Chapter 9
CHAPTER
NINE
Harper
As we stroll through the gallery, Mason's hand rests possessively on the small of my back, his fingers splayed wide as if to claim as much of me as possible. The warmth of his touch seeps through the thin fabric of my dress, a constant reminder of our passionate encounter just last night.
I can't help but notice how his eyes dart protectively around the room, assessing each person who comes near us. When an enthusiastic art collector steps a bit too close while gushing about a vibrant abstract piece, Mason smoothly maneuvers me to his other side, putting his body between me and the stranger.
"Fascinating perspective," he says to the man, his voice polite but clipped. "If you'll excuse us."
His hand slides from my back to grasp mine, our fingers interlacing as he guides me to a quieter corner of the gallery. The possessive gesture sends a thrill through me that I'm not entirely prepared for.
"Are you alright?" Mason asks, his eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"I'm fine," I assure him, squeezing his hand. "Just a bit overwhelmed by...everything."
His thumb traces circles on my skin, and I feel my pulse quicken in response. "We can leave if you'd like."
The offer is tempting, but I'm not ready to be alone with him again just yet. My emotions are still too raw, too confusing. "Maybe later. I want to see the rest of the exhibit first."
Mason nods, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "As you wish."
We continue our tour, and I can't help but notice how he positions himself between me and other patrons, how his eyes constantly scan our surroundings. It should feel stifling, but instead, I find myself leaning into his protective aura.
When we pause before a hauntingly beautiful landscape, Mason releases my hand only to wrap his arm around my waist, drawing me against his side. I inhale sharply at the contact, my body remembering his touch all too vividly.
"What do you think?" he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.
I struggle to focus on the painting, hyperaware of every point where our bodies connect. "It's...lonely," I manage. "Beautiful, but isolated."
Mason's arm tightens almost imperceptibly. "Not everything beautiful needs to be alone," he says softly, and I wonder if we're still talking about the art.
As we move to the next piece, I find myself leaning into his embrace, my earlier reservations fading beneath the weight of his attention. I can't say I hate this newfound protectiveness, this constant physical connection between us.
In fact, as Mason's fingers trace idle patterns on my hip, I realize with a start that I might be enjoying it far more than I should.
But just as I think that, Mason goes berserk. A waiter walks by us and does a double take. His eyes rove up and down me before he lets out a whistle. I hear Mason's growl deep in his throat before he's suddenly on the man, his fist landing square in the guy's jaw. I'm mortified.
The waiter stumbles backward, crashing into a nearby sculpture. The delicate glass piece teeters precariously before shattering on the polished marble floor. The sound of breaking glass seems to echo through the suddenly silent gallery.
"Mason!" I gasp, grabbing his arm as he rears back for another punch. "Stop!"
But he's beyond reason, his eyes dark with fury. "You dare disrespect her?" he snarls at the waiter, who's cowering on the floor, blood trickling from his split lip.
Security guards materialize from nowhere, converging on us. One grabs Mason's shoulder, trying to pull him back. Mason shrugs him off with ease, his muscles coiled tight beneath his tailored suit.
"Sir, you need to calm down," the guard says firmly.
Mason's jaw clenches. "Do you know who I am?"
The threat in his voice is unmistakable. I feel a chill run down my spine. This isn't the Mason I know—or thought I knew. This man is dangerous, unhinged.
"I don't care if you're the King of France," the guard replies. "You can't assault our staff."
Murmurs ripple through the crowd of onlookers. I catch snippets of whispered conversations?—
"Isn't that Mason Blackwood?"
"The billionaire?"
"What's he doing here?"
My cheeks burn with humiliation. This is exactly the kind of scene I never wanted to be part of. I tug on Mason's arm again, more insistently this time.
"Mason, please," I plead. "Let's just go."
For a moment, I think he hasn't heard me. Then, slowly, he turns to face me. The rage in his eyes fades, replaced by something softer, almost vulnerable.
"Harper," he says, his voice low. "I'm sorry. I just...I couldn't stand the way he looked at you."
I swallow hard, torn between understanding his protective instinct and being appalled by his violent outburst. "We need to leave. Now."
Mason nods, his composure returning like a mask sliding into place. He turns to the gallery owner, who's hovering nearby looking distressed.
"I'll cover the damages," he says smoothly, pulling out a sleek black credit card. "And I trust this unfortunate incident won't find its way to the press?"
The owner's eyes widen at the implied threat—or perhaps it's the promise of Mason's money. Either way, he nods quickly.
As Mason deals with the fallout, I stand there, my cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and something else I can't quite name. The adrenaline is still coursing through my veins, my heart pounding.
I should be appalled. I should be running for the hills after witnessing Mason's violent outburst. But there's a traitorous part of me that felt a thrill at his possessive display, at the raw power he exuded.
When Mason turns back to me, his eyes are dark and intense. Without a word, he takes my hand and leads me swiftly through the gallery. I can feel the eyes of the other patrons on us, hear their whispers, but Mason's grip grounds me.
We burst out onto the Parisian street, the afternoon sun momentarily blinding after the dim lighting of the gallery. Mason doesn't slow his pace, guiding me purposefully down the sidewalk.
"Mason, where are we—" I start to ask, but he cuts me off by suddenly pulling me into a narrow alleyway between two buildings.
Before I can catch my breath, he has me pressed against the rough brick wall, his body caging mine. His lips crash down on mine in a bruising kiss that steals what little air I had left in my lungs.
I should push him away. I should be furious. Instead, I find myself melting into the kiss, my hands fisting in the lapels of his expensive suit.
When Mason finally breaks the kiss, we're both panting. His forehead rests against mine as he speaks in a low, gravelly voice. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Harper. But I'm not sorry for protecting what's mine."
A shiver runs through me at his possessive words. "Yours?" I breathe, my mind reeling.
Mason's hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb tracing my lower lip. "Yes, mine," he growls. "Tell me you don't feel it too. This connection between us."
I want to deny it. I want to be strong and independent and tell him he's crazy. But I can't lie, not when every nerve ending in my body is singing from his touch.
"I feel it," I admit in a whisper. “But you can’t be acting like that.”
A triumphant gleam flashes in Mason's eyes. He leans in close, his lips brushing my ear as he speaks. "Good. Because I'm not letting you go, Harper. Not now, not ever."
His words should terrify me. Instead, they send a thrill of excitement through my core. As Mason's lips find mine again in a searing kiss, I know I'm in way over my head.
But just as I start to lose myself in the kiss, a loud crash from the street startles us apart. We both turn to look, and I freeze in shock at what I see...