Chapter 41
Summer
Exactly thirty-five minutes pass, each second counted, before I serve the farro mafaldine with black truffle butter and mushrooms, dreading that I’m not serving poison instead.
Taking my place next to Atlas, I stay silent, fisting my hands under the table, restraining myself from murdering Mason in a dozen different ways. My thoughts keep drifting to Bear, no matter how hard I try to follow the conversation led by that monster. He only asks personal stuff, nothing to hint at malicious intent, but superiority seeps through his simple words. Like he owns us. All of us.
I ignore his praise for my cooking. For the first time in my life, I’d only consider my food good if the man consuming it choked on it and died.
“You’re not a natural redhead, are you?” Mason asks, and it’s only the subject of the question that makes awareness trickle in that it’s pointed at me.
“No, I’m not,” I answer in a tone like I own him. How I summon this bravado, I have no idea, but it feels good to be brave in the face of that man.
“I wouldn’t want ginger grandchildren,” he says, not taking hiseyes off me, goading a reaction.
“Father!” The reaction comes from Atlas instead, in the form of a bark, anger curling his hands into fists.
“What?” Mason says unbothered. Another bite goes into his mouth, as he continues before he’s even swallowed it. “I’d like a second chance at cultivating real men in the family, since I failed the first time around.”
“Don’t you fucking talk to him like that!” My words slip out as a threat before my brain registers how reckless that is.
On second thought, there’s no way I’d let him insult Atlas, so I take a steadying breath, savoring Mason’s stupefied expression. That’s right, asshole! I’m no demure girl. I’ve got claws, and I’ll show you exactly how deep I can cut.
“Ha!” He leans on the table, steepling his fingers. His eyes narrow, trying to intimidate me under his scrutinizing gaze, but I hold steady, unrattled, keeping my hatred bottled, ready to unleash it on him.
“I’m dying for some cake.”
Atlas squeezes my knee, dragging my focus away from Mason.
Fear. For me. That’s all I see in my boyfriend’s eyes.
I school my features into a forced smile, but I probably look like I’m one stiff drink away from a full-blown personality disorder.
Getting up, I spare a single venomous glare at Mason, but his expression sharpens with excitement.
“I’ll help you.” Atlas grabs my hand, walking alongside me. “Excuse yourself, and sneak out through the back entrance. Carter’s old Escalade is parked there. The keys are above the left back tire,” Atlas whispers in my ear once we’re at the kitchen island. A shake of my head makes the concern grow deeper between his brows. “I don’t have my gun. It’s upstairs. I don’t know if any of the guys are armed. I had a Glock taped under the table, but it’s gone. I can’t let anything happen to you!” His voice cracks. “You have to leave.Now!”
My silence says it all. I’m not running and leaving them behindfor whatever’s coming.
“I’ll take care of the situation here, but I need to know you’re safe. Summer, please!” he begs. “Go!”
“We’ll take care of it together. I can handle myself,” I say, passing him the dessert plates.
Atlas’s hand grips my arm, his face torn between fear and love.
“You know, it’s a waste of talent to be cooking only for those boys,” Mason says, pinning his stare on us. No more words are needed to make my boyfriend get back to the table. And he does. Not for Mason, but for me.
I look at the chocolate ganache cake with berries on top, which I had prepared last night, unaware I’d be contemplating my next life-or-death move over it. How insane am I to do what I’m about to do? I’ll be either insane or dead, it seems, so the former sounds better.
“Tell me, Summer, do you love my son?” Mason’s words come out of the blue, before I’ve reached the table with the cake in hand.
It’s not a question that needs contemplation or hesitation to answer.
“I do.”
Setting the plate down, I pick up the knife, careful about how I cut those pieces, for more than just the fact that I’d love nothing more than for my hand to slip and drive the blade straight through Mason’s chest.
Once his slice is positioned in front of him, I sit back, waiting for him to take the first bite.
