CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MASON
They’ve been waiting here for over twenty minutes now, and I’m running late because Neo showed up uninvited.
I mean, after what happened yesterday at the elevator, being so close to him, offering him care.
I was so stupid to believe that he’d, for once, stop seeing vulnerability as something to be ashamed of.
I shut the curtains and turn away from the blind, facing Neo. He sits on the black leather couch in the living room. “He needs something more. Do better.” Neo explains, posture carefree as he glances at me.
“I’m going to Genesis today. If I find something useful, I’ll send it over to him.” I grab my duffel bag from the floor and swing it over my shoulder.
“I’ll pass on the information.”
“Good. Lock the door on your way out.” I tell him and head out.
The elevator opens into the lobby, and I stride across the tiled floor, meeting Bernard outside. He stands beside the black Range Rover, waiting for me. As I approach, he takes my duffel bag and puts it in the trunk.
“Thank you.” I open the door and step inside the car. My chest expands as Saint’s cologne assaults my senses. He has his eyes glued to the newspaper, acting as if I’m not next to him. I don’t care. I’m going to keep myself busy scrolling through social media throughout this journey.
Bernard gets into the car and inserts the key into the ignition.
The engine rumbles to life, and he presses on the gas, peeling off the driveway.
As the car zooms down the street, I look out the window.
Neo stands by the curtains, his dark gaze directed at me.
A hot, gnawing breath escapes me as I lean against the seat.
Even though I pay him no attention. My thoughts dread our proximity.
It doesn’t mean anything.
Yet the memory of the elevator haunts my mind.
I remind myself that I’m doing this for my freedom.
That once this is over, I’m leaving this godforsaken city, moving far away to live the rest of my life in solitude. But as the highway stretches long and misty, the tension escalates into something almost unbearable. I lean forward to Bernard and ask. “Please, can you turn on the radio?”
“Sure.”
“No.” Saint interrupts us without even looking up from the newspaper.
“Don’t worry, Bernard.” I fall back against the seat and look out through the mirror.
A gateway signboard stands out on the edge of the road as the car zooms out of Kingston City.
The place Vincent planted me to become his puppet.
Leaving it behind fills my heart with a smudge of freedom.
Maybe I can escape. Maybe I can run and never look back.
But I don’t entertain that idea at all. If Vincent found me in the small town I used to live in, if he ripped me away from my corporate job and forced me to work for him, he’d fucking find me anywhere in this country.
There was no point in running.
After a while, the landscape shifts to rolling hills and pine forest thinning into the heart of the city, which swallows us into its magnificence.
Bernard drives us through the city to the mountains.
Tires bite the gravel as the car ascends the rocky hill.
At the end of the drive, a two-story private house appears, made of glass and steel.
Bernard parks around the fountain and turns off the engine.
“We are here, sir.” Bernard says.
“Thank you, Bernard. Please bring our bags upstairs.”
“Of course, sir.” He nods.
We both get out of the car, and he strolls toward the entrance. I wait behind to take my bag from Bernard, then we enter the living room together.
“Come on.” Bernard says, and I follow him up the stairs. We appear in the hallway with two bedrooms. A smaller door separates the two bedrooms. My guess? It’s the bathroom. Bernard drops Saint’s bags in his room. He reappears in the hallway and takes me to the room at the end. “You’ll stay here.”
“What about you?”
“There’s a guest room downstairs.”
“Alright. Good night.” I smile and step into the room, shutting the door behind me.
An exhausting sigh escapes my lips as I turn around and take in space before me.
There’s a queen-sized bed on the right, neatly arranged with a flower-patterned light blue bedsheet, and an empty white chest of drawers.
I take my clothes out of my bag and fold them into the dresser.
I settle down on the bed and take off my shoes, replacing them with flip-flops.
I leave the bedroom to find the bathroom.
When I get to the door, it’s slightly open, and I peek in and see Saint standing under the running shower.
My eyes remain on his broad shoulders and solid back muscles. The water runs down his dark skin in slow rivulets, but what catches my attention is the white-ink snake tattoo on his back.
A Black Viper.
It starts at the base of his spine and stops near the trapezius.
As he turns around, he runs his fingers through his hair and over his body.
His gaze lifts toward the door, but I move out quickly.
Leaning against the wall, I hide behind the entrance and tiptoe back to my room, shutting the door behind me.
After a while, a car appears from the garage and zooms down the driveway, the hum of the engine becoming distant only in a few minutes.
I leave my room and head downstairs, and I meet Bernard walking past the living room in a white top and black trousers. His face wrinkles with surprise when he sees me standing in shorts at the foot of the stairs.
“You didn’t leave with the boss?” He asks.
“No. I didn’t.” I mutter. “I thought maybe you were driving him.”
“Oh, no. He has a three-car collection here, and he always loves to drive himself anytime we come to Genesis.”
“Really.”
“Yeah, he bought this place five years ago. We come a few times a year.”
“Do you have any idea where he went?”
“Probably to see his business associate, Prince.” He hums.
“Alright. I need to shower.”
“Yeah, see you later.”
“Hmm.” He grunts and heads back to his room.
I return upstairs, stalking down the hall when I come across Saint’s room. He’s owned this place for five years. Maybe he has something related to his family business here. Something illegal. Something I can use to buy my freedom from Vincent.
I hadn’t found anything during my stay at his penthouse. I had left the following morning because there was nothing else there except legal office documents.
I grip the knob, gently pushing the door as I step into the warm room. The air still holds his rich scent. It’s intoxicating. And every time it floods my senses, I pretend it doesn’t have any effect on me because I can’t fall for an asshole like Saint.
The room’s still neatly arranged, even though he was here only minutes ago.
He has a built-in closet with his suits hanging from racks and his shoes arranged right underneath.
I get down into a push-up position and look under the bed, but I find nothing.
I look through the suits. Still fucking nothing.
Damn, has this guy ever mishandled anything in his life?
There’s literally nothing here.
I squat down, run my hands along the shelf’s bottom, and find a hidden floor compartment. I gently lift off the wooden lid. I take out three more until my hands can pass through. I slide my hand into the dimly lit space, and my fingers brush over a box.
I grip it and pull it out of the dark space, setting it beside me.
When I open it, all I find is a wristwatch, a necklace, a single bullet, and a journal.
Must not belong to him. The journal, I mean. Because there’s no way Saint, whatever his middle name is, King keeps a fucking journal.
I grip the small journal in my palm and open the first page. It has Saint’s name written on it in cursive. His full name. Saint Demetrius King. His middle name is Demetrius? There’s a heart drawn just below his name in a different handwriting.
The journal was a birthday gift from his mother. And his birthday date was also scribbled beside the heart.
It’s only a few weeks away.
I’m not supposed to be reading this. But maybe there’s something in here that can help my cause.
I look through the first five pages, eyes skimming through the letters and words. I skip through the pages to the end. Nothing was written in the rest of the journal except at the beginning and a little in the middle.
Then my eyes find a page partly soaked in red.
My heart thuds violently against my chest. My hands tremble, the journal quivering in my palm, when I see the words on the pages. Part ink. Part blood.
Desire is a sickness.
I am weak.
Desire is a sickness.
I am weak.
Desire is a sickness.
I am weak.
Desire is a sickness.
My heart clenches with a feeling I can’t name.
The words go on and on for some pages to the point where the writing becomes incomprehensible. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps writing. Page after page. Same words. Same sentences.
I shut it and put it into the box, chest heaving for air. I pick up the box to put it back inside the storage compartment, too baffled by the emotions I’m feeling.
I shouldn’t even be here.
I shouldn’t be in his room.
I shouldn’t have gone through his things.
As I withdraw my hand from the hidden space, my fingers brush against something else. I lean in a little more until I can grab it and pull it out.
I roll it open, eyes hovering over black ink against white paper.
It’s a map of Kingston city.
I lay it out on the floor and take a look. There are about five places on the city map marked in red x. Out of the five, only four are enclosed in blue circles except for the King family’s estate.
I pull out my phone and take a picture of the map. This must mean something. Perhaps it’s all their secret hideouts. If Vincent called in an anonymous tip, law enforcement could find something at one of these places.
I roll up the map and place it back in the compartment before I fix in the wooden slides and place the shoes exactly how I’d found them.
When I leave the room, I head straight into the shower, heart thudding against my chest as I stand in front of the mirror and stare at myself.
Fuck, why do I feel a tinge of guilt for finally breaking through this?
I should be relieved. If this works out, then I’m done.
I’m leaving Kingston for good. I’m starting a whole new life.
Hope clenches my chest feverishly, but I don’t revel in the excitement just yet.
A part of me worries that Vincent might never let me go. That I’d become his personal puppet. His pawn forever. But either way, I can only know what happens when I give him what I have.
Yet the words I found in that journal still haunt my mind.
What had happened in Saint’s life that made him keep that journal? Who had taught him those things? Who had made him hate himself? Who had scarred him in a way that he wrote those horrible things about himself? This must be the reason he’s so closed off, why he never accepts care.
Because he thinks feelings make him a weak man.
Because he thinks desire is wrong.
I enter the shower and twist the knob. Warm water streams down my back, uncoiling the tension in my bones, but it’s still not enough to purge the thoughts running through my head.
When I’m done, I head downstairs to meet with Bernard.
I knock on his door and wait for him to answer. “Do you know where he drove off to?”
“Yes. The TK. I can drive you.”
“Thank you. I’d really appreciate that.”
“Give me a minute.”