Chapter 6 #2
"The isolation happened so gradually I barely noticed," I continue. "First it was innocent comments about my friends. 'Don't you think she's using you?' 'He seems to have a crush on you.' Then suddenly, I had no one left except him."
My hands tremble as memories surface. Mason covers them with his own, anchoring me to the present.
"The first time he hit me, I was so shocked I couldn't even cry. It was over something trivial, I was ten minutes late coming home from work. He apologized immediately, crying, promising it would never happen again. And I believed him because I wanted to."
"It's not your fault," Mason says softly. "Abusers are experts at manipulation."
"I know that now." I meet his eyes, needing him to understand the next part. "But it's what happened after that really scares me. When I finally tried to leave, after the broken wrist, he... changed. Became eerily calm. Said if he couldn't have me, no one would."
Mason's hand tightens on mine.
"He has this network of people who owe him favors, cops, private investigators, former students who worship him.
He uses them to track down anyone who crosses him.
There was another teacher before me, Eliza.
She filed harassment charges against him and suddenly found herself under investigation for inappropriate conduct with a student.
She lost her job, her reputation. Had to move across the country. "
"That's why you're so afraid to go to the police," Mason realizes.
I nod. "His brother is a detective. His college roommate is the superintendent. And that's just in San Diego. For all I know, he has connections here too."
"Not in Whisper Vale," Mason says firmly. "Tom's been sheriff here for twenty years. He'd spot an outsider trying to exert influence a mile away."
"But—”
"Listen to me." Mason cups my face in his hands. "I'm not dismissing your concerns. What you're telling me is serious, and we'll take every precaution. But I need you to believe me when I say you're not alone in this fight anymore."
Tears well in my eyes. "I'm so tired of being afraid, Mason."
"I know, baby." He pulls me into his arms, and I go willingly, burying my face against his shoulder. "We'll figure this out, I promise."
As he holds me, stroking my hair, I allow myself to hope for the first time in months. Maybe, just maybe, with Mason by my side, I can stop running. Maybe I can start living again.
The rest of the day passes in tense vigilance. Mason makes calls, arranging for additional security measures, motion sensors, upgraded locks, a direct alarm to the sheriff's office. I bake obsessively, working through my anxiety with flour and sugar.
By evening, the cabin smells like cookies and fresh bread, and Mason has transformed it into a miniature fortress.
"You realize we have enough baked goods to feed the entire town," he comments, stealing a still-warm chocolate chip cookie from the cooling rack.
"Sorry. It's how I cope with stress." I brush flour from my cheek. "My grandmother always said idle hands make room for worry."
"Smart woman." Mason comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and resting his chin on my shoulder. "But maybe take a break? You've been on your feet all day."
I lean back against him, savoring the solid warmth of his chest. "What did Tom say when you called?"
"That he's increasing patrols past the cabin, and he's put out an APB on the Escalade." Mason's breath tickles my ear. "If your ex shows his face in Whisper Vale again, we'll know."
"And then what?"
"Then we deal with him. Legally." Mason turns me in his arms. "There are options, Destiny. Restraining orders, harassment charges. Tom knows people at the state level who can override local corruption."
I want to believe him. Want to believe there's a way out of this nightmare that doesn't involve constantly looking over my shoulder. But years of conditioning are hard to break.
"What if it's not enough?" I voice my deepest fear. "What if he hurts you to get to me?"
A muscle ticks in Mason's jaw. "He won't."
"You can't know that."
"Actually, I can." His voice drops, taking on a dangerous edge I haven't heard before. "Because if he tries to hurt either of us, he'll learn exactly why the Walsh family has survived for generations in these mountains."
The protective fierceness in his eyes should frighten me. Instead, it sends a shiver of something like desire down my spine. No one has ever been willing to fight for me this way.
"Now," Mason continues, his tone lightening, "how about we take some of these cookies over to Mrs. Peterson? She mentioned her grandkids are visiting for Christmas, and it'll give us an excuse to be seen around town again."
I understand his strategy, maintain our cover story, act normal, show Greg (if he's watching) that I'm integrated into community life here. It makes sense tactically, but there's a deeper reason I agree.
"I'd like that." I press a soft kiss to his lips. "I want people to know I'm with you. Not just as a cover story."
Mason's eyes widen slightly at my admission. "Are you sure?"
"I'm sure about you," I say simply. "Everything else we can figure out as we go."
His answering smile is like watching the sun break through clouds. He kisses me thoroughly, backing me against the counter with an intensity that leaves me breathless.
"We should probably deliver those cookies before I get distracted," he murmurs against my mouth, hands already slipping under my sweater.
I laugh, pushing him gently away. "Later. I promise."
We spend the evening making deliveries around town, cookies to Mrs. Peterson, bread to Darlene at the diner, pastries to Tom at the sheriff's office.
Everywhere we go, Mason keeps me close, his hand rarely leaving the small of my back.
The possessive gesture feels protective rather than controlling, and I lean into his touch.
Word of our engagement has spread like wildfire.
We're congratulated repeatedly, asked about wedding plans, teased about honeymoon destinations. Rather than feeling trapped by the charade, I’m actually enjoying the fantasy, imagining a future where these conversations aren't part of an elaborate deception.
By the time we return to the cabin, the tension that gripped me all day has eased somewhat. Mason builds a fire while I make hot chocolate, adding a splash of peppermint schnapps for good measure.
"To a successful mission," I toast, handing him a steaming mug.
"To us," he counters, clinking his mug against mine. "The real us, not the cover story."
We curl up on the couch, watching the flames dance in comfortable silence. Mason's fingers trace lazy patterns on my arm as I rest against his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat.
"Can I ask you something?" I venture after a while.
"Anything."
"What happened with Sarah? Really?"
His hand stills momentarily before resuming its path along my skin. "What makes you ask that?"
"You help people for a living. You're compassionate, attentive, clearly capable of emotional connection." I tilt my head to see his face. "So what happened that made you swear off relationships until your sister forced the issue?"
Mason is quiet for so long I think he might not answer. When he finally speaks, his voice carries the weight of old pain.
"I met Sarah right after grad school. We were both starting our careers, me in therapy, her in corporate law. It was intense from the beginning. The kind of relationship where you're planning a future after three months."
He takes a sip of his hot chocolate, gathering thoughts.
"Things were good for a while. Great, even. We moved in together, got engaged. Started planning the wedding." His jaw tightens. "Then I took a position at a trauma center in Reno. Started working with survivors of abuse, assault, human trafficking. Heavy stuff."
I remain quiet, giving him space to continue at his own pace.
"I tried not to bring it home with me. Tried to compartmentalize.
But that kind of work... it changes you.
You can't unsee the things you've seen, unhear the stories.
" His fingers resume their rhythmic tracing on my arm.
"Sarah said I became distant. Emotionally unavailable.
She felt like she was competing with my patients for my attention. "
"Was she right?" I ask softly.
"Partially." His honesty surprises me. "I didn't know how to balance it all. Didn't have the tools to separate work from home. But instead of working through it together, she issued an ultimatum, the job or her."
"That doesn't seem fair."
"It wasn't. But neither was expecting her to live with half a partner." His sigh ruffles my hair. "When I wouldn't quit, she left. No discussion, no attempt at compromise. Just a note saying she couldn't do 'this life' anymore."
The pain in his voice makes my heart ache. "I'm sorry, Mason."
"Don't be. It was a valuable lesson." His arms tighten around me. "It taught me that some people aren't equipped to handle the messy parts of life. That it's safer to keep work and personal separate."
"Is that what you're doing with me?" I tilt my head to meet his eyes. "Keeping me separate from the messy parts?"
His gaze holds mine, unwavering. "No. That's what's different about you, Destiny. You walked in already carrying your own mess. You're not afraid of the dark places."
"Because I've lived in them," I whisper.
"Exactly." He brushes a curl from my face. "You understand that healing isn't linear. That sometimes the people most qualified to help others are the ones who've been broken themselves."
A deeper understanding settles over us in that moment, a recognition of kindred spirits. Mason sees me, really sees me, in a way no one else ever has. Not as a victim to be pitied or a problem to be solved, but as a whole person, scars and all.
"Thank you for telling me," I say, reaching up to touch his face.
"Thank you for asking." He turns to press a kiss to my palm. "For caring about my history, not just my present."
Later, in bed, our lovemaking has a new dimension, slower, deeper, infused with the emotional intimacy we've built through shared confidences. Mason whispers praise against my skin, telling me I'm beautiful, brave, perfect. For the first time, I let myself believe him.
As we lie tangled together afterward, drowsy and satisfied, a thought occurs to me.
"Mason?"
"Hmm?" His voice is thick with approaching sleep.
"If this were real, our engagement, what kind of wedding would you want?"
He props himself up on one elbow, suddenly more awake. "Are you asking hypothetically?"
"Yes." I trace patterns on his chest. "Just curious."
He considers the question with endearing seriousness. "Something small. Intimate. Just close friends and family, outdoors if the weather permits. Maybe at the mountain overlook where we supposedly got engaged."
The image makes my heart squeeze. "That sounds perfect."
"What about you?" His finger traces the curve of my shoulder. "What would your dream wedding look like?"
"Similar to yours, actually. I've never wanted a big production." I smile up at him. "Though I'd definitely want a good cake. Priorities."
Mason laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Noted for future reference."
The casual implication, that there might actually be a future where this conversation is relevant, makes me smile.
I snuggle closer, allowing myself to imagine it: Mason waiting for me at the end of an aisle, vows exchanged against the backdrop of mountains, a lifetime of mornings like the one we shared today.
It's a dangerous fantasy. Too much, too soon. But as I drift toward sleep in Mason's arms, I can't bring myself to let it go.
For the first time since fleeing San Diego, I fall asleep thinking not about what I'm running from, but what I might be running toward.