Chapter 12
LILY
Isee the exact moment Mason's eyes drop to my wrist—right in the middle of his interrogation—and I can't pull the sleeve back down in time to cover it.
The shift in his expression is microscopic—a fractional widening of his pupils, a barely perceptible tightening at the corners of his mouth, the way his breathing goes shallow and controlled. Most people wouldn't catch it, but I do.
I watch him process it in real time. First: recognition. He's seen this mark before. He knows what it means.
I’ll need to think about that later.
Second: connection. Every piece of the puzzle I've been hiding slots into place behind his eyes, like I suddenly make sense.
I’m not sure how I feel about that.
Third: protectiveness, like I’m a victim who needs saving.
I set the bottle down carefully and I meet his eyes. I am not a victim. I didn't go through thirteen years of rebuilding myself just to let a man with a hero complex decide I'm too broken to finish what I started.
I stand.
Mason's body tenses immediately. He searches my face and reads my retreat before I've even moved. “Lily—”
I don't wait to hear what he has to say. I turn and move through the bar with precision: smooth, controlled, using the crowd as cover. I don't run—running signals panic. Running makes a predator close in on you.
But I move fast, and I move with purpose. I need air, and I need space to think where I’m not staring into endless dark eyes that see too much. I dart through the crowd and out the door to my car.
As I pull out of the parking lot, I see Mason standing there, hands at his sides, watching me drive away.