Chapter 9
MASON
Iwatch her process that statement—the way her pupils dilate slightly, the flush that creeps up her neck. She's trying to decide if I'm flirting or threatening.
The truth? Probably both. But threatening? Never her.
“Things,” she repeats, her voice careful. “Not people?”
“People are things I pay attention to.” I take a slow sip of bourbon, keeping my eyes on her over the rim of the glass. “Specific people.”
She shifts on her stool, crossing her legs. The movement is small and controlled, but I catch it—a tell that she feels the attraction between us too.
Thank fuck I’m not alone in this.
“What about you?” I set my glass down. “What brought you to Iron Ridge? Jake says you didn’t grow up here.”
The question is casual. The way I ask it isn't. I'm watching for the micro-expressions that reveal what she's not saying. She's good at hiding them, but not perfect.
“It’s as good a place as any.” She shrugs, her gaze lowering to the bottle in her hand. “The clinic here needed someone. I needed a change of scenery.”
I nod, knowing she’s not telling the whole truth. “Did you always want to be a vet?”
“I wanted to be a doctor.” She looks up at me with surprise, like she didn’t expect herself to admit that. She lifts her shoulder, trying to smile to cover it up. “In the end, I decided to go into veterinary medicine instead.”
I get it. It’s why I’ve always loved horses. “Animals don’t lie.”
Her mouth drops open, like I’ve shocked her. “They don’t take anything from you either,” she says finally.
“Neither will I,” I promise, meeting her eyes.
She huffs a laugh. Shaking her head, she looks out into the bar.
“You don’t believe me.” I’m not surprised. Men make wars, and women are the victims. I’ve seen it all over the world.
“I don’t know you,” she murmurs without looking at me.
But she will.
And I’ll know her. All of her—what she looks like in the morning when she wakes up, how she takes her coffee, what she likes to eat.
I want to know what she tastes like, and how she sounds when she stops fighting and lets herself fall.
I want to see her scars, the visible and invisible.
I want to own her vulnerability the way I own every tactical decision—completely, without hesitation, without the mercy of doubt. And I want her to choose it.
Every.
Single.
Time.
Because I can’t stop myself, I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear—a touch so brief it's almost not there. But it's enough to make her freeze, her eyes wide and bright on me.
If I ever find the fucker who hurt her, I’m going to make him regret the day he was born. I control my expression. The last thing she needs to see is that side of me—not before she knows me enough to know I’d never do anything but cherish her.
I see the moment she decides I’m not a threat, her muscles thawing a little. Just that little bit feels like a victory, and I’ll take it. For now.
Her cheeks flush deeper. She opens her mouth to respond, and I have the urge to kiss her.
I don’t kiss women. Hell—I don’t fuck women that often either. It’s more trouble than it’s worth.
Lily wouldn’t be any trouble. It’d be all pleasure. And once she lets me put my mouth on hers, I’m not letting her walk away.
Ever.
Lily’s attention shifts, her eyes moving past me. I feel a flare of jealousy before I see the softness drain from her expression and replaced by something withdrawn but focused.
I don't turn around. Instead, I study her face, reading the change like a map. Someone just walked in. Someone she recognizes.
Someone she's scared of.