their journey to his car.
He never would’ve made it on his own. He would, in fact, have bled out somewhere on the street, likely with Thomas and his pawns standing over him.
He wasn’t afraid to die, but he also wasn’t ready to depart the world.
At least not before he could talk to Ferne and explain things.
Then there was justice for his parents. Those two things kept him going when all he wanted to do was lie down and give up.
Yet he was the one who had begun this ploy with Thomas, and he intended to finish it.
Ferne’s face kept flashing in his mind. Her voice, along with the tremor of hurt and anger from their last conversation, replayed in his head on repeat.
The storage door was open, and the light within blinded him.
Bloody hell, he was tired. So very tired.
It was taking all he had to keep his eyes open.
“Hey. Stay with me. I can’t do this alone.”
The American’s voice was coaxing but firm as she looped his arm around her thin, narrow shoulders once more. She was a lot stronger than she seemed, and she had gotten him this far. It was only a little more to the bed. Then he could lie down and finally rest.
He reached for the last bit of energy as she tugged him upward.
His legs were jelly, the muscles refusing to obey his commands, but to his surprise, he got to his feet.
If it weren’t for the woman, he likely would’ve toppled right over.
He was so unsteady. He spotted a set of discarded black heels near them.
How had he not known she was in heels before?
He started to lean and jerked back. Agony cut through him, snatching his breath.
That’s right. The pain kept him focused solely on his body.
“One step at a time,” she told him.
He would’ve smiled if he had the energy, but he was concentrating on shuffling forward.
The woman was a complete stranger, yet she was risking her life to help him.
She could’ve left him at any time. He didn’t know why she stayed.
Hell, he didn’t even know her name or her face.
He tried to look down at her but only saw a wealth of strawberry blond hair.
“Nearly to the bed.” Her voice was strained as she tried to keep him upright, made worse each time he tilted. “Let’s not fa—”
His right leg gave out, causing him to crash onto the edge of the cot, sending fire racing through his veins as fresh blood poured from the injury on his left side.
Dots edged his vision. He would pass out soon.
She got one leg onto the cot, then the other.
He reached for her as she rolled him onto his back.
“Under…bed,” he rasped.
She said something, but he couldn’t make it out.
He shut his eyes against the too-bright lights above him.
The loud clanging of the door being lowered echoed around him.
Then there was silence. Maybe she had finally left.
She could take the car or contact the organization and tell them where he was.
He should care, but he didn’t. All he could think about was the mistakes he had made.
And there had been many. There were a few regrets, too.
Was it easier to face death slowly, knowing it was coming?
Or to have a quick ending where someone didn’t expect it?
He could now definitively say that quicker was better.
Lingering allowed him to relive his blunders and turn over his regrets again and again, with no way to rectify them. He didn’t have a chance to say goodbye to Ferne. There was no last look at his family’s estate or a visit to his parents’ graves one last time.
A cool cloth touched his brow, and then the American said, “Stay with me.”
He tried to answer her, but the words wouldn’t form on his lips.
He remained conscious as she cut away his clothes.
Her quick intake of breath told him the wounds were as bad as he feared.
The time to take him to a hospital or a Healer was long past, and he wouldn’t have allowed it anyway.
There was no one in the city he trusted.
And yet, here sat the American.
Mason had brought her to his safe house. She now had access to nearly everything. Maybe letting her help him was his greatest mistake. But maybe, just maybe, she was the one who could save him.
He pried open his eyelids and got his first good look at her.
She knelt next to him, her pale skin a stark contrast to the black dress she wore.
Strawberry blond hair had been hastily pulled away from her face.
Blood streaked her cheek and forehead. He attempted to focus on her features, but his eyesight went fuzzy.
It was only then that he realized she was softly singing.
It was easier to focus on her words as his lids drifted closed. He winced when she began to stitch his thigh, but it didn’t hurt as much as it should. The more he concentrated on the words of the song, the less pain he felt.
Mason’s body became light, as if he were drifting upon the sea—or maybe a cloud. He felt fingers in his hair, stroking his scalp, the way his mum used to do when he was ill. He let go then. It was only as he drifted away that he realized the American sang Songbird from Fleetwood Mac.