Finally, I understand the dynamics of this firm, only too late. This is all a power struggle for the partners. Each one taking turns trying to conquer the other. Chase’s warning, his promise to protect me…did he know Mason was capable of this? Does he realize how malicious one of his partners is?
No. He can’t. Chase plays the game, too, but he’s not capable of the vileness Mason harbors. Mason isn’t playing on the same level—he’s deranged.
I love Chase. I believe he loves me. That’s all I need to trust in. I’ve never belonged to anyone the way I belong to him. I’m known by Chase in a way I’ve never felt before. He has protected me. Had I never given myself to him, I wouldn’t have discovered just what I’m capable of.
In the seconds it takes the elevator doors to open, the brief moment where time suspends, where my eyes connect with Chase’s and Mason extends the gun, fate no longer controls my life. I control fate.
I’m only granted a second, but time—for once—obeys me, and I lunge to the right.
My eardrums explode. The blast ricochets around the small enclosure of the elevator, a dizzying effect that rocks my equilibrium. All noise fades away, just the thud of my heartbeat filling my ears.
My name breaks through the muted current of sounds before the floor hits me.
When the world rights itself, my sight scrambles to latch on to an object—any object—and my gaze catches Chase. He’s a blur of movements at first, then he comes into focus along with a pitch of sound that brings everything around me racing back as time speeds up.
Chase has Mason’s arm pinned against the wall of the elevator, the gun held within Mason’s grip. With his free hand, Chase is pummeling Mason’s face. Red mists the air as Chase connects his fist with Mason’s face over and over.
As I try to sit forward, a sharp pain sears my shoulder. I cry out, struggling against the restraint of the belt. “Chase!”
His attention is momentarily directed toward me, his clenched hand held aloft mid-swing.
“Don’t kill him,” I manage to get out. “Don’t—”
Chase bangs Mason’s arm against the wall, loosening Mason’s grip on the gun and it falls to the floor. Then Chase has Mason by the collar and slams him into the metal wall. “I should kill you,” he grates through clenched teeth. “But you’re already a dead man.”
He delivers a final blow to Mason’s face before he leans over
to pick up the gun. Then he’s kneeling beside me and unbinding the belt. “Don’t move,” he says, the tremble in his voice evident.
“I’m not hurt,” I say, the pain in my shoulder going numb. “I need to get up.”
“Alexis—” his solemn gaze finds mine “—you’re shot. Stay still. I got you.” He digs out his phone with one last glance toward a bloody Mason, then brings his phone to his ear. “Wexler, listen, there’s a situation at the firm—” A beat. “No, the law firm. Lark and Gannet. I need officers here to arrest one of my partners, Caleb Mason. And I need an ambulance.”
He doesn’t stay on the line; he ends the call and is cradling me in his arms, careful of my shoulder. “I should’ve killed him,” he says. “Why did you do that?”
My eyes flick up to his face. “Because I could.”
Despite the seriousness of our situation, he eases a tight smile out. “You’re beautiful when you’re defiant.” He kisses my forehead, my cheeks, my lips. Then as he glances around, he curses. “We’re not waiting. I’m taking you to the hospital myself.”
“No—wait.” I grasp his arm, pulling myself up against his chest. “We can’t leave him here—”
The doors of the lobby open, and then heavy footsteps fill the ground floor as three men dressed in black approach the scene.
“Mister Larkin,” one of them says with a curt nod. “Our employer wishes to thank you for alerting them of the situation first.” He eyes Mason, then returns his sharp gaze to Chase. “It will be taken care of.”
“Who are you?” Chase demands.
The man—nearly as tall as Chase, broad shoulders squared, with no hint of fear in his dark eyes—smiles. “It will be taken care of, sir.”
Chase’s arms wrap around me, securing me to his chest as the man takes a close look at my shoulder. “It’s a flesh wound, but you’ll want to get it treated.”
Chase exhales the tension from his chest. Evidently, as relieved as I am. A flesh wound—I’ll live. I look up at Chase. “I’m fine. I don’t need—”
“You do,” he cuts me off. “Let me take care of you.”
I give up the battle easily, acknowledging that all I want is for Chase to do just that.
“We have a medic here,” the man says, nodding to a woman entering the lobby. “It’s best if this doesn’t get reported.”