Page 51 of Butterfly

“Okay, then stand up,” he said. “Let’s see how ‘fine’ you are.”

He and the professor exchanged a look, and then he stood and both backed up to let me up. I slid out from my desk and I must have risen too quickly because I immediately felt dizzy and stumbled. And I would’ve fallen, if it weren’t for Mason. The moment I lost my balance, he was there, scooping me up into his arms.

“You don’t have to carry me,” I protested weakly, even as I was distracted by the safety of his strong arms. I didn’t trust him, but I knew he’d die before he’d drop me.

That didn’t make him any less of a bossy asshole.

“You aren’t in a position to tell me what to do,” he told me firmly. “You obviously can’t walk right now, probably because you barely ate this morning.”

“Try the past week,” I muttered.

He growled. “We’ll be talking about that.” To the professor he said, “Can you hand me her bag? I’m going to get her home and get some food in her. Make sure she rests.”

“Of course.” Professor Evans grabbed up my bag and handed it to Mason, who slung it over his shoulder like it was nothing. “Will you let me know how she’s doing?”

“I’m fine,” I said again, squirming.

He squeezed my thigh in reprimand. “I’ll keep you updated,” he told her.

“Feel better, Ms. Berger,” Professor Evans said, winking at me.

And with that, he carried me out of the classroom and building, ignoring the eyes and whispers on us.

“This is embarrassing,” I complained.

“You should think of that the next time you decide to go on a hunger strike,” he said as he walked, being careful not to jostle me. “Besides, I like having you in my arms—but next time it better be under better circumstances.”

“What, she can’t even walk on her own two feet now?” I heard a high female voice ask, and craned my neck.

And I’ll admit, I took some satisfaction in seeing Emily with a hand on her hip, looking hugely put out by Mason carrying me.

Mason glared at her. “Emily, fuck the hell off.” Ignoring her gasp of outrage, he lifted me higher in his arms and placing a light kiss on my forehead. “You can close your eyes, butterfly. You’re safe…for now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I yawned, suddenly feeling very tired.

“It means that bad girls who don’t take care of themselves get punished by their Daddy. Part of the whole care and protect package. Now shhh, I’ve got you.”

The words were oddly comforting, even as they spread heat through my abdomen. But the dizziness and exhaustion overwhelmed me, and as unbelievable as it sounds, I fell asleep in his arms as he carried me home.

19

MASON

This was my fault.

I’d thought leaving Leslie alone was the right idea. She wassupposedto miss me and come to me, of her own volition. I wanted to give her the choice, and I’d truly—stupidly—believed she would. I hadn’t taken into account how stubborn she was, how angry she’d been about my drugging her, and, mostly, how her shame would control her. And I had completely overlooked the possibility that she’d punish herself by not eating. I’d focused on hockey practice to keep myself from giving in and going to her. I wanted to rage at myself; stand in the middle of the rink without protective gear and let every player hit puck after puck at my head. Being mine meant she was my responsibility, and I’d fallen down on the job.

But I was fixing it now.

I carried her across campus to my building, climbing up the stairs with her still in my arms and unlocking the door to my suite. For once, no one else was home, so I took her into my bedroom and carefully placed her on my bed. She immediatelycurled on her side, her shiny black hair spreading out over the pillow. Satisfaction filled me, seeing her exactly where she belonged, on my bed, in my room, fully ensconced in my life. Sitting beside her, I brushed her hair off her forehead, leaning in to kiss her hair, smelling that flowers and sunshine scent that belonged to her and her alone. It had quickly become my favorite smell.

Reluctantly, I rose and went to the kitchen. I never cooked—I wasn’t great at it, and also, I’d never had to. But Emory’s private chef wasn’t going to be here for a few hours, and I wanted to make sure my butterfly had food she’d actually want to eat. Luckily, I’d watched Leslie closely enough to know what her favorite foods were: blackened chicken fettuccine alfredo, strawberry and goat cheese salad, and a certain brand of peach ice cream. We didn’t have the ingredients for most of it, so I put in an order on the grocery delivery app. I had to order from three different grocery stores—one didn’t have blackened seasoning, and neither of the first two had the right peach ice cream so I had to order from a specialty store—but nothing was too much for Leslie. I not only owed her, but I wanted her to be happy.

And I already knew the only thing more satisfying than seeing her asleep on my bed, would be seeing her eating the food I’d made for her.

I couldn’t wait.

Emory and Mattwere home by the time the groceries arrived, so they were there to heckle me through three botched attempts before I got the pasta right and moved onto the salad.

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