Mason POV
Pain was a language I was learning to speak fluently.
I came back to consciousness in the dark, the jolt of the SUV's suspension sending a fresh blade through my shoulder. I bit down on a scream, tasting copper and bile. My right arm was useless, bound tight with bandages that were already seeping red. I focused on my breathing—the technique a physical therapist had taught me after a polo accident years ago, when I had believed that pain was something wealth could insulate me from.
I had been a fool then. I was a student now.
"Luna," I rasped, my voice barely audible over the engine's idle.
She turned from the front seat, her face pale in the dashboard glow. "Mason. Don't move. We're—"
"Greenwich," I finished, recognizing the silhouette of the east wing through the tinted g
