Chapter 19 Eva
EVA
I can’t believe he brought me to some creepy, dark woods and just left me here.
Why are we here? What’s going on in that daunting lodge, hunched in the woods, like a trap disguised as shelter? The wooden carved name plate reads Berkeley Lodge.
Not that I needed to read the sign to tell me he is here. I recognize that Jeep. It belongs to the one and only Kane Berkeley—the second most powerful name in Fort. More popularly known as the Grim Reaper, as Penny said.
Most people consider Mason the scariest of Fort men, me included. But there is something about Kane Berkeley that is so cold and deadly, it makes a person want to scream just to know they’re still alive.
The man is always dressed in black; a shadow in the night. The deep ice look that holds the weight of an old soul. And that glare—like he already has a headstone picked out for you.
Seriously, if serial killers had a social media page, he’d be the profile picture.
Why would Mason assume I would leave the safety of this car and go anywhere near Kane Berkeley? Despite what he may witness on his midnight patrol, I’m not suicidal.
My gaze peels from the dark forest to Mason’s phone in my hand, my thumb hovering over the screen, flirting with a boundary that feels dangerously intimate. I’m not above snooping on Dan or Caden or raiding Penny’s snack stash. But this feels different. Strange. New. Personal.
With my teeth trapped under my lip, I flick the screen up and freeze at his wallpaper—me.
Asleep in my nightgown, mouth parted, hair all over my face.
My heart does a whole somersault before my brain has a chance to react. I honestly don’t know whether to be offended at being snapped when I was unconscious or to be flattered. Besides, the picture is anything but flattering. Why would he keep this?
I scroll across, back and forth, on his apps just to keep it from locking, secretly pleased to know Tinder isn’t one of them.
Though what would Mason Grant need Tinder for?
Not only is he hot as sin. Annoyingly so.
But with the influence that comes with his name, he’s downright unreachable.
And unlike me, he knows exactly how to use his name to his advantage.
After a few seconds of aimless scrolls, I click on his messages.
My pulse stutters.
So much worse than Tinder.
Rows and rows of sultry messages from unknown numbers, with hearts and emojis, flood his inbox. Some are just images that I’m scared to open. Apparently, neither did he. They are all unread.
Except the one I was most curious about. Third from the top, after a group chat and me.
Lottie Pike.
He has her saved under her nickname? Interesting.
I click it and scroll up to the last messages.
Lottie
How’s your head? I left the painkillers on your nightstand.
Fine.
Lottie
Found out who did it? I heard Hugo say Etheridges were behind it.
Um—What?
She can’t mean me, right? Jack’s black eye flashes in front of my eyes. Could he have anything to do with this? No, Jack is former police. He wouldn’t do that. Mason’s next text reassures me.
Your brother rants. Ignore him.
Lottie
If you say so. I have something for you.
Lottie
Image deleted.
The fuck is wrong with you, Lottie?
Lottie
Come on, Mason. How long do I have to wait? We both know I’m the best fit for you.
Stop this fuckery or I’ll forward this photo to Beth and she can deal with you.
Lottie
Does that mean you’ll keep the photo? It would look good as your wallpaper.
You have blocked this contact
I read the messages from top to bottom, twice, my heart playing tricks on me. When I’m done, the only thing I can think of is whether he kept the photo? I know it’s not his wallpaper.
After skimming through his handful of photos, convinced he deleted it, I’m about to close the app when I notice an album.
Little dove
My breath hitches as I click on what’s now my nickname. A hundred photos fly open.
Some from my social media, others from Caden’s, even Dan’s, though everyone else’s face has been cropped out of the frame. Only me in every photo.
The whole gallery is a shrine to his fixation.
Typical stalker.
It should concern me. Right?
Then why does it make my nerves pulse, my spine cold, my heart swell, and my thighs clench, all at the same time?
Okay, going through his phone was a bad idea.
Tonight is turning out to be a new record for bad decisions. I click it closed and shove it in the middle compartment, then check the time. How long is he going to be? An ETA would be good to know.
My eyes sweep the silent forest. It’s dark and haunting, layered in thick shadows. A squirrel darts across the hood of the car, then scrambles up the trunk of a tree before she settles on a branch, nibbling on whatever treasure she found.
Wonder if she’d share? I skipped the pineapple pizza, and now my stomach is staging a protest. In my defense, I didn’t plan on getting kidnapped.
Curious, I glance over my shoulder, half hoping Hugo has some snacks stacked in the backseat, when a sharp scream rips through the air—high-pitched, raw, and trembling.
Even the forest seems to hold its breath.
What was that?
My eyes skim the boundary of the lodge. There doesn’t seem to be any movement.
One moment. Two. Then another muffled deep cry. My stomach twists. I snatch Penny’s phone and jump out of the car, keypad ready on 999 as I start down the muddy path with slow, cautious steps.
I stop a few feet from the lodge, eyes searching the dark trees around me, the shimmering lake in the faint moonlight, the dim windows of the dwelling.
No sound. Nothing.
Did it come from the forest? It did sound like a wounded animal.
A light glow on the eastern side of the lodge catches my attention.
I tiptoe through the long tapestry of gold and rust under the trees, threaded all the way to the French doors.
My feet hesitate, dreading what I might see.
Mason didn’t mention what his business was, and I’m not sure I want to know. But if someone is hurt…
When I draw closer, I see a silhouette of a thin man in the ground-floor room. I don’t hear anything now. But I definitely did. Shall I check? Wait for Mason? My eyes peer through the haze behind the half-drawn curtains.
I climb a few more steps up and stop at the top of the clearing, watching, waiting, my index finger still hovering over the dial.
Then, in a flash, a man appears at the door. An old, wrinkled, expressionless face.
I shriek and jump back.
But he doesn’t move. Dark eyes staring into nothing. A long, frightening scar drags along his jaw. He stares at me for a long moment while I stand frozen, my heels digging into wet mud. Then in a flash, he disappears.
“The fuck are you doing here?” A wall of muscle materializes behind me.
My hands fly to my mouth until they meet the familiar shade of dark brown.
“Fuck.” I let my hands fall to Mason’s chest. “You scared me.”
“What part of staying put wasn’t clear?” Mason towers over me.
“I heard a scream. There is someone there.” I point toward the back of the lodge. “I think they might need help.”
Mason’s nostrils flare. His hands raise toward my face, curled fingers shaking in rage as if he’s contemplating whether to strangle me or not. His lips move soundlessly before he composes himself.
“So just be clear, you are safe and sound in the car, then you hear a strange sound coming from the dark woods, and that fucked-up brain of yours tells you to go toward it?”
I open my mouth, then close it and point to the French doors again. “What if they need help or an ambulance? You wouldn’t have gone and checked?”
“I’m not a five-foot-five girl who is scared of fucking spiders, Eva,” he roars, exasperated.
“Okay then, six-foot-six hellion, why don’t you go check?” I cross my arms at my chest. He doesn’t move. Just stares at me like the dick he is. “Please?” I stomp my foot.
He lets out a long exhale and rubs his forehead. “Fine.” He takes a few steps down the slope. I start to follow, but he whirls around and points at my shoes. “Stay fucking put,” he barks.
I roll my eyes, but step back. Mason heads to the French doors and slips inside the lodge, like he’s used to doing that.
When he’s out of sight, I take a few careful steps toward them.
Through the window’s warped glass, I spot the old man settled in a rocking chair, the light from the fireplace throwing his long shadow against the wall.
His scarred face—I know that face.
I watch through the glass, as Mason helps him with a drink, then fiddles with the television in the far corner, before he turns and walks back to me. His jaw ticks when he finds me outside the doors.
“Do I need to get your ears checked?”
“Is that Kane’s dad?” I ask, peering around him.
“Yes.” He grabs my elbow and tugs me away.
“I think I know him.”
Mason stops cold. “What did you say?”
“I don’t know where I have seen him, but I definitely know him,” I murmur, still staring at Mr. Berkeley’s long face, gray eyes, and that unnerving scar that’s clearly visible even from a distance.
“You’re mistaken.” Mason’s dark eyes scan my face. “Now, move it.”
He doesn’t wait for me to use my legs; he half-drags, half-carries me to the car and then lifts me in by the waist, and buckles me in.
“Is he okay?” I ask as he gets in the car.
“Yes.” He looks over his shoulder and starts reversing.
“I definitely heard a scream.”
“Maybe you fell asleep and had a nightmare.”
“I’m not crazy.”
“Never said you were.”
That’s all I get. Clipped responses. Why is he so mad?
And then the answer is staring me in the face.
“Mason,” I gasp, clutching his thigh as the car swerves toward the front door. He follows my gaze and finds the source of my reaction.
Kane Berkeley stands at the door with his hands in his pockets.
Dark eyes glare me down, then flick to Mason, his face unreadable.
Shit.
I don’t know why this is bad, but it feels bad. There is a reason Mason didn’t take me inside. And I’m guessing it’s something to do with him.
For a moment, Mason is locked in a hard stare with Kane, his hand on the wheel, the car revving, the engine growling in protest. Then he reverses harshly, a little too close to Kane’s Jeep, a subtle warning. Kane doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
With the next roar of the engine, Mason drives us away, leaving Kane frozen at the door.