Chapter 1 - The Mark on Her Wrist
The silence stretched thin between them in the cold marble foyer, punctuated only by the low, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock.
Claire looked down at her wrist, where dark, purple-red shadows were already blooming against her pale skin. The skin on her palm was raw, scraped from where she had stumbled against the wet brick of a narrow alley off Clark Street.
"I turned off the main avenue into a well-lit street near the subway station," Claire said, her voice dropping lower as the memory washed back over her. "I thought if I got into a busier area, he’d give up. But he accelerated. By the time I realized he was running, he was right behind me."
Mason didn't speak. His stance had shifted—his broad shoulders square, his hands loose at his sides, every muscle coiled like a spring under his tailored suit.
"He grabbed my purse first," Claire continued, touching her arm gingerly. "I fought back. I swung my bag at his face, but he grabbed my wrist and twisted it. Hard. He wasn't trying to steal my money, Mason. He didn't even ask for my purse after he got hold of me."
Mason stepped closer, stopping only inches away. He reached down, his large, warm hand hovering over her injured arm, waiting for her nonverbal permission before his fingers gently brushed the bruised skin.
"He was trying to force you into a car," Mason said, his voice flat and lethal.
Claire swallowed hard. "There was a black sedan idling at the end of the alley. Blacked-out windows, no plates. When I screamed and kicked his knee, he panicked. He shoved me into the wall and ran for the car. They took off before I could get the make or model."
Mason’s thumb stroked the soft skin just above the bruise, a sharp contrast to the cold fury radiating from him. "He used a three-finger restraint grip. Look at the alignment of the marks. That isn't a mugger's hold, Claire. That’s military or private security tactical training."
Claire’s eyes widened. "Tactical?"
"Someone sent a professional team to pull you off the street," Mason said softly. He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto hers. "They didn't want your money. They wanted leverage."
"Leverage on who?" Claire asked, though the answer was already taking shape in her mind. "My mother? Me?"
"On me," Mason corrected.
He took her purse, set it aside, and gently unbuttoned her crooked coat, lifting it from her shoulders with practiced care. Underneath his calm movements was a terrifying, icy stillness.
"You’ve lived in this house for two years, Claire," Mason said quietly, guiding her toward the velvet sofa in his study. "You know my schedule, my routes, my security codes, and the location of every vault in this mansion. To anyone on the outside, you’re the easiest way inside my head."
Claire sat down, her broken heel making her tilt slightly before she slipped both shoes off. "I didn't tell him anything. I didn't even know who he was."
"I know you didn't," Mason said. He walked over to a marble sideboard, poured two fingers of bourbon into a clean glass, and handed it to her. "Drink it. It will take the edge off."
Claire took the glass, her hands trembling slightly now that the adrenaline was beginning to fade. "What do we do now?"
Mason picked up his satellite phone from the desk, his eyes dark with an ancient, violent energy. "First, I put the estate on red alert. Second, I find out who gave that team your location tonight."
May you like
Claire stopped with the glass at her lips. "What do you mean, gave them my location?"
Mason turned to face her, his mouth set in a grim, hard line. "You didn't tell anyone where you were going tonight except the household staff on duty when you left at seven o'clock. The restaurant reservation was made under an alias. The only way a snatch squad knew you were walking down Clark Street at one in the morning is if someone inside this house told them."
