Chapter 4.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, heart pounding so hard it makes me feel lightheaded.
The man turns all the way, the sun catching a pair of sunglasses. They're mirrored, making me have to stare at myself instead of seeing his expression fully. I can't even make out his eyes through them. It makes me feel blind to his emotions—If he has any.
His stature is impressive, heavy black boots with black cargo pants tucked into them that cling to his thighs.
"W—who are you? How do you know me?"
My question doesn't even make him budge. He just stands there, and the aviators make it impossible for me to know if he's even looking at me.
"Masen," he barks. "I'm here to escort you home, Mrs. Anderson."
Masen licks his lips before taking the last drag and crushes the cigarette under his boots. The crushing sound of gravel is too loud. I know I'm close to having a panic attack. His lips are full, too pretty for a man as frightening as him.
"I'm not going home," I tell him. My voice is shaky, weak, and breaks mid-sentence. I don't think I sound too convincing.
A chuckle follows, but there's no hint of a smile on his face. I focus on the features I can see: the sharp jaw and high cheekbones, his nose that's just a tad crooked, the scar that slashes through his right eyebrow. Masen looks dangerous. I wonder what made him this way. Or what he's doing here.
"Mr. Mayor insisted on me bringing you home," he says matter-of-factly, sounding bored of having to repeat himself.
"N—no."
There's a sigh before he steps closer to me. His large body towers over me, casting a shadow over my face.
Then, Masen tips down his glasses slightly, eyes so green and haunted that they make me gasp, my fingernails digging into my palms. Long lashes dust his cheek as he closes his eyes and takes a dramatic breath.
"Look, princess," he starts. "I am your new security detail. Therefore, Mr. Mayor pays me good money to make sure his wife is safe. This, here," he motions to the motel and parking lot. "Not all that safe."
"It's perfectly safe," I blurt out.
"No, it's not." There's that annoyed tone again. "Needles and two burnt spoons. That's what I found within five minutes of being here."
I roll my eyes.
"So, you're an overachiever?" I don't know where the words come from. Or the attitude.
He just stares at me, eyes searching my face before he puts his sunglasses back on. "Looking for problems even if there aren't any?"
"You're coming with me whether you like it or not, Mrs. Anderson."
"I don't need security."
"Take it up with your husband, then. For now, I'm under contract. And I need to bring you back to the manor."
My heart falls. It's not like I can outrun this man, or even fight him. He's robust, muscles looking as hard as granite. There's nothing I can do except comply.
"Look," he starts in that condescending tone of his. "We can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Your pick."
I can't even look at this man, this stranger. That's when I get an idea.
"How do I know you are who you say you are? I'm not going to trust a random dude who demands I get in my car and go with him, huh?" I try to keep my voice strong, my fingers curling around the handle of my suitcase again, knuckles white from my firm grip.
Another agitated sigh falls from Masen's lips.
"You're Isabella Anderson, formerly Isabella Swan," he starts. "You're originally from Washington, moved to California when you were eighteen, and worked at a diner in San Jose, where you met Alistair Anderson." Masen looks up at the cloudless, blue sky as if he's reciting a lecture. "You lived at Mayfair Trailer Park in a tiny, one-bedroom that's seen better days. He proposed to you when you were twenty years old and moved in with him right away in his swanky Alderbrook residence. Your mother is the only living relative you have but she lives in Phoenix after divorcing husband number three and is mostly married to the bottle and to the slot machines—online and offline. All the money you sent her went to casinos and you haven't seen her in over a year." His words sting as he summarizes my pathetic life.
I don't know what to say.
"You're supposed to attend a campaign rally at the Mayor's office tonight at seven and right now you're gonna get in the passenger's seat of this '99 XJ8 Vanden Plas so you can make your appointment at Hale Hair & Spa at one this afternoon."
I guess he got a copy of the itinerary and the details on my car.
I blink, failing to come up with more words, more distractions. Defeat climbs its way up my shoulders, burying me with the weight of last night's mistake. My shoulders slump, and I let out a shaky breath.
The giant has the decency to take my suitcase and drop it in the trunk of my car, my keychain dangling from his fingers. I fight the tears that threaten to spill from my eyes, furiously blinking them away until they're nothing but more bitterness.
My jeans tug at my knees when I sit down on the buttery, leather seat. I feel like a child who's being punished and dragged away from a birthday party, my nails picking at the loose stitching on the handle of my handbag, eyes staring straight ahead as the engine starts.
Masen has to adjust his seat, his long legs uncomfortably close to the steering wheel before he finds himself the right setting for his large frame. He turns the radio down as he starts driving, apparently not even needing directions or GPS.
No words are said as we drive the forty-something miles back to San Jose, the distant murmuring of the radio show host the only thing that keeps me from crumbling down.
The strap of my seatbelt digs into the skin over my collarbone, unpleasant, but then again, what better reminder is there of the home I'm being dragged back to than the feeling of being trapped, encased, and locked. I can't even drive my own car, my keys taken away by a strange, charismatic man who seems to know everything about me.
"I'm not to let you leave my sight, Mrs. Anderson." Masen hasn't spoken in so long, the rough and low tone of his voice startles me. I straighten up in my seat, my bottom lip raw from my teeth, my eyes focusing on something other than roads and trees and buildings as we make our way closer and closer to the manor.
"For my safety's sake?" I drop sarcastically, staring at Masen's profile, at the way his fingers curl around the leather of the steering wheel.
"Of course."
"If you care about my safety, maybe you shouldn't drive me back to the house." I mutter it so quietly Masen looks over and frowns. I don't think he's understood a single word but he also doesn't ask for clarification. He probably doesn't even care as long as he gets his job done.
I guess I'm property now instead of my own person, a chill running down my spine as Marcus opens the gates for us to enter the second Masen rolls down his window and tips his head at him. As soon as we drive into the garage, my heart sinks and every hint of warmth leaves my body.
"Home sweet home," Masen mutters.
It's the cruelest thing he's said to me so far.
Dun, dun dunnnn