Chapter 8 - The War for Elliott Bay
For four days, Maya lived inside the glass fortress on the lake.
It wasn't a prison. Mason gave her complete freedom of the house, access to his vast library, and every luxury imaginable. But every evening, when Mason returned home in his dark suits, the heavy scent of rain, gunpowder, and cold steel followed him through the front doors.
He was waging a quiet, ruthless war across Seattle.
From her balcony on the third floor, Maya watched as black sedans arrived at all hours of the night. Men in suits bowed their heads to Mason in his private study, handing him encrypted folders and maps of the docks.
On the fifth night, Mason returned home later than usual. It was nearly midnight.
Maya was sitting by the roaring stone fireplace in the living room, wrapped in her cashmere blanket, reading a book.
When Mason walked into the room, he looked exhausted. His dark hair was slightly messy, his tie loosened at his neck, his jacket thrown over his arm.
He froze when he saw her still awake.
“You shouldn't be up, Maya,” he said softly, walking over to the fire.
“I couldn't sleep,” she replied, watching as he poured himself two fingers of scotch from a crystal carafe. She noticed a thin, red tear in the fabric of his white dress shirt along his left forearm.
Maya stood up, dropping her blanket. “You’re hurt.”
“It is nothing,” Mason said, stepping back.
“Stop moving,” Maya commanded, taking the scotch glass from his hand and setting it on the table. She gently took his arm, turning it into the firelight.
A shallow knife graze cut through his white shirt, dried blood crusting the edges of the fabric.
Maya pulled a white linen napkin from the bar tray, dipped it in clean ice water, and gently pressed it against the wound.
Mason went completely rigid, a sharp intake of breath escaping his teeth—not from pain, but from the electric touch of her soft fingers against his skin.
“You don't have to fight them for me, Mason,” Maya whispered, her eyes burning with unshed tears as she carefully wiped the dried blood away. “I’m just a girl from Capitol Hill.”
Mason reached out with his free hand, gripping her waist, pulling her flush against his body until there was no space left between them. The scotch glass shattered silently against the thick rug as he looked down into her eyes.
“You are not 'just a girl', Maya Bennett,” Mason rasped, his voice rough with emotion. “You are the reason I come back to this house every night.”
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Maya looked up at his handsome, battle-worn face, her heart swelling with an emotion so fierce, so sweet, it terrified her far more than Viktor’s men ever could. She leaned up on her tiptoes, wrapped her arms around his neck, and pressed her lips against his.
Mason let out a dark, low groan, his arms tightening around her waist like bands of iron, lifting her off her feet as he kissed her back with a fierce, desperate passion that consumed them both in the firelight.
