Chapter 157
Emily's POV
"Like I got hit by a truck," I admitted, "but I'll live. What are you making?"
"Frittata. And toast. And I cut up some fruit." Mason gestured to the counter where he'd laid out what looked like an entire breakfast spread—a golden, perfectly risen frittata studded with vegetables, sliced sourdough bread, a bowl of mixed berries, orange juice, coffee. "I wasn't sure what you'd feel like eating, so I just—made options."
I moved closer, drawn by the smell and the warmth and the sheer thoughtfulness of it all. "Mason, this is—you didn't have to do all this."
"I wanted to." He turned back to the stove, sliding the frittata onto a serving plate with careful precision. "Besides, it kept me busy. Gave me something to do with my hands instead of just—sitting there worrying."
There it was again. That careful honesty. That refusal to pretend he's fine when he's not.
I leaned against the counter beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost touched. "Thank you," I said quietly. "For this. For staying. For—everything."
He set down the spatula and turned to face me fully, and there was something raw and unguarded in his expression. "You don't have to thank me. I'm not going anywhere, Emily. I know I'm—I know I'm new to this. To all of you. But I meant what I said. I'm here. For as long as you'll let me be."
I reached out and took his hand, lacing our fingers together. His palm was warm and slightly callused, and he gripped me back with just enough pressure to ground me without hurting.
"I'm glad you're here," I told him. "I'm glad you stayed."
His breath hitched slightly, and for a second I thought he might cry. But then he just squeezed my hand once and nodded, swallowing hard.
We stood there like that for a moment—just holding hands in my tiny kitchen while the coffee maker gurgled and the morning light streamed through the window—and I let myself feel the enormity of what's shifted in the last few weeks. Mason's gone from a terrified kid on a rainy road to someone I trust. Someone I want. Someone who looks at me like I'm worth staying for.
"Should we wait for them?" Mason asked, nodding toward the hallway where we could hear the distant sound of the shower running.
"No," I decided. "Let's eat. They can fend for themselves when they're done."
He grinned—quick and genuine and absolutely devastating—and started loading up two plates. I grabbed the coffee mugs and poured for both of us, and we settled at the small kitchen table tucked into the corner of the room.
The frittata was perfect. Of course it was. Light and fluffy and packed with flavor, every bite perfectly seasoned. I made a small sound of appreciation, and Mason ducked his head like he was pleased but embarrassed.
"You're really good at this," I told him around a mouthful of eggs and vegetables.
"I've had a lot of practice," he said quietly.
We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and I found myself relaxing in a way I didn't think I'd be able to after everything that happened yesterday. There was something soothing about this—sitting here with Mason, eating food he made, letting the quiet domesticity of the moment wash over me.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Mason asked eventually, his voice careful. "About what happened yesterday?"
I set down my fork and considered the question. Do I want to talk about it? Do I want to relive the terror and the helplessness and the sick, familiar dread of being under my father's control again?
No. Not really.
But I also know that if I don't say something—if I don't at least try to explain—then Ethan and Alex and Mason are going to keep walking on eggshells around me. Keep looking at me like I'm fragile. Keep hovering like I'm going to break.
"Yeah," I said finally. "Yeah, I think I need to. When they're done showering. I should—I should probably tell all of you at once."
Mason nodded, his expression serious. "Okay. Whenever you're ready."
I reached across the table and took his hand again, just needing the contact. He let me, his thumb stroking gently over my knuckles in a soothing rhythm that made my eyes prick with sudden, stupid tears.
God, when did I become this person? This soft, emotional mess who cries at the slightest kindness?
"I'm glad you're here," I said again, because I can't seem to stop saying it. Because it's true and I need him to know it.
"Me too," Mason whispered.
We finished breakfast just as Ethan and Alex emerged from the hallway, both freshly showered and looking marginally more human. Ethan's hair was still damp and sticking up in odd directions, and Alex had that crisp, put-together look he always manages even first thing in the morning.
"Is there food left?" Ethan asked hopefully.
Mason gestured to the counter. "Help yourselves."
They loaded up plates and joined us at the table, which suddenly felt very crowded with four people squeezed around it. Our knees bumped under the table. Elbows jostled for space. It should be awkward, but somehow it's not. Somehow it just feels—right.
They ate in relative silence while we kept them company, the only sounds the clink of forks against plates and the occasional murmur of appreciation for Mason's cooking. But I could feel the weight of unspoken words pressing down on us, the questions they're all too careful to ask.
Finally, I took a breath.
"I need to tell you what happened," I said. "All of it."
And I mean all of it. Not just what my father did yesterday in that parking lot, but everything. Everything since I was eighteen—maybe even before that. The parts of myself I've kept carefully hidden, locked away where no one can see. The cold, calculating side that orchestrated a man's death. The ruthless streak that manipulated and lied and did whatever it took to survive. The darkness that lives in me, the capacity for cruelty that I've inherited from my father whether I want to admit it or not.
If they're going to help me—if they're going to stand by me through whatever comes next—they deserve to know exactly who they're protecting. Not the sanitized version. Not the girl who had no choice. But the truth: that some part of me enjoyed watching my father's world collapse. That I felt satisfaction, not guilt, when Marvin died. That I'm capable of things that would make them see me differently.
Maybe see me the way I see myself sometimes, in the dark hours of the night when I can't sleep.
Maybe finally understand that I'm not just a victim who needs saving. I'm something else entirely—something harder and sharper and far more dangerous than they realize.
And if that makes them leave, then at least I'll know now. Before I let myself need them any more than I already do.