Page 45 of Break Me Apart
He’s got another bruise blooming under one eye that wasn’t there yesterday. His mouth is split again, not as bad as the showers a few weeks ago, but it’s fresh enough to look like it stings when he smiles.
He sees my expression, and his shoulders lift like he’s bracing for impact. “Can we not do this right now?” he asks, pre-empting whatever I was about to say.
“Move,” I answer. I don’t raise my voice, but it comes out harsh. “Before I kick the door in and make it everyone’s problem.”
He snorts because he knows I’ll do it, then steps back and lets me in. He shuts the door behind me and leans against it with his arms folded, like he’s trying to look casual.
But it doesn’t work.
“Sit down,” I say.
“Why?” he fires back immediately.
“Because you look like you’ve been hit by a bus.”
He rolls his eyes — pure Mason, pure stubborn — then pushes off the door and drops onto the edge of the bed. He’s quick about hiding the wince, but I see it anyway. It takes all of my self-control not to do something stupid. Like, put my fist through his wall, or go looking for names. “How long has this been going on?” I ask, pointing at his face.
He stares at me for a second, then looks past my shoulder like the answer might be written on the flaking paint. “Drop it,” he says.
“Connor—”
“I said drop it.”
“And I’m saying no.”
“Why? What’s the point? You can’t do anything about it,” he says, glancing at the door.
“Watch me.”
His eyes snap back to mine, and there’s something hard there that looks suspiciously like a warning. “Caiden,” he says, slower, “If you start swinging your dick around, if you start asking questions, you know who it lands on.”
“On Harris? It's him, isn't it?” I say, because I’ve been thinking it since the showers, and it’s been rotting in my brain ever since.
Mason goes still, and that’s my answer. I take a breath through my nose and taste rage like metal. “Say it,” I press.
He exhales. “Fine, it’s him,” he admits finally, and his voice goes flat the way it does when he’s trying not tocrack. “It started as a joke. You know what he’s like. Always got an audience and something clever to say.”
I can hear it without him even having to paint it. Harris, with his shit eating grin and his easy charm, making it sound harmless, like banter even. Making sure everyone laughs so no one has to ask whether they agree with whatever crap he’s spouting.
Mason keeps going, staring at his hands like he can keep it contained if he doesn’t look at me. “First time I told him to pack it in, it was... quiet. Then in the corridor, a shoulder into the wall, just enough to make a point.”
I feel my hands curl. “And then?”
Mason’s eyes lift sharply. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That…” He gestures at me. “That interrogator thing. You’re not my CO.”
“No,” I say. “I’m your mate.”
He gives me a look like he wants to laugh and punch me at the same time. “It’s been… a couple months,” he says, and the way he says it tells me it’s longer. “Not every day. Not always obvious. Sometimes it’s just… pressure. You know. Cornering me in the gym. Little comments. ‘Careful where you look, Mason.’ That sort of thing. And then sometimes it’s fists, because he’s got lads who’ll stand nearby and pretend they didn’t see.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He blinks, incredulous. “Because what, you’ll ride in like some bloody hero and fix it?”
“I might,” I say.
