17. Shelby
17
SHELBY
I stare out the windshield, my breath shallow, uneven, my vision narrowing until all I see is the blurred motion of the world passing by.
The houses, the street signs, the sidewalks—they all smear together, blending into something unrecognizable, something distant that I can’t focus on.
Because all I can hear is his voice.
“What are you doing here, Ironside?”
“I’m here to talk about David Eddy.”
“Because David Eddy is missing, and we’ve traced his phone to this location.”
Fuck.
My chest tightens, the pressure sharp, pressing down like a vice.
I try to breathe through it, try to focus, but it’s like my lungs forget how to work.
The panic sets in fast, too fast—a clawing, constricting thing wrapping around my ribs.
I gasp, but it’s not enough.
I clutch at my seatbelt, fingers digging into the fabric as my whole body locks up.
“Shelby.”
Mason’s voice is distant, muffled, like he’s calling to me through a thick fog.
I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut, my pulse pounding in my ears.
He says something else, his voice low, steady, but I don’t catch the words.
I can’t catch anything except the terrifying, inescapable fact that Saxon North was standing on my doorstep, talking about David like he was a loose thread waiting to be pulled.
Like he knew.
Like he was just waiting for me to slip up.
I suck in a sharp breath, but it comes too fast, too shallow, and suddenly I’m dizzy, shaking, spiraling.
Mason curses under his breath. I feel the weight of his hand closing over mine, prying my fingers from where they’ve twisted into the seatbelt.
“Look at me,” he says, and this time, the words break through the haze just enough to make me flick my gaze toward him.
His eyes are locked on mine, sharp, steady. They anchor me.
“You're okay,” he tells me, voice firm. “Breathe.”
I shake my head again, my breath still ragged, still coming too fast.
His grip on my hand tightens.
“Shelby.”
I swallow hard, fighting against the rising wave of panic, trying to match my breathing to his.
Inhale. Exhale.
In. Out.
The car keeps moving, the city slipping past in a blur. I don’t know where we’re going.
I don’t ask.
I just focus on Mason’s voice, on the weight of his hand wrapped around mine, the way his thumb brushes slow, steady circles against my skin.
And finally—finally—the tightness in my chest starts to loosen.
The fog starts to lift.
I breathe.
By the time the car slows to a stop, my pulse has steadied, but my body still feels wrung out, exhausted.
I blink, taking in the massive structure in front of us.
A prison.
I frown, my stomach knotting.
Why are we here?
I thought he used that as a ruse to get us away from Saxon North.
I glance at Mason, but he doesn’t look at me.
He’s staring out the windshield, his expression carefully unreadable, his jaw tight.
Minutes pass.
The silence stretches.
Then, the front doors open.
A man in a crisp suit steps out, walking toward the car with purpose, precision.
It takes me a second to understand that he must be the lawyer.
Mason’s lawyer.
The realization settles in, clicking into place.
I turn to Mason, my heart lurching. “Is this about Clay?”
Mason finally meets my gaze. “Yeah.”
The lawyer reaches the driver’s side, nodding in greeting before glancing between us.
“Good morning,” he says smoothly, adjusting his tie. “I’ll keep this brief.”
I swallow hard, my pulse pounding again—but this time for an entirely different reason.
I need to hear what he has to say.
“Clay Monroe will be released in the next few days. All charges withdrawn,” he says.
The words slam into me, knocking the air from my lungs.
Clay is coming home.
I let out a shaky breath, pressing my fingers against my lips.
Mason’s voice cuts through the lingering haze in my mind, sharp and deliberate, pulling me back to the present.
“What about the other matter?”
I blink, still processing the news about Clay, still trying to steady the rush of emotions threatening to overwhelm me.
The lawyer presses his lips together, his expression carefully neutral, but the slight shift in his stance tells me whatever he’s about to say isn’t good.
Then, with a small shake of his head, he delivers the blow.
“No dice. Someone really wants to keep your friend locked up.”
I don’t know who they’re talking about.
I don’t know the weight of what’s being discussed.
But I feel it.
It’s in the way Mason’s shoulders tighten, the way his fingers flex against the steering wheel, the way the air in the car grows thick, heavy with unspoken tension.
Mason’s jaw ticks. “And the evidence?”
The lawyer exhales, shifting his briefcase from one hand to the other.
“Flimsy, at best. But I’ve seen people get convicted on much less.”
I watch the exchange, curious despite myself, trying to piece together the underlying weight of their conversation.
Who are they talking about?
And why does Mason suddenly look like he’s barely containing the urge to break something?
A long moment passes before Mason drags a hand through his hair, his movements slow, controlled. Then he nods once—silent acceptance.
“Let me know the moment the release papers are signed,” he says, his voice void of any emotion.
The lawyer nods and steps away, already moving toward his own car.
I barely have time to process what just happened before Mason pulls out his phone, sending off a quick text.
I shift in my seat, my mind still catching up.
I realize something then.
Mason doesn’t just know people.
He has people.
On standby. On call. For everything.
It’s not just convenient.
It’s efficient. Intriguing.
And maybe just a little dangerous.
The silence in the car stretches between us, thick with unspoken words. Mason grips the wheel, his knuckles tight, his jaw locked as he navigates the streets with the kind of quiet control that makes it clear he’s thinking. It’s a little unnerving, but I know the question is coming. I can feel it hanging in the air between us, coiled like a viper waiting to strike.
“How do you know Saxon North?” Mason finally asks, his voice rough—like the question has been sitting on his tongue too long, burning to be spoken. He clears his throat, as if debating whether he should even ask, but his patience—what little he has—is running thin.
I glance at him, studying his profile—the sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his nose, the flicker of headlights catching in his dark eyes. He doesn’t look my way, just keeps his attention on the road, but there’s something about the way he holds himself that tells me he’s paying close attention to every word I say.
I take a slow breath, exhaling through my nose, already anticipating what’s coming. The questions. The push. The unraveling of a past I don’t like talking about.
“He was David’s partner when I knew him,” I say finally, watching his reaction carefully. “I don’t know about now.”
Mason scoffs, making a sharp turn. “Definitely not his partner now.”
“You know what I mean,” I murmur, my fingers curling against my lap.
A beat of silence, then—“What was that about ledgers?” His tone is edged with something sharp, a tension that wasn’t there before. “What were you warning Saxon about?”
I sigh, pressing my head back against the seat. The memories claw their way to the surface, unwelcome and suffocating.
“I tried to leave David so many times,” I say, voice quieter than I intend. “Every time, he dragged me back. Until it felt like there was no way out. He had this way of making me feel like leaving wasn’t an option—like I didn’t even belong to myself.”
Mason’s grip on the wheel tightens. I notice the small tick in his jaw, the way his fingers flex against the leather, like he’s keeping himself from reacting.
I glance down at my hands. “A few times, I confided in Saxon—appealed to his human side. I thought he’d help. He was always the level-headed one between them, the one who didn’t seem entirely corrupt.”
“And he didn’t,” Mason says flatly.
I shake my head, swallowing down the bitterness. “No. He brushed me off. Said David was under a lot of stress, that things would get better.”
“But they didn’t.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “No. He just got worse. And I was at the end of my rope.” I stare out the window, watching the blur of the city, feeling the weight of those years pressing down on me. “So I did the only thing I could think of. I gathered everything I had—everything I knew could ruin him—and I went to Saxon.”
Mason’s eyes flick toward me then, the first real glance since this conversation started. “What kind of things?”
“The kind that would land David in prison.” My voice is calm, but my heart is hammering in my chest. “I knew he was involved in things—shady dealings, criminals, under-the-table agreements. I had evidence, dates, names. I laid it all out for Saxon, thinking he would finally do something. Help me, somehow.”
Mason doesn’t speak, just lets me continue, but I can feel the way he’s processing every word.
“If there was anything I knew for certain, it was that I’d only ever be free of David under one of two circumstances.” I turn to look at him then, my voice steady despite the weight of the truth. “Either he was in jail, or he was dead.”
His expression remains unreadable, but something flickers in his eyes—something dark and knowing. He doesn’t have to say it. We both know which of those scenarios played out. And I guess he must be wondering if that was what was on my mind when I pulled that trigger.
“What happened?” he asks, voice low.
I swallow, gripping my hands together. “Saxon listened. He took notes. He assured me something would get done. He told me to sit tight and not tell anyone else.”
A pause. Then—“Yet nothing was done,” Mason murmurs, already knowing the answer.
“Nothing was done,” I confirm. “I was destined to remain tethered to David Eddy until something drastic happened.”
Mason exhales slowly, like he’s keeping himself from saying something he’ll regret. The car slows as we hit a red light, and I see the heat in his gaze as he finally turns his head toward me. The quiet fury beneath the surface.
“What about the police?” he asks. “He was a federal agent, but the police—did you ever go to them?”
I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Every complaint I ever filed went missing. Every single one .” I shake my head, my throat tightening at the sheer helplessness of it all. “David’s reach was magnificent, if nothing else. He had friends everywhere.”
Mason doesn’t respond right away. His fingers tighten around the wheel, his knuckles pale with the effort of keeping himself in check. For a moment, I swear I see it—the shift in his posture, the calculation in his gaze. Like he’s already mapping out a route, already deciding whose blood needs to be spilled to balance the scales.
The light turns green, and he exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders back, his grip loosening just enough to keep the car moving forward instead of veering toward destruction. It’s a quiet, controlled fury—the kind that doesn’t explode. It simmers, waiting for the right moment to strike.
I don’t know what kind of man Mason Ironside is. Not fully. But I know this—he’s not the type to forget. And that? That means everything.