Chapter 7 Mason
MASON
I give up on my workout when The Barrel starts to shake with plastic pop music.
The Barrel—the old Grant pub that I converted into my digs when I started at Kingsden four years ago. Then Kane and Hugo moved in, desperate to get away from their own fathers, and the fuckers haven’t budged since.
After racking the weights on the bench press, I grab my T-shirt from my bed and walk down the long, creaking hallway, sliding it on and running my fingers through my damp hair.
The house got a full makeover with new flooring, sleek décor, all the works money can buy, but it still has the bare bones of the traditional English pub with beams in the ceiling, exposed bricks on some walls, and stone fireplaces.
We even kept the wooden bar downstairs. How else will we entertain Hugo’s flock from Kingsden?
The intruders who insist on turning my place into a teenage club.
I prefer simple chaos. Pool games, whiskey, cards, and smoke.
I come to a halt at the top of the stairs.
Trash music blares from the ground floor, though it seems to be just a few of them tonight.
I don’t go downstairs. That will end with me kicking everyone out.
Instead, I shove open the door on my right.
It flings open to a double bedroom, where colors aren’t allowed.
Only black. And everything is glass. Fragile as the ego of its owner.
“Can I help you?” Kane grumbles from his chair, tapping his desk, and staring out the window into the countryside, like he’s plotting the end of the world. “Or are you here for more theatrics?”
“Saw you got your Jeep buffed out.” I smirk, grabbing his precious Rubik’s Cube from the desk and giving it a few random spins before tossing it in the air.
His eyes track the motion as I bounce it from one hand to another, until he jumps up, strides over, and catches it midair.
“This is serious business, Mason. It’s not a fucking joke,” Kane hisses.
“Agreed,” I snap. “It’s not a fucking joke. It involves my family. So, tell me what you’re hiding, or I’ll find something else of yours to smash.”
“You can’t punch your way out of this one. It’s not your wheelhouse. Just let it the fuck go.”
“I don’t see that happening,” I huff. “I have been patient. But as you know, it’s not my strong suit. So, if you’re going to be a bone-head, I guess I’ll have to get it straight from the source.”
“You wouldn’t,” Kane grits through his teeth. And just like that, I sense the lid loosening.
“Sure, I will. Etheridges don’t get to fuck with my family. I will find out what they have on my father, one way or another.” I straighten Kane’s collar, then turn around to leave.
Kane lets out a deep sigh, and I can’t help the smug grin that splits my face as I look over my shoulder.
“They don’t have anything on your father.” Kane grips the Rubik’s Cube so hard in his fist, his knuckles turn white. “They have something on mine.”
I freeze on the spot. The rush of getting one over Kane, draining from my face.
Fucking fuck!
Worst fucking case.
Maybe that glass was aimed at my head and my old man is just losing his sight.
Robert Berkeley is my father’s biggest strength and weakness. He is like a brother to him, who he will protect at any cost. Pretty sure he will put me up for slaughter to save Robert Berkeley if it comes to it. Or whatever is left of him, anyway.
Rob has always been known for doing things you don’t put on paper. Tom and my father spent their lives rescuing him from his bad decisions. Then he lost his wife. And soon after, his mind. It’s why my father took Kane under his wing.
“Do what you want with that. That’s all you’re getting from me.” Kane fixes his Rubik’s Cube and plops it back on his desk.
Typical Berkeley. All half-truths and secrets. Always the same fucking nonsense. Kane’s an asset to The Council. The strategist who stops fuckery before it happens. But his number one job is me. Or rather keep me from turning red.
It’s my father’s biggest fear—me embracing my madness and becoming the echo of the monster inside me.
Unstoppable. Inevitable. Matter of time.
Whenever I’m on the verge, Kane gives me that look; the same one my father does when he wonders if this is that moment that marks me becoming my grandfather Morelli and joining his lineage rather than my father’s.
A future that is mine to take if I wish.
But I have no intention to. Not that anyone cares what I think.
Their assumptions scream louder than my words.
“Fair enough.” I shrug and walk away, my mind churning already.
“Mase.” Kane’s grim voice stops me at the door. His dark gaze meets mine. I lift an eyebrow. “Stay the fuck away from the Etheridge girl.”
I let a grin slip.
How else am I going to uncover the truth?
Three hours later, I find myself exactly where I shouldn’t be. Where I find myself every night.
Across the street from Charlton House, a high-rise building with floor-to-ceiling windows and Juliet balconies. A luxury tower of aluminum and glass, befitting the class of its residents.
I kill the engine and take off my helmet, Flat 24D in my line of sight. Resting my foot on the ground, I light a cigarette and take a drag, letting the sweet poison fill my lungs before exhaling three rings of smoke in spitting rain.
Kane’s words drum in my head. And no, I can’t let it fucking go. The thought of the Etheridges having an upper hand makes my ribs press on my lungs like a fist I can’t unclench.
Though I probably should be expelling the heat winding inside me somewhere less nuclear.
When my temperature is this high, chaos is inevitable.
Over the years, I have learned to recognize the symptoms. That urge to rip something open, clawing at my fingers, the itch coiling up my spine like an electric wire, spitting sparks, every breath a negotiation between calm and explosion. And let’s face it, it’s always a fucking explosion.
I take another long drag, watching the three girls clustered around the kitchen counter, bathed under warm spotlights.
Half-eaten, steaming, white cartons of Chinese takeaway lie between them.
The tall one, platinum blond with purple in her hair is talking, lips moving too fast for coherent words.
The one in black, wearing glasses, is frowning at her laptop.
And then there’s her—the Etheridge girl.
She sits on the barstool, her long hair tied up in a messy bun, a short skirt peeking out of the hem of a baggy hoodie, one bare leg crossed over the other.
Steam fogs the window, but I can still make out the shape of her waist, the curve of her neck, the way her chopsticks move like they’re painting the air.
And those fucking eyes—like electric ice, the color of some cursed ocean, fiery and incapable of surrender.
Dangerous. Stupid. A big fucking mistake.
I was a loaded weapon in her face, and she had the nerve to glare. As she stood in front of me—no flinch, no fear—just a snarl of defiance in a pretty little frame, it took all my strength not to bury that Etheridge pride under five feet of regret.
That sharp mouth of hers, glossy with sauce, is made for ruin.
I had never kissed a girl before. It’s too personal. As intimate as sharing a secret with a stranger. That kiss was more strategy than desire. But one that’s begging for an encore.
The girls rise from their seats, clearing the white boxes from the counter.
She grabs a bottle of water from the fridge, scrolling on her phone, before they head to their rooms. I wait until her lights are out before I dismount my bike, put my hood on, and zip the leather jacket up to my neck.
Then, I head to the Charlton House service entrance, checking the access code on my phone, sent to me by Luka, my cousin.
He has access to all the Fort security codes and cameras at his fingertips.
Her guards may have built her a fortress, but there is no wall in this town I can’t breach.
Eva Etheridge stepped into the lion’s den, thinking she could bare her teeth. Now she’ll learn what happens when you lock eyes with the king—and don’t fucking blink.