Chapter 3: Power Plays and Promises

The sun blazed through the truck’s grimy windshield, the light so harsh it bleached out Mason’s face. But I didn’t need to see it—I could picture the arrogance stamped across his features, the curl of his lip, the bored half-smile. That look made me want to throw a punch, and not for the first time.

Mason, cool as ever, found time to tease me, even as I struggled to sit up. I gritted my teeth, feeling my fury rise.

He must have sensed it, because he pressed his rifle against my back—casually, like it was no big deal. My hands balled into fists, nails biting my palms, but I kept my chin high. A mountain settled on top of me, crushing my pride. I was already awkward, half sprawled, and now pinned in place like a bug under glass.

I twisted my neck, shot daggers at him. "Do you even know who I am?"

Nobody had ever treated me like this—not in the governor’s office, not at home, not on the streets of Chicago. My last name usually opened doors, not got me shoved around.

Mason ignored me, turning to the other man. "Looks like you need to work on your knockout powder. She’s already awake."

It was infuriating—he didn’t even bother to acknowledge me, like I wasn’t worth his time. Something twisted in my gut, a silent promise: Mason Carter would regret this.

After a minute, Mason finally met my eyes, slow and deliberate. "Still gotta rely on me."

He said it like a warning, or maybe a challenge—I couldn’t quite tell. Before I could process, he raised his hand.

A jolt of dread hit me. I opened my mouth, desperate to stop him. "You wouldn’t dare—"

He did. His palm came down hard, right on my shoulder. Pain exploded there, sharp and bright. Mason Carter actually dared to knock me out. I caught the ghost of a smirk as the world spun away.