Chapter 40 Mason
MASON
Smoke curls into my lungs, scorching my throat all the way down to my chest. I swallow the sting of withdrawal, which has been a good distraction from what really hurts in my chest.
“Sure, you don’t want one?” Hugo asks, taking another drag.
I shake my head, resting my weight against the cold metal railing, my gaze locked on the London skyline glittering below, a city built from broken stars.
When I saw Jack Romney—the fucker who had been playing chess on both sides, keeping a foot in London while running an underground network named Memento Mori, the same organization responsible for the scars on my chest—holding Eva at gunpoint, everything human in me switched off.
I thought I knew rage. The heat that rises in my chest when someone crosses me, or the crimson that paints my vision when another man is in her proximity. All that was a drop in the ocean against the thought of losing her. To watch her break in front of me. To never see her face again.
I was at the very brink of losing my sanity altogether.
In those moments, I would have traded everything to hold her just one more time. To have her safe in my arms.
And I did. I held her exactly one more time before I lost her for good.
I drove Eva back to London, as I had promised her brother, the only way he would take me to her. She walked away without another glance. It took all my will not to follow her, but I couldn’t stand the way she looked at me that night, like I had taken her everything.
That was three weeks ago. She still hasn’t returned to Fort.
The clock on my phone flips over to 9 p.m.
I scroll to my recent calls and tap dial. It rings seven times, then voicemail. I stare at the screen a moment, then hang up.
Ping.
Thea Ashbourne
She’s fine.
As expected, Eva slipped back into that dark space that I’d dragged her out of.
She’s lost too much—more than a mind already ragged at the edges can bear.
Thea stays with her through the nights because, apparently, it's worse. I didn’t ask what ‘worse’ meant.
I didn’t need to. Instead, I beat my door down, my fists turning to wrecking balls, desperate to feel something—anything—to crack at the thought of it.
Thea’s the only link I have. My girl won’t answer me. Not a call. Not a text.
I didn’t just lose Eva. I destroyed her. There is a difference. The former lets you sleep at night. If I could go back, I would tell her everything and let her stop her brother that night. But even the darkest torments in the world can’t claw the fucking time in reverse.
What’s done is done.
We’re done.
Yet, here I am. Back in London. The day before the funeral.
“There is still time to change your mind,” Kane puts a hand on my shoulder. “Reginald and Alessia are making an appearance. We don’t have to go. Let her grieve in peace.”
“I’m not planning on creating a scene, fucker,” I mutter. “I just need to see her.”
“We all know what will happen when you do,” James chimes in from the corner, crushing the beer can in his fist. “And I don’t think we can take our weapons inside the Etheridge funeral, lined by coppers.”
“There is no way you’re walking away from her,” Hugo agrees.
“I will.”
Every fracture in her beautiful face that’s carved into my brain, I caused them. I’m not doing that again. Tomorrow will be the last time I see my girl, and then, I’ll let her go.
The funeral at the cathedral is as elaborate an event as is expected for the Etheridge name.
Inside the great hall, Lords, ministers, British and international businessmen, all dressed in black, come to pay their respects.
My parents are greeted at the door by the Cavendish family, who flash us a concerned look but maintain their upper-class, unwavering smiles.
We take our places in the fourth row, behind Thea, Penny, and Caden, who are already seated.
Thea taps her feet, shrinking inwards, her eyes flying straight to Berkeley, who sits beside me, wearing his death glare.
I nudge his shoulder before she melts into a puddle.
I can’t save everyone from Kane’s malevolent grasp, but I owe Thea.
An excruciating half hour later, the somber music erupts, and we are asked to rise.
My heart thumps against my ribcage as I sense her enter the room even before I turn around.
Following the mahogany casket, she steps in.
Or, at least, I think that’s her. A frail, skinnier version of Eva.
She’s lost so much weight; I wouldn’t have recognized her if she weren’t mine.
Slowly, my head turns to Thea, who purses her lips and stares at the floor, refusing to meet my eye.
Watching her ghost trail in, the black dress clinging to her bones under the charcoal winter coat, feels like a punch I didn’t see coming. Her hair falls in straight lines, framing her pale face. The only thing that shines about her is the turquoise of her eyes, streaked with tears.
There must be at least five hundred people in the church, but her eyes fly straight to me.
The air sparks with hope between us. Though hope feels like a sick trick right now.
A moment of warmth before you are tossed into the frozen lake.
She knows better than I do. That’s why there is none in her eyes.
Caught up in my stare, she misses a beat in the march, tripping a little in her black high heels, which I don’t know why she bothers with anymore.
An arm wraps around her waist. Daniel steadies her back into the march. The Cavendish family follows Eva and Daniel to the front row. Then, the priest takes his place at the golden pulpit, and the ceremony to celebrate the life of Elton Etheridge commences.