CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MASON
As the car drives through the underground parking lot, my heart thuds in my chest.
We are here.
Bernard parks the car, circles over, and opens the door for me. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
He leads me to the elevator, and we take the ride up to Saint’s penthouse apartment.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap the entire length of the space, catching the night skyline in sharp, glittering fragments.
Behind me, the elevator dings as it descends the building.
Bernard’s gone. It’s just me standing here in the darkness.
Light flickers to life, and I lift my gaze to Saint, who sprawls on the deep charcoal leather couch.
He holds a glass of scotch in his hand and looks at me with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
The air carries a faint, clean scent of lavender and smoky wood. A single art piece dominates the far wall: an abstract painting of violent strokes and muted red.
“You made it.” He says.
“Just like you wanted.” My voice comes out with a slight tinge of anger. His brows arch, and he sips from the bottle, then stands on his feet.
He’s a fucking mess.
“That’s no way to speak with your boss.”
“If it’s not work, then why am I here?” I still feel the anger from everything that happened with Kurt. I thought maybe the night would take it, but that ache sits low and harsh on my chest. “Our contract is over. You made that abundantly clear. We can’t do this. Please let me go.”
He doesn’t say a word. He’s only looking at me. I can’t pinpoint the emotion in his eyes.
Confusion? Judgement? Distress?
“Kiss me.” He finally says, voice low and quiet. He’s miserable. I wonder what he’s going through that makes him like this. There’s a bottle of scotch on the table. He drank it halfway. From the look of things, he’s not stopping anytime soon.
“Kiss you? Really?”
“Come here, please.” He stretches his hand to me.
“You couldn’t even look me in the eyes the first time you fucked me. You were scared and pathetic. And you’re fucking asking me to kiss you.” The words tear out of me, fueled by the anger I have had all week. Fueled by the frustration. Fueled by the drowning feeling constricting my lungs.
“I’m in control.” He whispers to himself.
Control. Control. Control.
That’s all he knows.
He tries to touch me, but I step back. “No, you’re drunk, so I’m going home.” I turn on my heel.
“You can’t walk away from me, Mason. I own you.”
His words hit me like a moving bullet. I freeze, terrified, as an excruciating breath saws out of me.
I already have a plate full of people trying to control me.
Not him. Not anymore. Because this is becoming more than just a job.
This is becoming more than something I have to do because of my freedom.
Looking at him, I see more than just pain.
I see a man who’s trapped by his own world.
“You’re so used to getting whatever the fuck you want. You fucked me, yes, but I’d never feel anything for a man like you.”
“I have your anger. Your disgust. Your hatred. That’s enough for now.” He whispers.
“You’re sick.” I scoff.
“Please stay. I’ll leave. It’s too dark already. Stay here. You can leave tomorrow morning.”
His offer lands over my skin and leaves me with goosebumps.
All I see is an opportunity. Opportunity to find something I can give Vincent. He must have secrets here. Anything that can tie his family to the crimes that happen in the underbelly of this city.
He’s literally offering me my freedom.
I don’t utter a word. Even as he picks up his shirt and walks toward me. He stops by my side and inhales sharply before he resumes walking to the elevator.
Then he’s gone. And I’m standing all alone in his apartment. Minutes pass, and I’m still standing in the same spot he left me. It’s only a few hours to sunrise, and I haven’t gotten any sleep.
A hollow feeling sits in my chest.
I should take this opportunity, but I remain there, watching the living room.
He left his house for me. I’m not even sure if he understands what he’s just done. I mean, he’s drunk.
Yet I find the idea that he put my safety first before anything else comforting. And that comfort blooms into a feeling I can’t contain.
There’s no one else here except me.
No one can come and go as they please because this is Saint’s place.
It’s protected.
It protects me from the horror I’ve been facing for the past three weeks. For the first time in months, I feel safe, but I know that this safety will end in a matter of hours when he comes home and realizes what he’s done, when he sends me away again.
I put my backpack on the floor and explore the apartment, taking the grand staircase to the bedroom. Everything here’s neatly arranged to Saint’s excellent taste. The dressing room has expensive suits perfectly arranged in the racks. A pile of shoes, a watch, and a collection of jewelry.
I return downstairs after the quick tour and settle down on the couch in the living room.
That’s when a memory hits me. Fresh and clean.
I remember looking at houses with my mother during the week they died.
We were going to move to a place in Queenstown because my father had gotten a new job.
She’d ask me what type of house I’d love to live in when I was older.
I’ve always wanted a quiet place. A place by the mountains where I can keep a garden and soak myself in nature when life gets difficult. A place that keeps me far away from the chaos of this world.
But I’m not sure if I’d ever get that.
My gaze narrows to a closed door. I haven’t looked at that place yet. It must be his office.
I stand and stalk toward the polished wooden door, gripping the handle and stepping into the cool room.
I was right. It’s his home office. A desk sits in the center of the space with a leather seat behind it.
At the far end of the wall, books are arranged neatly on shelves by color grading.
If there’s one thing I’ve noticed, it’s that Saint loves having his things in order.
I look around the shelves and only find books that date back to his university days. Textbooks and notebooks. He has decent handwriting. I put the book back and turn to his drawer, pulling them open one after the other.
Fuck, I shouldn’t be doing this.
What if he walks into the house? What if this is a fucking test? I’ve seen exactly what happens to men who cross him. I’ve seen how he deals with them. So why the fuck am I here snooping through his things, knowing full well what he’s capable of?
Bingo!
My fingers thread around the paper, eyes hovering over the words printed on it. It’s a letter of proposition. Some CEO whom I have never heard of. I pull out my phone and take a picture. I put it back exactly how I found it and shut the drawer.
Although this isn’t something damaging enough. I hope the name Prince Kane will mean something to Vincent.
SAINT
My hands come against the door of the maisonette glass house. It’s my youngest brother’s place. He’s a creative. He prefers to live in the quiet solitude of the city’s hills. The door clicks twice before it opens, and I flash a full teeth smile at him.
“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” He frowns.
“Can I stay the night, please?” I plead, and he steps aside, letting me into the house.
Behind me, the door shuts, and we both walk down the foyer to the large living room.
He has two canvases propped up in the space.
One finished. One unfinished. Cross discovered art outside of family legacy.
His talent. Something he could run to when life got scary.
Something he can express himself with. And I loved it for him.
But me, the only thing I have is fucking violence.
No talent. Nothing.
“Did Virgil pass on the information?”
“Yes, I’ve started looking into him.” He settles down opposite me and adjusts the glasses on his nose. “You shouldn’t get drunk. Not when we have so much at stake. Father wouldn’t like it.”
“Well, father isn’t here, Cross, and quite frankly, fuck him.” My voice is quiet as a sad, painful laughter escapes me. Cross’s nose scrunches, brows lifting in shock before he joins me in laughter.
“Fuck him.” He leans back on the couch. “I’m sorry the place is messy. If I’d known you’d come over, I would have kept this in the painting room.
My eyes drop to the canvases a few feet away from us. Paint brushes and paint smudge the white fabric covering the floor. “Have you gotten anywhere with what you’re working on?”
“No.” He answers quietly.
I lift my hand toward the other painting.
The one he’s finished. It’s a red bird trapped in a round hanging cage.
Feathers lie unevenly at the bottom. Almost at the bottom of the cage, there’s a little exit, large enough for the bird to fly through.
Just outside the cage, there’s another bird.
It’s a replica of the caged bird, and it’s flying freely.
“What does this mean?” I ask Cross. He rises to his feet and folds his arms, staring at the painting a bit longer than he should.
“The red bird represents desire. Caged desire. He has the option to escape and fly freely.” He points at the exit.
“But he remains trapped because he’s too terrified of flying.
Because he believes that there’s no better feeling than being in this cage.
” He steps closer to the painting. “But it costs him something, you know.” He points at the fallen feathers and looks at me.
“I guess the other one represents freedom.” I make an odd sound and stare at the painting a little longer. “It’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.” He hums. “I think I should take you to bed. Come on.”
“Right.” I nod. He closes in on me, helping me up and putting his hands around my shoulders. As he takes me upstairs, I pat him and whisper. “I’m sorry I don’t visit you a lot. I really suck as a big brother.”
“No problem at all. I understand. You’re really busy.”
He stops and faces me when we reach the landing. “We should hang out sometime.”
“Well, there’s an art exhibition coming up. I can get you a ticket if you want.”
“Alright.” I belch.
He leads me up to his bedroom and helps me into the bed, covering me with the sheets. “If there’s anything you need, I’ll be downstairs.”
“Alright.” I smile and wave at him.
When he leaves me in silence, the memories of everything that happened tonight flood back in. I killed for him. It’s the length I’m willing to go to keep him safe, but I’m not sure if it’s enough. If I’m enough. Because I don’t know how to feel anything other than something logical.
Emotions are not logical.
They’re stupid mistakes that get people killed. That drives people to places they shouldn’t even dream of. That compels them to do irrational things.
And tonight, something dark and dangerous compelled me to do something I have never done in my entire life.
My sickness.
I’ve let it flood back in. I have let it out of my control. All because I thought I could handle it. All because I thought none of it meant anything. But here I am, defying everything my father taught me.
Because my mind and body are at war with each other. I’ve been at war with myself since the moment he walked through those doors.
If I’d turned him away, then maybe this wouldn’t have happened.
Maybe my father’s voice wouldn’t label me a disappointment in my own mind.
And maybe I wouldn’t fucking believe it.