7. Mason
7
MASON
S helby Monroe lives in a small craftsman on a quiet street where houses sit with wide gaps between them, offering just enough distance for people who want privacy but not total isolation.
I park across the road and sit for a moment, taking in the details. The dark green SUV in the driveway—an older model, the kind that’s been through shit but still runs. The flower beds lining the front yard, too neat, too carefully maintained. A house meant to look welcoming, but I can feel the tension even from here. It’s the kind of place that’s always half-prepared for an escape.
I reach into the glovebox and grab my gun, tucking it into the back of my waistband before stepping out of the car. I may be doing Clay Monroe a favor, but there’s no telling what I’ll find behind that door.
The street is quiet, the kind of road that only sees traffic from people who live here or those passing through to their final destination. The weight of silence presses down as I make my way to the front porch, my boots heavy against the wooden steps.
I knock once.
Nothing.
I’m sure I hear movement inside—the subtle shifting of weight, the pause of breath. Someone’s in there.
I knock again. Harder.
Still nothing.
I exhale sharply, glancing at the window where the curtain flutters ever so slightly. Whoever’s in there is watching me. And I don’t have time for this shit. I want to get home, shower, scrub the last few days off my skin.
Then I need to see my daughter.
The one who doesn’t know I’m her father.
The secrets I’ve been keeping are about to unravel. She’s going to hate me soon.
I slap my palm lightly against the doorframe, making my presence impossible to ignore.
“Shelby Monroe, my name is Mason Ironside. I have a message from your brother, Clay.”
Nothing.
The hesitation is palpable, thickening the air between us. But I know someone’s listening.
So I play my last card.
“Kewpie.”
There’s a steep silence from the other side of the door. Then shuffling. The sound of a lock sliding back.
The door cracks open just enough for me to see one green eye framed by dark lashes, suspicion written in it.
“Where’s my brother?” she whispers, her gaze flicking past me, scanning the street like she’s expecting someone—or something—to emerge from the shadows.
She seems just as jumpy as Clay.
“He’s fine,” I say evenly. “Can I come in?”
She hesitates. I can see the war in her mind, the instincts screaming at her not to trust me.
“I don’t know you,” she says finally.
I smirk. “I don’t know you either. For all I know, the second I step inside, you’ll jump my bones.”
She lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Ha! Fat chance.”
And then, without warning, she flings the door open and grabs my wrist, yanking me inside before slamming it shut behind me, her back pressed against the door like she’s keeping the world out.
That tells me everything I need to know.
She’s more afraid of what’s outside than what’s in here with her.
“How do you know Clay?” she demands, crossing her arms as she steps further into the house. She gestures for me to follow, her fear fading with every second that passes. “He doesn’t usually send friends.”
I follow her deeper into the house, trying to keep my focus on anything but the sway of her hips beneath that knee-length dress. But my gaze betrays me, locking onto the way the fabric clings to her, the way every step teases a hint of the curves underneath.
Damn testosterone. I wasn’t locked up that long. My dick doesn’t get the memo my brain is sending it as I continue to stare at her from behind.
The dress itself is modest, sleeves skimming past her shoulders, the soft fabric accentuating the golden tone of her skin. She moves with quiet confidence, but there’s something restless about her, something that makes it seem like she’s always prepared to bolt.
Shelby Monroe is not what I expected.
Her hair is the color of autumn, somewhere between brown and red, catching the light in deep amber waves. Her jaw is sharp, slicing clean across a face that is striking in its severity—until you get to her eyes. Green, brilliant, alive. If the rest of her wasn’t enough to make a man stop in his tracks, those eyes would be.
If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say she can’t be a day over thirty. She’s not skinny like the women who chase trends, starving themselves for the illusion of beauty. And she’s not heavyset in the way people like to categorize. She’s ample . The kind of full, soft strength that speaks of something real, something tangible. Something a man could get lost in.
Too bad I’m not here for that.
She moves toward the kitchen, lifting the kettle off the stove with a fluid, practiced motion. “Tea?”
I shrug. “Sure.”
I probably won’t drink it, but refusing would prolong the conversation. Best to let her talk, ease her into what I came here to say.
“Clay sent me to give you a message.”
She quirks an eyebrow, sliding into a chair at the small round dining table and motioning for me to do the same. “That doesn’t answer my question.”
I drop into the chair, letting my body settle in a way that says I won’t be staying long.
“Clay’s fine,” I say first, letting her absorb that before I continue. “But he’s in jail. Has been for the past week.”
She stills.
Then, “Jail?”
She says it like it’s a foreign concept, like she doesn’t quite recognize the word. Like it’s something she never expected to hear. And I get the distinct feeling that this conversation is about to take a turn.
I can only imagine that on any given day, Shelby Monroe would light up a room. She has that kind of presence—effortless, undeniable. But right now, she looks like a woman balancing on the edge of something uncertain, something dangerous. When she steps into uncharted waters, she doesn’t glide—she sinks, and it takes effort to claw her way back up.
I watch her closely as she stands stiffly, then as she pours the tea, her hand trembling just enough for me to notice. The liquid sloshes slightly before she slides the cup toward me. Then she drops into the chair across from me, wrapping her hands around her own cup like it’s the only thing keeping her steady.
“He asked me to give you a message.”
Her fingers tighten around the porcelain, but she says nothing, just watches me with those sharp green eyes that burn like wildfire in the dim lighting.
I take a beat too long to continue, my gaze drifting around the room, absorbing details, stealing quick glances at her. Damn. She’s stunning in a way that sneaks up on you, gets under your skin before you realize what’s happening.
“And that is…” she prompts, her voice quieter now.
I lean forward slightly, my voice low and even. “He wants you to know that David knows where you are. And to be careful.”
Her inhale is sharp, controlled—but it’s the exhale that gives her away. Long, measured, like she’s been expecting this. Like she already knew.
When her eyes open again, they’re different. Fire. Blazing, unshaken. No fear. Just a slow-burning acceptance, the kind of reaction that tells me she’s been waiting for something like this for a long time.
But she doesn’t ask about the message. Doesn’t panic.
Instead, she surprises me.
“Why is my brother in jail?”
Her voice is calm—too calm—and I feel the tension roll up my spine.
“From what I hear, the charge is murder.”
I expect a reaction—shock, disbelief, even anger. But there’s nothing. Just a slight downward shift of her mouth. A flicker of something in her expression that I can’t quite read.
“You don’t seem surprised.”
She doesn’t look at me right away, just stares at the tea she’s barely touched, then finally lifts the cup to her lips. Her lips are something else—full, soft, that perfect bowtie shape that makes a man’s mind wander.
“That’s because I’m not.”
“Oh?”
She ignores my curiosity and ploughs on, distracted.
“I’ll need to get him a lawyer,” she murmurs, pushing her chair back to stand.
And for some unknown reason, before I can stop myself, my hand shoots out, landing lightly on top of hers before she can move away.
Her reaction is instant. Her head snaps toward me like she’s been hit with whiplash, her eyes wide and questioning. I pull my hand back just as fast, my pulse ticking in my jaw.
“I already did,” I say quickly, watching her carefully.
“Did what?”
“My lawyer will be out to see him tomorrow.”
Her brows furrow. “Why?”
Her suspicion is written all over her face now. She doesn’t trust me. And she shouldn’t. She doesn’t know me from Harry next door, so what would compel her to trust me?
“Why would you do that?” she presses. “You never did tell me—how do you know Clay?”
I exhale, leaning back slightly, knowing she’s waiting for the truth.
“I met him in prison,” I admit, watching as the pieces start clicking into place for her.
A week. That’s how long I’ve known Clay, and yet I’m helping him. People don’t do things for free, and Shelby’s smart enough to see it. Her thoughts must be racing, trying to untangle the real reason behind my involvement.
So before she can ask the wrong questions, I redirect.
“Why aren’t you surprised that Clay is in jail?”
Her fingers tighten around her cup again. A slight tremor runs through her, but she hides it well.
She shakes her head, glancing down at her tea, then finally takes another sip.
“Because we’re used to the law not being on our side.”
I wait for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t. Just sits there, staring down at the cup between her hands like the answer is floating somewhere in the steam.
“Mind explaining that?” I prompt, watching her closely.
She sighs, slow and measured, before setting the cup down with a soft clink against the table. “Clay’s always been… different.”
I tilt my head, waiting. “Different how?”
She chews the inside of her cheek, considering. “He’s brilliant. Too smart for his own good. Always had this way of seeing things the rest of us don’t.” Her lips press together briefly before she continues. “But he’s also reckless. He doesn’t know when to walk away.”
I don’t miss the sadness laced in her voice.
“Reckless enough to get himself charged with murder?” I ask, testing the waters.
She exhales sharply, running a hand through that autumn-colored hair, her frustration bleeding through. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
I lean forward, bracing my elbows against the table. “You don’t think he did it.”
It’s not a question.
Her eyes flash as they meet mine. “No. I don’t.”
“Then who do you think did?”
Her fingers drum against the table, a nervous tick. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
I smirk. “Try me.”
She studies me for a long moment, weighing her options. Deciding whether or not to let me in.
And then, finally, she speaks.
“I think Clay was framed. And I think it has something to do with David.”
The air in the room shifts. Heavy. The ex-husband.
I settle back in my chair, nodding slowly.
Now we’re getting somewhere.