Chapter 4
743 Words
Lauren’s POV
"Why would somebody do this to my car? I speak, and look at the broken glass upon the floor.
Mason doesn't answer. He bends over the tyre that has burst, and his features are set. It is a cold morning in London, too cold, I tell you, the world is telling me so.
I wrap my arms around myself. "It's just vandalism, right? Jst... random?"
He doesn't look up. "No."
My stomach drops. "What do you mean, no?"
Your brakes were cut, Lauren, he says, your brakes were cut.
My breath stops. Everything around me blurs. "Cut? But... that can't be right. Who would—?"
He gets up and then directs his gaze toward me. "Someone tried to hurt you."
A cold shiver travels up and down. I sense that I am falling, though I am on my feet.
The officers of the police around them shrug. One might be children playing about, says the other.
Mason glares at them. "Kids don't cut brake lines. We're done here."
He takes my hand and climbs up the steps with me to the building. He is warm, firm, steady-- something that is strong to hold.
But in my heart, I am only afraid that it is wringing in my chest.
No, I do not want to go, I tell myself, stamping my feet across the penthouse. "I just got used to this place."
You cannot be safe here, you see, Mason, replies. His voice is low and definitive as a door being closed. "We're going to Surrey. My country estate is more secure.
"I don't want guards!" My voice cracks. I hate how small I sound.
It is not all about what you want, he snaps.
I freeze.
His breathing has become slower and more relaxed. "It's about keeping you alive."
Alive. The word burns in my ears.
I stare at him, stare. He is near it, nearer than ever. His eyes soften, just a touch.
"You're scared," he says quietly.
I swallow. "Of course I'm scared."
I will not have anything happen to you, I mumble.
The promise is too heavy, too warm, and I am not sure how to possess it.
The article is a big slap to the internet.
Mentally sick heiress becomes heiress of ROWAN INTERNATIONAL.
My hands shake as I scroll. They refer to my panic attacks. My therapy sessions. Things no one should know.
"How did they get this?" My voice breaks. "Why would they write this? Why--why ought people laugh at such as I cannot control?
My chest tightens. My breath is lean, sharp, pained.
Then, powerful hands embrace me.
It is all alright, all right, says Mason against my hair. "Breathe with me. Slowly."
I try. I fail. I shake harder.
He draws me closer with a low and continuous voice. "You're not weak. Do you hear me? You're not weak."
"I can't do this," I sob.
"You're doing it," he says. "Right now. You're surviving."
Something breaks out of me-- and mends a bit, too.
The Surrey estate is covered with a blanket of night. The country is very silent, nearly too silent. I go out to the balcony to get some air, flapping my arms. The warm, sweaty face is pleased by the cool wind.
I do not hear him, and then I feel him, and his presence seems constant and warm behind me.
"You're cold," Mason says softly.
I turn slightly. "I'm fine."
He analyses me, and he sees the lie. Then he takes off his coat and puts it very tenderly on my shoulders.
The warmth surprises me. His hands are rubbing my arms, and are slow and gentle, as though he fears I will splinter.
"Thank you," I whisper.
Our eyes meet. His are labours and indistinct-- yet not icy. Not tonight.
One heartbeat, I am safe with him.
Too safe.
His phone rings before I can even turn my head. He answers immediately.
"This is Oscar."
His face changes. Hardens. Sharpens.
"When?" he snaps. "How bad is it?"
My heart starts to pound. "Mason? What's happening?"
He makes an end of the call and looks at me. The expression in his eyes is what makes the night colder.
It has been another violation, he declares. Here they come after you once again.
The world tilts.
"What... what do you mean?"
His voice is low and desperate as he gets closer.
It means, says he, we have no time.
- Writer
