Chapter 4 Eva
EVA
The only sound in the room is my heavy breathing.
In and out.
In and out.
I count my breaths to keep away the blackened edges of my vision, slowly drifting in, daring to snuff out the light.
Mason Grant’s devious face brightens, reveling at the sight of my trembling frame. His thick, tousled brown hair catches the light as he takes a casual step toward me. “Don’t worry, princess. You won’t be harmed… as long as you behave.” His gaze flicks to Blue Mask behind me. “Did you get it?”
Quiet tension builds behind me, but I don’t dare turn around.
In a flash, Mason’s face twists, lips muttering in silent words. Then he’s storming toward me, like an animal locking on its prey for the kill.
My feet itch to retreat, heart hammering against my ribs, but I ground them. I have nowhere to go, and I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of watching me squirm.
In one swift movement, he yanks the clutch from my shoulder, snapping the band and ripping it open. My gloss and keys clink then scatter against the marble floor. The two men behind me exchange a look, but I know what he’s looking for.
A smile dances at the corner of my lips. Alone, outnumbered, stuck in a room with brutish cavemen, but in this moment, watching them fidget is strangely invigorating.
When he doesn’t find the panic button in my purse, he steps closer. Too close.
Before tonight, I never imagined I would be close enough to stand in his shadow, to see the jaw cut from stone, the roughness of the stubble that matches the fire in his amber eyes, and the clean lines of muscles drawn across his chest and arms. A daunting tattoo of a snake wrapped around a sword crawls up his arm, then trails into more ink all the way to his neck.
His leather-and-smoke scent mixed with a masculine cologne overwhelms my senses, making my lungs stutter for clean air as he towers over me like a thundercloud.
I thought he would demand I hand it over. I was counting on stalling for a few minutes, even seconds.
But what happens next, I did not expect.
His large hand lands on my chest.
No pause. No hesitation.
I gasp when his palm crushes my breast callously. My lips part in shock as his hands roam all over my body, searching for the missing object. His touch ignites my nerves, sending sparks racing through me. I stay frozen, flabbergasted at the brazen patting of both my breasts, my waist, and my back.
A hush crawls the length of me when he pulls on my skirt like he’s willing to strip me bare, right here.
“I dropped it,” I shout the words out loud, holding my hands up, my voice echoing from the velvet walls.
I didn’t want to admit it, but I couldn’t handle his touch anymore—not the harsh strokes, not the little electric shocks everywhere he grazed me, nor the risk of being undressed in front of strangers.
“You dropped it?” He cocks an eyebrow, his hand pausing on my waist.
“I fell on the stairs. It slipped out of my hands,” I bite out.
Mason’s eyes flash to Blue Mask behind me. The door opens, a gust of cold air brushing my bare back. Then my phone is ripped out of my hands. I don’t resist. If he wants my phone, he can have it.
He clicks the screen, scans my face, then throws it at White Mask, who leaves the room with it.
For a fraction of a second, I consider screaming into the hallway.
But my voice won’t make it far enough for anyone to hear.
And I will only anger the beast in front of me, who seems to be daring me to breathe wrong with his cold eyes, his hand still on my waist.
The door shuts closed, leaving me alone with Mason Grant.
“We’re borrowing your phone.” He lets me go and walks away.
“I thought you already did that.” I bend down to collect my belongings from the floor. “Or did hacking my phone not give you the access you needed?”
“Well, we have it now, pretty face.” His lips curl up in a crooked smile. He perches on the edge of the table and pours himself a glass of whiskey. “We’ll have all the access we need now.”
“I hate to break it to you, but you’re wasting your time. You’re not going to find anything on there. I’m not that important an Etheridge.”
“We’ll see.” He lifts a shoulder.
“If that’s all you need, you can keep it.” My hand slices the air. “I’m leaving,” I declare. But my feet don’t move. Can’t. He’s holding me down with his glare. Again.
There’s something about the way he stares at me that sends snakes slithering down my spine. It’s like he sees me and instantly hates me. Like my mere existence is an insult to him. Like he’s granting me mercy by letting me breathe.
He doesn’t say a word. Just gives me a slow up-and-down as he sips his drink. Not like he’s checking me out, more like a butcher sizing up a carcass—cold, clinical, curious.
“You seem to be under the misconception that you still have free will, Miss Etheridge,” he finally says, his voice steel over ice. “Allow me to clarify. You lost your freedom the moment you set foot in our town. In Fort, I own you.”
I have to bite my tongue and remind myself who I’m dealing with. I have only been here a few days, but I’ve heard enough to know pissing off Mason Grant is a mistake.
In this town, Grant word is law.
His father is the leader of the Fort Council, a coalition of Fort families that includes all the major businesses and farms with absolute dominance in a hundred-mile radius.
Here, nothing moves without their nod. So, the fact that this psycho thinks he owns every person who breathes here too, is not that far-fetched.
A delusion that can wait to be broken another day.
When I have my security between us, and he can’t hope to get his hands on me.
But for now, I must focus on one thing—getting out of here or waiting for Jack to find me, whichever comes earlier.
“What exactly do you want from me?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.
“What I want,” he drawls, twirling his drink, “is you out of Fort. But since you’re staying, I’ll settle for your fealty.”
“Fealty?” A giggle escapes my lips. “Do you want me to take an oath, or is there a Grant anthem I need to memorize?”
The crystal glass pauses mid-twirl, a muscle ticking in his jaw, and I regret my words immediately. His feral gaze lifts to meet mine, burning a hole in my face, then he speaks with unmistakable authority.
“Dance for me.”
Um-what?
Is this some power tactic? Or does he actually expect me to follow his orders? I gawk at him, my jaw on the floor. The only movement is the swallow that works down my throat when I finally remember how to close my mouth.
“I’m not a doll. I don’t dance on command,” I finally muster.
“The fuck you don’t.” He snorts. “You had no problem dancing for the London fucks circling you for a piece of Etheridge.”
“I wasn’t dancing for them,” I snap. “And they weren’t barbarians.”
I was hoping my words would sting. But instead, he grins. His fingers click something on the table, and music starts blasting from invisible speakers. My body turns cold, frozen where I stand.
“Of course, where are my manners?” He shrugs.
In a single beat, he drains his glass, then slams it down and pushes off the table.
I take two steps back as he marches toward me, but he seizes my wrist and draws me into him, my free hand slapping against his hard chest. With a callous arm wrapped around my waist, he starts swaying me. Making me dance to his beat.
Literally.
I suffocate in his tight hold, trying to shove him off to gain some distance, but I may as well be trying to move a wall. Amused, sardonic, his molten brown eyes bask in my failed attempts to free myself, just giving me enough space to twist in his iron grip.
There is no way I can beat him in strength. He’s a monolith of muscle and will. Even with me fighting, he is moving us so smoothly, a third eye may perceive me as a willing participant.
“This is my club, princess,” he hisses, his warm breath washing my face. “You’ll dance if it pleases me.”
He spins me around, my heels clicking like gunshots on the marble floor, before he reels me back to his chest.
“It’s that easy for you, huh?” I quip, abandoning the fruitless struggle and letting him sway us. “Just order girls around, and they fall into line to do your bidding?”
“I’ve never had to ask.” He lifts a shoulder.
I resist rolling my eyes. “You wouldn’t have to do my bidding if you had heeded the warning and stayed in your cage, but someone got restless tonight.
” He reaches for my cheek and strokes it with the back of his hand.
I slap it away. But that just makes him grip my waist tighter.
“Obviously, I didn’t know this club was a front for the mob,” I snap.
A devilish grin spreads across his rugged, bronze-kissed face. No deflection. No excuses. For him, my acknowledgment is not an insult; it’s a recognition of power.
“Maybe you should have chosen a different university to transfer to,” he offers. “I’m guessing you had little to do with that decision, given your brother runs your life now. Though I’m surprised someone with your tongue went along with it.”
My feet pause. Or they would have if he weren’t moving me entirely himself. Goosebumps pebble my nape as I realize my phone isn’t the only thing he wants. This is a fishing expedition.
“Funny you’d assume that,” I mock. “Is that how it works with the Grants? Men run the show, and women do as they are told.”
He lets out a dark laugh, but doesn’t respond. His eyes bore into mine, turning severe. “Answer the question. Your grandfather could have bought you a place at Oxford or Cambridge or both. Why the fuck are you at Kingsden?”