Chapter 19
NINETEEN
JUDAH
I follow Mason through the house without giving myself time to think.
His shoulders are rigid, his stride purposeful despite having no idea where he’s going in this labyrinth of hallways. Left at the family portraits. Right past the linen closet. Through the door that leads to the back staircase.
He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t look back.
“Mace.”
The old nickname slips out before I can stop it, soft and careful, testing the waters. He flinches like I’ve struck him, his feet finally stopping at the landing between floors.
“Don’t call me that,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. Still not looking at me.
“What should I call you, then?”
“Nothing. You shouldn’t call me anything.” He grips the banister, knuckles going white. “I came here because Phoenix needed a place to stay during her heat. That’s it. That’s the only reason.”
I step closer, close enough to catch his scent beneath the expensive cologne—chamomile and black pepper, exactly like I remember but somehow different. More refined. Like he’s taken what was naturally him and polished it until all the rough edges disappeared.
“You came to my house,” I point out.
His jaw clenches. “She came. I just followed.”
“You could have stopped her.”
“You don’t stop Phoenix from doing anything she’s already decided to do.
” Finally, he turns. Those storm-gray eyes meet mine, and the impact nearly drops me to my knees.
Ten years. It’s been ten years since I’ve been this close to him, and nothing—nothing—has changed about the way my entire body responds to his proximity. “Trust me, I tried.”
Atticus appears at the top of the stairs, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. “Everything okay down here?”
Mason and I both turn to look at him, and I’m struck by how young he seems despite being in his late twenties. There’s something unfinished about him, like he’s still figuring out who he wants to be when he grows up.
Dominic materializes from the opposite direction, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. His dark eyes flick between the four of us, reading the tension with the ease of someone who’s spent his whole life cataloging danger.
“Well,” he drawls, “this isn’t awkward at all.”
“Definitely feeling like a bit of a third wheel here,” Atticus adds with an awkward laugh.
Dominic raises an eyebrow. “You like motorcycles, Hollywood?”
Atticus seems to pick up on what Dom is putting down immediately. “Right now, I definitely do.”
Dom nods. “Perfect. I’ve got a ’72 Triumph in the garage that’ll make you weep. Come check it out.”
They disappear down the hallway, Dominic’s voice fading as he launches into what’s probably going to be a twenty-minute monologue about carburetors. The silence they leave behind is deafening.
Mason turns away again, resuming his escape down the stairs.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“To make sure you have whatever Phoenix will need. She seems to be under the impression that you have an omega mate here.”
“Mason—”
“Stop.” He whirls around so fast I nearly crash into him. We’re separated by three steps, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in his eyes, the tiny scar on his chin from when he fell off his bike at fourteen. “Just… stop. Please.”
The please breaks something in my chest.
Mason stalks past me and wrenches open the hall closet door with more force than necessary. Glass bottles rattle on the top shelf. He stands there for a beat, shoulders heaving, before speaking without looking at me.
“You don’t keep blankets in here any more.”
I clear my throat, trying to remember how to form words around the lump lodged there. “Mabie moved them to the upstairs linen closet a few months back. We don’t get overnight visitors like we used to.”
Mason scoffs, the sound bitter and sharp. “I’m surprised this closet isn’t full of Dom’s endless collection of leather jackets.”
“Dom doesn’t live here anymore. Has an apartment over the bar.” I lean against the opposite wall, keeping the narrow hallway between us like it’s a demilitarized zone. “His old room will probably always be the way he left it, though. I’m not big on change.”
Mason huffs something under his breath that sounds like “typical,” though it’s hard to say for sure.
I follow Mason into the kitchen as he gathers supplies, watching his precise movements with growing frustration.
The room is silent except for the soft clink of glass jars being pulled from the pantry. Mason moves through my kitchen with the efficiency of someone cataloging an inventory—checking labels, setting aside items in neat rows on the counter. He hasn’t looked at me once since we came downstairs.
“Dried fruit?” I suggest, reaching for a container on the top shelf.
“Phoenix doesn’t like the way dried fruit sticks in her teeth,” Mason snaps, not looking up from the jar of honey he’s examining.
I set the container down slowly. “Right. Of course.”
More silence. More methodical gathering of supplies. Mason pulls down crackers, arranges bottles of water, finds the good chocolates Mabie keeps hidden behind the flour.
“You seem to do a lot more for Phoenix than I would expect of an assistant,” I say carefully.
His hands still on a package of almonds. “Phoenix pays me to do whatever she needs me to do.”
“But it’s more than that, isn’t it.”
The words hang between us. Not quite a question. An observation that demands acknowledgment.
Mason’s fingers tighten on the almonds hard enough that the package crinkles. For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Then his shoulders drop half an inch and something that might be resignation crosses his face.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No.” He sets the almonds down with exaggerated care, still not looking at me. “It doesn’t matter how I feel about Phoenix. It doesn’t matter that I—“ He stops. Swallows hard. “It doesn’t matter because she sees me as her assistant. Her friend, maybe. But that’s all.”
The pain in his voice is a physical thing, sharp enough to cut.
“Is that why you left?” The question escapes before I can stop it. “Because someone like Phoenix is what you actually wanted?”
Mason’s head snaps up, eyes blazing. “I’m not doing this.”
He turns to leave, but I can’t let him walk away. Not again. Not after ten years of silence and unanswered questions.
I move into his space before rational thought can stop me—close enough to feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough that the scent of chamomile and black pepper wraps around me like a physical thing.
Mason goes very still. His pupils dilate and I catch the flash of alarm in his eyes before his expression shutters.
“If you can look me in the eye,” I say, voice dropping to something barely above a whisper, “and honestly say there is nothing left between us, then I’ll stay on the other side of the house for the duration of your stay.”
His breath catches. I’m close enough to see his pulse hammering in his throat, close enough to watch his scent shift—the sharp spike of arousal cutting through the carefully maintained neutrality.
We stare at each other. His lip trembles. His pupils blow wider.
Say it, I think desperately. Tell me there’s nothing. Tell me you feel nothing. Make me let this go.
“Mason?” Phoenix’s voice carries down from upstairs, slightly breathless. “Mason, are you down there?”
The spell breaks.
Mason shoves past me without a word, his shoulder catching mine hard enough to make me stumble back a step. His footsteps echo up the back stairs, rapid and uneven, and then he’s gone.
I stand alone in the kitchen, surrounded by the supplies he gathered for someone else, and try to remember how to breathe.