The mention of Mason's name sends a jolt through me.
I keep my expression neutral. “He was sitting at the bar and we talked for a few minutes. Do you know Mr. Rivera?”
“Rivera's an interesting guy.” Kelly's smile doesn't reach his eyes. “Keeps to himself mostly. But he's got a reputation.”
I don’t know what that means, and I’m not sticking around to find out. I open the car door and toss my bag in before I turn to Ray and try to smile. “I’ve got to get going to my next client. Have a good day.”
Kelly braces his hand on my open door, crowding me. “You know, I could swear I've seen you before. Before you moved here, I mean.”
My blood turns to ice. It takes everything in me not to kick him, jump in my truck, and race away. “I don't think so. I've never been to Montana before this year.”
Kelly tilts his head, studying me. “Maybe it's just one of those faces. You remind me of someone.”
I force a laugh. “I get that a lot.”
He doesn’t laugh. His gaze drops—just for a second—to my arms.
I'm wearing long sleeves. I always wear long sleeves. But the way he's looking at me makes my skin crawl, like he can see through the fabric to the ink beneath.
“Well,” I say, my voice steady despite the panic clawing at my chest. “I should get going. I’m late for my next appointment.”
Hoping he’ll back off, I start to climb into the truck.
Kelly's hand shoots out and grabs my wrist.
The contact is sudden, brutal, and my entire body goes into fight mode. Every instinct I have screams at me to pull away, to reach for the knife strapped to my ankle, to defend myself.
But I freeze, because Kelly's not looking at my face anymore.
He's looking at my wrist.
I tug on my arm, but his grip tightens. He pushes up my sleeve with his other hand, rough, efficient, like he's done this before. The fabric slides up, and the barcode tattoo is exposed.
Kelly stares at it for a long moment.
The world narrows to his hand on my wrist—to the tattoo burning like a brand. I see the recognition flood through him—the pieces clicking into place, the understanding crystallizing into certainty.
Then his eyes lift to my face.
A cold, predatory certainty fills them, and his hand bites into my wrist. “I thought I knew you.”
He smiles, small, calm, and utterly chilling. Like finding me isn’t a surprise—it’s a gift.
57
MASON
Icame into the kitchen of the main house to grab a snack before I went for a ride to clear my head and work off the memory of Lily coming apart in my arms last night. You’d think a full morning of chores would have cured me of my restlessness.
It didn’t.
I sit at the table, finishing my sandwich, feeling like I’m in some sort of twilight zone. Emma's been baking cookies—with cinnamon based on the scent. The kitchen at Blackthorn has a warm, domestic quality that doesn't belong in a house built on tactical operations and blood debts.
Shadow pads across the tile floor and presses his massive head against Emma's thigh. Emma's hand drops automatically, fingers threading through the dog's fur with the kind of easy affection that comes from weeks of living together. She's humming something I don't recognize and her other hand rests on her belly in that unconscious way she's started doing.
In a few months, there’s going to be a baby in this house. A baby. A small, fragile human who will depend on Jake and Emma to keep it safe. Who will grow up in this house surrounded by people who know how to kill and how to protect in equal measure.
The thought hits me sideways in a new way. I watch Emma's face soften as Shadow leans into her touch, and something in my chest tightens in a way I don't have a name for.