8. Shelby
8
SHELBY
I used to believe that monsters wore masks. That you could spot them lurking in the shadows, their eyes gleaming with wicked intent.
But I was wrong. Monsters don’t always hide in the dark.
Sometimes, they stand in the sunlight, smiling, slipping a ring onto your finger.
David was one of those monsters.
The kind who doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t throw fists. The kind who whispers venom into your ear while brushing the hair from your face. Who isolates you without ever telling you no. Who breaks you in ways you don’t even notice until there’s nothing left of the person you used to be.
Six years ago, I thought I married the perfect man.
Clay thought otherwise.
He was watching at my wedding, standing off to the side, his arms crossed, his jaw locked tight. I remember the way he pulled me aside before the wedding, his grip firm on my wrist, his voice low but sharp. “He’s not who you think he is, Shelby.”
I scoffed at him then. I told him he was being protective, dramatic. That he was looking for a reason to hate the man I loved.
Turns out, he didn’t have to look very hard.
For a while, everything was perfect. Or maybe I just convinced myself it was. David had a way of making me feel like I was the center of his world. Like I was lucky to have him. It was easy to believe, even when the compliments started coming with edges, even when his touch felt more like ownership than love.
It started small. I guess it always does.
A comment about my clothes. A suggestion that I should stop seeing certain friends. A disapproving glance when I laughed a little too loud, talked a little too much. Before I knew it, the walls were closing in, and I was losing pieces of myself.
And when I finally tried to leave?
He didn’t stop me. Not right away. He let me run, let me feel like I had escaped.
Then he came for me.
Every time, he found me. Every time, he smiled and told me he forgave me for overreacting. For making things bigger than they were. For not understanding what love really meant. And for a while, I believed him. Because when you hear the same words over and over, they start to sound like truth.
Until I couldn’t anymore.
The last time, I didn’t tell him I was leaving. I didn’t wait for his rage to subside or his promises to sound convincing. I packed a bag, left the divorce papers on the counter, and ran.
And Clay ran with me.
For the past two years, we’ve been running. New towns, new jobs, new names. Every time we think we’re safe, David reminds us that we’re not. He doesn’t come for me directly—no, that would be too easy. Too final. He wants me broken first.
He’ll stop at nothing to destroy me. Every calculated act, every twisted game, every carefully placed blow—each one is another crack in his carefully controlled facade. The harder he tries to pull me back, the more I see it—David’s mind unraveling, fraying at the edges, slipping into something darker, something desperate.
He had our power cut off in the dead of winter.
He got Clay fired from his job, feeding his boss the right lies to make him look like a liability.
Then the stalking started. I’d feel him before I saw him, a shadow just out of reach. Then the texts. Miss me? I always know where you are, Shelby.
But the car accident—that was the moment his madness bled into reality. The proof that his obsession had crossed the line from control to something far more dangerous.
Clay had been driving home late, uneasy about the way the car handled. He said it felt off, like something wasn’t right. Before he could pull over, he lost control. The brakes failed. The car spun, flipped. He crawled out of the wreckage, dazed, bleeding, lucky to be alive.
I knew.
David had done it.
Not to kill him. Just to warn him. To remind us both that no matter how far we ran, we would never be beyond his reach.
So no, I’m not surprised Clay is in jail.
Framing him for murder? That’s exactly the kind of move David would make. A way to isolate me, to strip away my last line of defense. Because that’s what Clay is. He’s not just my little brother—he’s my protector. My only constant. The only person who has ever put me first.
He was my protector when we were kids, standing between me and the world when things got too hard. He took the hits so I didn’t have to. He carried burdens I didn’t even know about, because that’s what Clay does.
And now Clay is in jail. Not because he’s guilty, but because he did what he’s always done—he tried to protect me.
And if I don’t do something soon, I’m going to lose him for good.
The weight of that realization sits heavy in my chest, pressing down like a hand squeezing the air from my lungs. We’ve been fighting this battle alone for so long, screaming into a void where no one listens. Every plea for help, every report we filed—it was like shouting underwater. Muffled. Ignored. Unbelievable.
Because how do you prove the kind of abuse that doesn’t leave bruises? How do you convince people that a monster doesn’t have to snarl and swing his fists? That sometimes, the most dangerous ones are the men who smile too easily, who shake hands too firmly, who wear their charm like a second skin?
No one ever wanted to hear it. Not the cops, not the courts, not the so-called experts who chalked my fear up to paranoia. You’re exaggerating, Ms. Monroe. Has he ever hit you?
As if broken bones are the only proof of a shattered life. As if fear itself isn’t a cage just as confining as any lock and key.
And then Mason Ironside walks through my front door.
A man I’ve never met. A man whose presence takes up space. He looks at me like he sees right through the mask I wear, past the forced composure, past the years of exhaustion, straight into the raw desperation I keep buried beneath the surface.
Then he tells me he’s already hired a lawyer for Clay.
I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until my chest burns from the lack of air. I sit there, gripping the edge of the table, waiting for the catch. The fine print. The moment he tells me what this will cost, because nothing in this world comes free. Not mercy. Not justice. Not even belief. Because everything has a price, and no-one ever does anything for nothing.
But he doesn’t ask for anything.
He just says the words that no one else ever has—not the cops, not the lawyers, not the people who should have protected us from the beginning.
Somebody finally believes us.
Mason Ironside jots down his number on the notepad I slide across the table, his movements precise, deliberate. I glance down at the inked digits, noting the flow of his handwriting—steady, cursive, neat. Refined. Just like him.
It’s a strange contrast to the man himself.
His dark hair is an unruly mess, the kind that looks effortlessly styled, but I know better. It’s not the work of a mirror or a careful hand—it’s just him , rugged, unbothered. His eyes, dark and watchful, track my movements as I rise and carry the teacups to the sink. I should feel uneasy under his gaze, the weight of it lingering, assessing. But I don’t.
There’s no edge of discomfort. No underlying threat.
David’s eyes always made me feel small, like I was under a microscope, waiting for my flaws to be dissected. Mason’s stare is different. It doesn’t shrink me. It doesn’t make me want to disappear. It makes me want to stand straight and roar in the face of adversity. This is a man I just met, and yet his company is the safest I’ve felt in a long time.
I steal a glance at him over my shoulder. His presence dominates the space, but not in an overbearing way. He’s just there , unshaken, exuding something powerful without trying.
Do I care that he was just released from prison? Not really. My own brother is sitting in a cell—who am I to judge? And besides, prison doesn’t make the monster. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that the worst kind of men walk free every single day, hiding behind their polished shoes and perfect smiles.
Mason doesn’t hide behind anything.
“So, what’s next?” I ask, rinsing the cups under the stream of warm water, needing something to do with my hands.
“For Clay?” His voice is smooth, a slight rasp to the edges. “We wait. The lawyer’s already working on it, but it won’t be instant.”
I nod, shutting off the tap. The silence between us stretches, but it isn’t uncomfortable. It’s… charged.
I turn to face him fully, leaning against the counter. “And for you?”
His lips twitch at the corner, the ghost of a smirk. “For me?”
I cross my arms, tilting my head. “You’re out. Free. What happens now?”
Mason leans back in his chair, his broad shoulders shifting slightly. “I have some business to handle.”
Vague. Purposefully so. I should press, ask him what kind of business a man like him deals in. But I don’t. Because right now, I don’t want to see him as anything other than what he’s been since he walked through my door—someone who showed up for my brother when no one else would. Someone who looked me in the eye and believed me.
I step closer, resting my hands on the table, closing the space just a little. His gaze flickers to where my fingers brush against the wood, then back to my face.
“You didn’t have to help Clay,” I say quietly.
His expression shifts, something unreadable crossing his features before settling into something firm. “Yeah, I did.”
Something unspoken hangs between us, thickening the air, setting my pulse into a slow, steady climb.
Mason doesn’t just look at me—he sees me. And I don’t remember the last time I let someone get that close.
I clear my throat, pushing back from the table, breaking the moment before I let it pull me under. “Well… I owe you, then.”
He stands, his long legs unfolding from his chair with an easy grace. “You don’t owe me a damn thing, Shelby.”
But the way he says my name, the weight in his voice… it feels like something more. Something that settles deep in my bones.
And I’m not sure if I want to run from it… or toward it.