Eighteen

Pov

Tessa

I feel like I've been tied to the back of a truck and dragged for fifty miles over logs and rocks. I have no idea what time it is, or even what day it is, actually. How long have I been asleep? I lie completely still on the bed they must have put me in after I passed out from exhaustion. I realize I'm alone, and it makes me wonder if maybe they've had their fill and are ready to move on now. I don't think there's a single square inch of my body that hasn't been touched by a Slade. I feel conflicted, as always, because I immensely enjoyed last night, but I'm pissed off that they think fucking me into submission would somehow turn my brain into mush and make me choose one of them. Do they really want to be with me, or is this just some kind of competition to settle their rivalry?

"I hope your dicks fall off," I groan the words as I push myself out of bed and swing my legs to the side. I have no idea where my clothes are or if they're even wearable at this point, so when I get up, I head to the closet and grimace when I see nothing but flannel shirts. I can't be picky because I really need to pee. I grab the softest one, throw it on, and button it up without much care, then leave the room and walk down the hallway in search of a bathroom. It's colder in the hunting cabin than in our houses, and I wonder if they have a fire going. It doesn't matter because I'm really leaving this time. They hate each other far more than they could ever love me. After washing my hands, I splash water on my face and give myself a 'you dumb bitch' smile in the mirror. The Ravens don't love; they possess things. Toys. That's all we'll ever be to them. Even Remington, who treats Mia better than Gray will ever treat Emerson or the Slade brothers will treat me, doesn't love her. He's obsessed with her. I can see it in his eyes when he looks at her.

I swing the bathroom door open, fully prepared to storm into the cabin and raise hell until someone returns my clothes and takes me back down this damn mountain. Maybe I'm more Bishop than I ever thought I was. As usual, Mason has his own plans because I slam right into his hard chest. I put my hands up to push him away, but he's ripping the shirt I'm wearing off in one swift tug. Buttons fly, and all I can do is grab it, trying to cover myself as if I still have something to be modest about.

"What the hell is your problem?" I shout at him and don't back down because I've learned from him and his brother that showing any sign of weakness only makes the attack harder. I have nothing left to give him, and I see the way his eyes flicker to the bruises that are starting to form on my skin. I can't read him right, but I'd drop dead if anyone could prove to me that he feels any kind of remorse for his part in putting them there.

"Take it off," Mason finally says, reaching out and placing one of his large arms on top of the doorframe, signaling that I'll need to go through him if I want to leave this bathroom.

I stare at him, not missing the slight difficulty in his breathing. The bastard likes it when I'm angry with him, and I bet my anger gets his dick hard. "I'm not walking out naked so you and Bennett can admire your prize. I'm leaving today," I lean in and jab a finger firmly at his chest. "I'm giving you two a choice today. You can either kill me or let me go. I'm leaving one way or another."

He furrows his brow, and it feels like his piercing eyes could burn a hole through my skin. "You're not going anywhere, and you're not walking around with your ass hanging out of my brother's damn shirt," he growls, yanking off his black t-shirt and shoving it at me roughly, making me take a step back.

"I'm not..." I don't want to give him the satisfaction of following any of his orders, but he cuts me off, lifting me up in his arms and placing me on the granite countertop. He spreads my thighs to draw closer to me. The roughness of his jeans bites into my sensitive skin, and I brace myself for what's to come. I can tell by the way he slips the shirt over my shoulders and slides my arms through the holes that he's forcing himself to be gentle with me now. I didn't know Mason Slade knew how to be gentle for any reason, and I hate myself for the way the rough tips of his fingers are gliding over my skin, and for feeling a flutter in my stomach like a stupid girl with a crush instead of a woman who knows he's no good for me. He doesn't move to pull away from me, but instead, he grabs my chin with the same restraint he used to cover me with his shirt and leans in to press his lips against mine.

I want to push him away, smack his chest, and say it's too late. I've made my choice, and I don't want either of them, but nothing comes out of my mouth. I melt into the kiss, and he lifts my arms to snake around his neck.

"Touch me," he speaks in a husky voice, and it sounds more like a plea than his usual demanding tone. That's all I need to melt into him, letting my fingers weave into the hair at the nape of his neck. His tongue snakes between my lips and glides against mine, and his hands slide up my thighs so smoothly before sliding his shirt up so he can grab my hips, eliciting a needy moan from my mouth.