14. Shelby
14
SHELBY
M ason doesn’t look at me the way David did.
He doesn’t scan my body like it’s something that needs to be fixed, altered, shrunk down to fit a mold that was never meant for me.
He doesn’t grab at my waist and squeeze, testing for softness like my love handles are something I should be ashamed of.
He doesn’t drop passive-aggressive comments about cutting carbs or watching my portions, all while shoveling an entire plate of food down his own throat.
No.
Mason looks at me like I’m a puzzle he wants to take his time figuring out. Like I’m delicate, made of glass, something to treasure.
Like I’m already perfect.
I used to think my body was the reason David controlled me for so long.
Because a man like that—handsome, successful, so perfectly curated—shouldn’t have wanted me.
Shouldn’t have chosen me.
So when he did, when he let his eyes rake over me with that slow, calculated approval, I clung to it like a lifeline.
Because I thought it was the best I’d ever get.
I thought I should be grateful.
That I should shrink myself down, make myself small, less of a burden, because if I didn’t…
He might not want me anymore.
And for too long, that terrified me.
Now, the thought of ever craving his approval makes me sick.
Because I love my body.
It’s strong. It’s soft and sharp in all the right places.
I eat well, I move, I stretch, I breathe—and I do it all for me.
Not for him.
Not for anyone else.
But Mason—he doesn’t even seem to notice my size.
Not in the way other people do.
Not in the way women give me once-over glances and silently compare.
Not like other men?—
They look at you like they’re measuring worth. Like they’re deciding whether your body is good enough, your voice soft enough, your heart small enough to fit inside their narrow world.
But Mason?
He doesn’t look at me like a prize. Or a problem.
He looks at me like I’m the last honest thing in a world built on lies.
Like every scar I carry only proves I survived.
He doesn’t flinch at the dark.
He recognizes it.
Welcomes it.
Wants it.
He doesn’t ask me to be smaller, quieter, sweeter. He doesn’t want the watered-down version of me.
He wants the girl who fought her way out. The one who’s still fighting.
And when his eyes are on me—heavy, deliberate, burning—I don’t feel exposed.
I feel chosen .
By a man who’s just as ruined as I am.
And it’s the first time in a long time that someone’s accepted me for who I am, unconditionally.
The smell of coffee drifts through the air as I step into the kitchen, finding Mason already at the counter, flipping pancakes like a goddamn pro.
He’s shirtless, hair slightly mussed, sweatpants slung low on his hips.
Unfair.
I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms. “Didn’t peg you for the domestic type.”
He smirks, not looking away from the pan. “I’m not. But I can feed a woman after I fuck her senseless.”
Heat blooms in my cheeks, but I roll my eyes, shaking my head as I step forward. “Such generosity.”
Mason turns, handing me a plate stacked with pancakes, a little crispy around the edges. I take it, sitting across from him at the kitchen island as he slides into the stool beside me.
I take another bite of my pancake, barely stifling the moan that threatens to escape.
“This is really good,” I mumble around my food, genuinely surprised. The pancakes are golden, fluffy, with the perfect balance of sweetness and crisp edges.
I don’t know many men who can even boil an egg, let alone make pancakes from scratch.
Mason smirks, spearing a bite of his own. “Practice made this the perfect recipe.”
I lift a brow. “Oh yeah?”
He nods. “Tested it on my nieces until I got it just right.”
I pause mid-chew, staring at him over my coffee cup.
Mason Ironside—lethal, brooding, sin on two legs—has nieces he makes pancakes for.
If that’s not the most endearing thing I’ve ever heard, I don’t know what is.
I swallow, hiding my smile behind my mug as I take another sip. “How old are they?”
He shrugs. “Older now. But when they were younger, I’d make them breakfast regularly. It became a thing.”
My chest tightens at the image—Mason in a kitchen, flipping pancakes while little girls watch in fascination, maybe sneaking bites of batter, giggling when he scolds them.
It doesn’t fit.
And yet, somehow, it does.
There’s a softness to him, hidden beneath all his sharp edges.
A quiet loyalty, devotion, protectiveness.
I trace the rim of my cup, hesitating for half a second before asking, “You don’t have kids of your own?”
Mason stills.
His fork pauses mid-air, his entire body going rigid like I just stepped somewhere I shouldn’t have.
Shit.
Maybe I shouldn’t have asked.
Maybe I just crossed that invisible line where things become too personal, too close.
For a moment, I think he won’t answer.
But then he exhales, slow and controlled. “I have a daughter.”
His voice is flat. Like he’s trying to make it sound like a fact instead of something that could unravel him.
My stomach tightens.
I know he said last night that he lives alone, so I don’t ask if he’s married. Not my business. But I haven’t seen anyone else here since I arrived. No toys, no tiny shoes by the door, no framed photos of a child on the walls.
Nothing.
It makes my chest ache, just a little.
I glance at him, watching the way his jaw tenses, his fingers tightening around his fork.
He doesn’t offer any more than that.
And I don’t press.
But the question lingers between us—thick, heavy, unspoken.
Where is she?
And why is a man like Mason Ironside—a man who makes pancakes for his nieces, who carries the weight of his past like a ghost that won’t let go—eating breakfast alone?
We continue breakfast in easy silence.
No tension, no expectation. Just us—plates clinking, coffee steaming between us, a slow return to something normal.
But normal doesn’t last.
Because once we’ve cleared our plates, I set my mug down and meet his gaze.
“Can you take me home?”
Mason watches me for a second, his eyes unreadable. Then he nods. “Yeah. Of course.”
There’s something unspoken between us.
Something thick, heavy, lingering in the air.
We both feel it, but neither of us says a word.
I don’t know what it is.
But I know it’s there.
And I think he does, too.
Mason hasn’t told me to stay. Hasn’t tried to convince me that I don’t need to go back.
But I see it in the way his jaw ticks, in the way his fingers drum absently against the table.
A quiet reluctance. A hesitation.
Maybe he doesn’t want me to go.
And if I’m honest with myself, I’m not entirely ready to leave either.
But I have to.
I need to go home. I need to face my reality.
Clay is meeting with Mason’s lawyer today, and if everything goes well, he could be coming home.
There won’t be a welcome home party—not after everything—but I can at least make sure things are ready for him. That he has a place to land. That I’m there when he walks through the door.
Because no matter how much my life has changed in the last twenty-four hours… Clay is still my family.
And family is the one thing I refuse to lose.
But something else has shifted, too.
Something deeper, something I didn’t see coming.
What happened between Mason and me this morning wasn’t part of any plan.
It wasn’t supposed to happen.
Yet here I am, wrapped in the aftermath of it, unable to shake the feeling that nothing will ever be the same.
I won’t say I regret it—because I don’t.
How could I?
Having mind-blowing, body-wrecking sex with a man who looks and moves like Mason Ironside after the longest dry spell in the history of time?
That’s the kind of thing that rewires a woman’s brain. Changes her chemistry.
It wasn’t just good—it was devastating.
The kind of sex that leaves an imprint. That steals the air from your lungs and scorches every nerve ending on the way down.
And yet…
There’s something gnawing at me.
I shift on my stool, staring at the ceiling, my body still aching from the way he took me—hard, relentless, like he needed to ruin me.
Like he wanted to erase everything that came before.
And he succeeded.
I let out a slow breath, my fingers ghosting over the faint bruises on my hips—the places where Mason held me down, pinned me, owned me.
I asked for that.
Begged for it.
I wanted him to erase David’s touch, his voice, his control.
And Mason did exactly that.
But now, in the quiet, in the stillness of the morning, I’m left with something else.
Something I don’t know how to process.
Because David never touched me like that.
It was never about me—only what I could give him, what I could prove to him, what I could sacrifice for him.
Sex was a transaction, an obligation, something I had to earn by being good, agreeable, smaller.
But Mason?
Mason didn’t just take from me—he gave.
He pulled things from me I didn’t know were there.
Things dark, hungry, primal.
And the way he looked at me while doing it? Like I was his. Like I already belonged to him.
I shiver, my skin still sensitive, still buzzing from the weight of him, the feel of his hands, his mouth, the way he broke me apart and put me back together again.
And the worst part?
I want more.
I glance over at him, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way the morning light traces the sharp angles of his jaw, the lines of his body.
He looks untouchable.
Unstoppable.
Like nothing in this world could ever break him.
But something tells me I could.
And he could break me, too.
That thought should scare me.
But it doesn’t.
What scares me is the fact that I want it.
I want to see how far this can go.
I want to see what happens if I stop holding back.
I want to keep unraveling for him—and I want to watch him fall apart for me.
I bite my lip, my heart pounding harder than it should as I stare at him, my body already shifting closer, drawn to him like a gravitational force.
I don’t know what we are.
I don’t know what happens next.
But I have a feeling I’m going to find out.