Chapter 7: Stand Your Ground

After days of traveling nonstop, I finally took a night to rest. The next morning, the sky just starting to lighten, I got up early, eager to get back to Chicago and away from this mess.

But when I opened the door, Mason was already waiting outside, leaning against a fence post like he owned the place.

Unlucky. The last person I wanted to see before coffee.

He looked fresh, punishment from yesterday already forgotten. The lack of remorse stung, and I mentally added a few more lines to my future revenge list.

"Your Highness is up early. The guys already finished their morning drills." His smile was all bite, eyes cold as the lake in winter.

I frowned, barely suppressing a groan. This guy defied authority at every turn, no respect for the chain of command—or for women, for that matter.

I let out a dry laugh, rolled my eyes, and tried to brush past him.

Mason stepped in front of me, blocking my way like a brick wall. "City folks really are delicate, can’t even last a day, rushing to get back home. Guess our place really is the backwater they say it is—easily forgotten."

The words hit me in the gut. I drew myself up, eyes hard. "Both Chicago and the border are part of the same country; how can you say I can’t handle it?"

Mason shrugged, arms crossed, leaning back against the porch post. "You talk a big game, but you’re just about to leave."

His tone stung—maybe more than it should. What he said could be taken a dozen ways, none of them good. It was a jab at the city, at the gap between those who fight and those who order them to fight.

I sucked in a breath, steeling myself. "I’m not leaving."

With that, I turned to go back inside. But Mason, always a step ahead, blocked my path again, his arm outstretched.

His eyes crinkled, the hint of a smile at the corners. "We don’t keep freeloaders here. Nobody eats and sleeps for free."