“No.” The word comes out too fast, too sharp.
I watch her carefully. “You sure about that?”
“I've never seen him here before.” She reaches for her beer, but her hand trembles, just enough that I catch it.
“But you’ve seen him someplace else.” I keep my tone neutral, non-threatening. “You went on alert the second hewalked through that door. You're tracking his every movement. You're?—”
“I'm not doing anything.” She cuts me off, her voice tight with barely controlled anger. “And even if I was, it's none of your business.”
I prefer seeing her angry over scared any day. “It is if you're about to do something stupid.”
“Stupid?” Her eyes flash and she sits up, riled. “You don't know?—”
“Then tell me, pretty girl.” I lean closer, close enough that I catch that citrusy lemon scent again. Her shampoo? I want to drown in it. “Tell me why you're interested in Turner's new foreman.”
She stills, obviously thinking. “He’s Turner’s new foreman?”
I lower my head, close enough to kiss her. “Cole Turner isn’t someone you want to mess with, and that includes the men who work for him.”
For a moment, she just stares at me. Then she reaches for her beer again—a defensive gesture, something to do with her hands while she processes all I’ve said. But as her arm stretches forward, her sleeve rides up, exposing her wrist.
And I see it.
Black ink. Precise lines. Numbers beneath the bars—small, clinical, permanent, tattooed on the pale skin of her inner wrist where it would be easy to scan, easy to track, easy to catalog.
A barcode.
The mark is unmistakable. I've seen it before—in the photos Emma took of Turner’s operation, on the women in the shipping containers. It’s Turner's signature—his brand. His way of tracking inventory.
My vision narrows. My breathing goes shallow. Every tactical instinct I have screams into sharp, cold focus.
Lily was the victim—one of the ones taken, marked, and processed through his network like cargo.
The pieces snap into place with brutal clarity. The way she maps exits before she sits down. The way she scans for threats with military precision. The panic when I moved toward her—not fear of me, but fear ofanyman closing the distance without permission.
How the fuck did she get out?
12
LILY
Isee the exact moment Mason's eyes drop to my wrist—right in the middle of his interrogation—and I can't pull the sleeve back down in time to cover it.
The shift in his expression is microscopic—a fractional widening of his pupils, a barely perceptible tightening at the corners of his mouth, the way his breathing goes shallow and controlled. Most people wouldn't catch it, but I do.
I watch him process it in real time. First: recognition. He's seen this mark before. He knows what it means.
I’ll need to think about that later.
Second: connection. Every piece of the puzzle I've been hiding slots into place behind his eyes, like I suddenly make sense.
I’m not sure how I feel about that.
Third: protectiveness, like I’m a victim who needs saving.
I set the bottle down carefully and I meet his eyes. I amnota victim. I didn't go through thirteen years of rebuilding myself just to let a man with a hero complex decide I'm too broken to finish what I started.
I stand.