Page 45 of Rage

Mason.

My hand reaches out, finding only cool sheets beside me.A pang of disappointment, sharp and unexpected, twists in my gut.

Laughter erupts from the hallway, startling me.I glance at the clock.10:23 AM.Shit.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as my stitches pull.The room spins for a moment, exhaustion and lingering fear battling for dominance.I force myself to breathe, in and out, until the world steadies.

A pile of clothes catches my eye.Not mine, but clean.Mason’s scent clings to them, leather and something uniquely him.A note sits on top.

For you.Come down when you’re ready.

- M

My throat tightens.Such a simple gesture, but it hits me hard.I dress quickly, the soft fabric a balm against my battered skin.

Another round of laughter filters through the door.Curiosity wars with anxiety.What’s waiting for me out there?The clubhouse suddenly feels like alien territory.

I reach for the doorknob, and hesitate.My hand trembles slightly.Get it together, Meadow.You’ve faced worse.The memory of Peterson’s wild eyes flashes through my mind.I shove it away, hard.

The door creaks as I open it.Voices drift up the stairs, a low rumble punctuated by occasional bouts of laughter.I square my shoulders.Time to face whatever’s waiting.

My bare feet are silent on the wooden floor as I make my way toward the stairs.Each step sends a dull throb through my side.I grit my teeth, pushing through it.

The voices grow clearer as I descend.I hear snippets of their conversation, something about surveillance and patrols.My stomach clenches.They’re planning.For Peterson.

I pause at the bottom of the stairs, suddenly unsure.Do I belong here, in this world of leather and chrome and danger?But before I can retreat, a familiar voice cuts through the chatter.

“Meadow.”

Mason.My eyes find him instantly, drawn to him like a magnet.He’s across the room in seconds, his warm hands cupping my face.

“How are you feeling, darlin’?”he asks, his voice low and rough.

I open my mouth to answer, but the words stick to my throat.How am I feeling?Scared.Angry.Confused.Safe, with his hands on me.

“I’m fine,” I manage, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue.

Mason’s eyes narrow, seeing right through me.He opens his mouth to argue, but another voice interrupts.

“Well, look who decided to join the land of the living!”

I turn, the movement sending a sharp twinge through my side.Christopher’s grin hits me like a spotlight, too bright, too exposed.The clubhouse swims into focus, a sea of leather and denim, familiar faces mixed with strangers.Every eye locks on to me.

Heat crawls up my neck, painting my cheeks crimson.My fingers twitch, itching to grab Mason’s shirt, to use his bulk as a shield.No.The memory of Peterson’s wild eyes flashes once more, unbidden.My jaw clenches.I plant my feet, chin lifting.I won’t cower.Not again.

Mason’s arm snakes around my waist, solid and warm.His touch grounds me, chasing away the phantom chill of the scalpel at my throat.“You should be resting,” he murmurs, breath tickling my ear.

I open my mouth to argue, but Christopher’s booming laugh cuts me off.He calls, striding over, “How you feeling, Doc?”

“Fine,” I lie, the word tasting like ash.My eyes dart to the papers scattered across the table behind him.Maps.Lists of names.My stomach clenches.“What’s all that?”

Mason’s arm tightens, a silent warning.“Nothing for you to worry about,” he says, voice low and firm.“We’ve got it handled.”

Frustration bubbles up, hot and insistent.“Mason, please.I can’t just sit around while?—”

“While what?”he cuts in, eyes flashing.“While we hunt down the psycho who tried to kill you?While we make sure he can never hurt you again?”

The intensity in his gaze pins me in place.My heart hammers against my ribs, a mix of fear and something else, something darker, more primal.I swallow hard.

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