10. Mason
10
MASON
I drive away, but my mind doesn’t come with me.
The road stretches ahead, dark and empty—the kind of silence that should be comforting after days spent in prison, but it isn’t. It’s heavy. Thick with need. Because no matter how many miles I put between me and Shelby Monroe’s house, she’s still there. Still lingering in my head like an unfinished sentence.
I tighten my grip on the wheel, jaw clenching as I push past the speed limit, as if I can outrun the thought of her. But it doesn’t work.
The image of her standing in that doorway—arms crossed, eyes wary but strong—won’t leave me. The way she watched me. The way I watched her. I knew, walking out that door, that I was leaving something unfinished.
I don’t have her number. I don’t even have an excuse to turn the car around. But I don’t need one, because my mind has already formulated why I’m going back. I already know what I’m going to tell her, and it makes reasonable sense.
I’m an enforcer. I’m a protector. It’s in my nature to want to help. Or so I tell myself.
And that woman needs protecting more than any damn person I’ve ever come across.
I tell myself it’s for Clay’s sake, and I don’t even try to convince myself otherwise as I toy with the idea of turning back.
Five minutes out, I slam my foot on the brakes and yank the wheel to the side of the road. The tires screech against the asphalt, and I sit there, breathing hard, gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing tethering me to reason.
I need to go back.
Because she’s alone. Because I don’t like the way she seemed terrified of the shadows surrounding her. Because I know a hunted woman when I see one—and Shelby Monroe is walking around with a target on her back.
The least I can do is offer two soldiers to stand at the front of her house and ward off her ex should he show up. Going by what she told me about the man, he’s capable of anything.
She needs protection.
She needs to know that someone is watching her back.
And whether she likes it or not, that someone is going to be me until her brother makes it back home to her.
I don’t waste another second. I shift into gear and gun it, the engine roaring as I tear through the empty streets, heading straight back to her house.
By the time I pull up to the curb, the day has slipped into late afternoon, and the light is whispering into the night. I can feel that something isn’t right just by the way the air surrounding me shifts and settles. A tightness clamps around my ribs, pressing down like a warning. I’ve had years to hone my instincts, and they’ve rarely let me down.
I kill the engine and sit for a moment, scanning the street.
Too still.
Too quiet.
Like the whole damn block is holding its breath.
Then I see it.
The front door.
Slightly open.
Everything in me goes rigid.
Judging by the cautious way she was earlier, Shelby isn’t the type to leave her front door open. And now?—
A cold weight settles in my gut.
I step out of the car, tucking my gun into the back of my pants once again. My boots are silent against the pavement as I move toward the porch. Every instinct is screaming now—the kind that makes my blood hum, the kind that’s kept me alive in the kind of world most men don’t walk out of.
I stop at the front door and listen.
Nothing.
I watch.
The door sways slightly in the fading afternoon breeze, creaking against its hinges.
Still nothing.
But then?—
A muffled sound. Inside.
A choked noise, like someone struggling.
I draw my gun before I even realize I’ve done it, my fingers steady on the grip. I push the door open with my shoulder, stepping inside—slow, controlled. The air inside the house is thick, suffocating.
It smells like fear.
Then I see them.
Shelby is pinned against the wall, a man’s broad frame pressing into her. One of his hands covers her mouth, muffling her cries. The other grips her waist hard enough to bruise. The top of her dress is torn, and the man’s face is buried between her breasts. She thrashes, jerking against him, her legs kicking, but he’s too strong. Too determined to get what he came here for.
Neither of them hears or sees me as I step further into the room, the carpet muffling the sound of my heavy footfalls.
I don’t hesitate.
The click of my gun cocks through the room—loud. Lethal.
“Let. Her. Go.”
The man stills, his grip tightening for a fraction of a second before he releases her.
But he doesn’t cower. No.
He surprises me.
He turns.
And swings .
I duck, but not fast enough. His fist glances off my jaw, snapping my head to the side. Pain flares sharp, but I don’t have time to register it before he’s coming at me again. I dodge the next hit, drive my fist into his ribs, but the bastard barely stumbles.
He fights like someone who enjoys it.
Someone who’s been trained and probably does this sort of thing for a hobby.
I block his next hit, counter with a sharp elbow to his temple—but he takes the blow like a goddamn soldier.
Then he rams into me.
We slam into the hall table, sending things skidding across the floor., including my gun. He’s fast, using his weight to his advantage, trying to trap me against the edge. I throw a punch, but he catches my wrist, twisting it hard enough to make my bones groan in protest.
I grit my teeth and use his momentum against him, yanking him forward and sending my knee straight into his gut.
He stumbles but doesn’t go down. Instead, he shifts his weight and tackles me, dragging us both to the ground. The impact knocks the air from my lungs, and suddenly he’s straddling me, pinning me down, fists slamming into my face.
One.
Two.
Three.
Pain explodes through my skull.
Blood coats my tongue. My vision blurs, but I force my body to move, twisting beneath him, trying to dislodge his weight.
This fucker.
Another hit.
My head snaps back against the floor.
Everything tilts.
Then—
A gunshot.
The impact jerks the bastard upright, his body stiffening.
Then another.
His eyes go wide. His mouth opens, like he’s about to speak—but nothing comes out.
He slumps sideways, crashing to the floor beside me, blood pooling beneath him.
My head spins, my body aching as I push myself up onto my elbows.
Shelby stands there, hands shaking, my gun still clutched tight in her grip. Her chest heaves, her breath ragged, her wide eyes locked on the body in front of her.
Then her knees give out.
Fuck.
She drops, shoulders shaking, hands clutching at her torn shirt, trying to hold herself together.
She doesn’t speak. Just presses her hands to her face, the sobs breaking free—raw and desperate.
I glance at the body, at the blood soaking into the floor, then back at the woman unraveling in front of me.
And the realization hits me.
She just killed a man.
With my gun.
Shelby has pulled herself together enough to attend to the blooming bruise at my temple. She hands me an ice pack, her fingers barely brushing mine, and I press it against the aching skin. The cold bites, numbing some of the throbbing, but my focus isn’t on the pain.
It’s on her.
She’s wrapped herself in a sweater, covering the torn fabric of her dress, but there’s no hiding the way her hands tremble as she rummages through the first aid kit. Her face is pale, her lips pressed into a tight line as she dabs antiseptic onto a cotton pad.
“This might sting,” she murmurs, kneeling in front of me.
Honey, that’s the least of our problems… there’s a dead man on your floor.
I barely flinch when she dabs at a cut on my cheekbone, but she still winces like she’s the one feeling it. Her fingers are soft, careful, but I see the way she forces herself to stay steady.
I let her work in silence, watching the way she moves, the way she takes slow, deliberate breaths like she’s trying to ground herself.
“You okay?” I ask, voice low.
Her hands still for a fraction of a second before she nods. “Yeah.”
She’s lying.
I don’t press her.
I let the ice pack drop into my lap and reach for the gauze she’s unrolling. She hesitates before handing it to me, her fingers cold despite the sweater draped over her shoulders. I start wrapping my knuckles, the skin raw from the fight, while she picks at the frayed sleeve of her sweater.
The silence stretches.
Then she starts fidgeting.
Her knee bounces. Her fingers curl and uncurl in her lap.
“Shelby.”
She flinches at the sound of her name, eyes flicking up to mine.
I narrow my gaze. “You need to call the cops.”
Her breath catches, and just like that, all the blood drains from her face.
“No,” she says instantly. Too fast. Too sharp.
My shoulders tense. “Shelby?—”
“I can’t.”
“Okay, I’ll make the call.”
She goes pale, her head shaking almost instinctively. When her eyes snap to mine, there’s more fear in them now than when she was fighting for her life. Her voice is barely a whisper, but the urgency in it is razor-sharp.
“You can’t do that.”
Something dark and uneasy coils in my gut. “Why the hell not?”
She doesn’t answer right away. She just stares down at her hands, her breathing shallow.
I lean in, my voice low, edged with something sharp as my instincts kick into high gear. “Shelby, why the hell can’t I call the police?”
She swallows hard. I can practically see the war going on inside her—the battle between fear and the truth. Then, finally?—
“Because he is the police.”
The words slam into me like a freight train, stealing the breath from my lungs. My body locks up, frozen mid-motion, as the blood rushes out of my head in a dizzying wave.
Everything in me freezes as I replay the fight—the face of the man now lying in a pool of blood on her floor. The way he fought. The way he moved.
No.
It can’t be.
I shake my head, my voice tight. “What do you mean?”
Her breath shudders as she looks up at me, her green eyes wide, shining with something raw and fractured.
“That was David,” she whispers. “My ex-husband. He’s a federal agent.”