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Chapter 11
An hour later, Lacey found herself back on the blue couch, her hands still trembling, as Mason sat on the armchair opposite her. A mixture of emotions stained every inch of his face – anger, frustration, self-loathing – his mouth a grim line as he struggled to find the right words, or any words for that matter, to say.
Not that Lacey knew what to say either. Now she was out of the woods, away from the harm those men had inflicted upon her, her emotions struggled to catch up to her brain. She knew she needed to process what had happened, to come to terms with it, but she couldn’t do it if her mouth was open.
Instead, she just sat there, perched on the edge of that hideous denim blue sofa, ignoring the coffee Mason had made for her. It sat on the floor beside her feet in a nice plain white mug, the yellow smiley one from when she’d first arrived now tossed in the sink. The bitter aroma swirled on the air as steam rose upwards like hungry ghosts, but she couldn’t bring herself to drink it.
All she could do was sit and will her mind to forget what had happened. To forget the touch of those men’s hands and mouths on her body. To forget the taste of copper on the air. To forget every damn thing.
But like always, the bitch refused to do so.
The images of earlier replayed in her mind, over and over again, a never-ending horror movie on constant repeat. Hot tears seared her eyes, but Lacey blinked them back. She would never allow those creeps to make her cry again.
Never.
Finally, she lifted her gaze to stare at the man who’d saved her life, thankful that he wasn’t beside her. She knew why he’d done it – to make her feel safe, to give her space from her own doubts from what she’d just seen.
Not that she had any. She held his mark on her shoulder. It would remain there, a permanent sign of their union. Only death would release them.
Lacey let loose a long stream of air, the sound echoing through the stillness of the room. She couldn’t even hear birdsong from outside. It was almost as if they knew she needed silence, even if only for a short time to try and get her shit sorted.
Ha. You’re going to need longer than that, girl.
Her mind drifted back to the woods. They’d left the two bodies where they’d fallen. If anyone came searching for them, hopefully they’d just assume a wolf or rapid dog attacked them.
After the repetitive chorus of oh shit, oh shit, oh shit had died down in Lacey’s mind, however, the professional PI had came out. Not wanting the police to find any of her prints, she had wiped down the gun with the bottom of her t-shirt before tossing it beside the men’s lifeless bodies. With three guns, and obvious signs of an animal attack, no local force would ever think another human was involved.
That was the hope anyway, considering they only had two bodies.
Baseball Jerk had gotten away but she doubted he’d go to the police. What would he say? Me and my buddies were just about to rape this girl and suddenly a wolf attacked us?
Yeah, right. No doubt he’d just stay quiet and hope that the wolf had gotten her, too.
He had, but not in the way he no doubt wanted.
Legs stretched outwards, Mason leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. A thousand emotions played over his handsome face. He’d taken a quick shower to clean the blood off as soon as he’d set her on the sofa.
And only after he’d made certain she wouldn’t leave in the meantime.
Like that was happening.
Finally, he heaved a sigh of his own and opened his mouth. “I guess you have questions,” he said, his words layered with exhaustion, as if dreading asking in the first place. Then again, how many werewolves told a human what they were?
“You’re a werewolf,” Lacey told him, her tone coming out steadier than what she’s expected considering everything.
Mason’s eyes widened, shocked at the fact she clearly understood, and nodded. “I am.”
“Your sister was the one in the trap yesterday, wasn’t she?”
His face took on a grim expression as he nodded. “Yeah. Those hunters have been on our trail after they spotted her one day a few weeks ago. They’re not the smartest bunch but they are persistent assholes.”
Knowing she needed answers, Lacey finally reached for the mug on the floor and drained it. The heat of the liquid burned her throat, but it did little against the chill in her soul. “Who are you exactly, Mason?”
Silence stretched between them for a long pause – the emotions on his face creeping into his stunning eyes and staining them to the colour of shadows - before he finally spoke, as if finally resigned to telling the truth. “I was born in Washington, into a pack of werewolves. We’d emigrated from England a few centuries ago. My father was the alpha, the leader, a good man who ruled with a firm but fair hand, making sure we didn’t expose ourselves to humans.”
When he lapsed back into silence, Lacey nodded. “Go on.”
“When I was fifteen, my dad died. My uncle Sampson, a manipulative bastard, saw his chance and took his place. At first, no one objected. But then he started showing his true colours. His punishments for the slightest misdemeanour were barbaric. He beat my friend until his back was nothing but bloody ribbons hanging off his body for being late back to camp. For years we suffered under him. When he discovered a plot meant to overthrow him, he killed everyone involved.” A storm raged in his eyes. “Including my mother.”
