“Thirty-one,” I whispered.
Mason froze. He went rigid as a statue. The cigarette fell from his fingers. He slowly turned his head, his eyes wide, bloodshot, filled with primal terror. He recognized me instantly.
“Hunter,” he stammered. “I… I didn’t…”
I grabbed his wrist. I didn’t squeeze hard—just enough to hit the pressure point. I twisted. He gasped, dropping to one knee.
“We need to talk about your sister,” I said softly. “And you’re going to tell me everything, or I’m going to start counting.”
I pulled him into the darkness of the alley. The hunt had officially begun.
I pushed him against the brick wall. “Please,” Mason whimpered. “Hunter, you don’t understand. I had to. He made me.”
“Who made you? Your father?”
“Yes! Victor. If I didn’t hold her legs, he would have done the same to me!”
I looked at him. He was twenty-two years old, wearing a watch that cost more than my truck. He had never worked a day in his life, never fought for anything. And he thought fear was an excuse for monstrosity.
