18. Mason
18
MASON
T he city hums around us, but my focus stays on the road, the steady thrum of the tires against the asphalt keeping me grounded. Shelby sits beside me, quiet, her fingers playing with the hem of her sleeve. She doesn’t fidget often. I’ve noticed that about her. She’s strong—stubborn, level-headed—but right now? She’s unraveling at the edges, and I don’t like it.
I flex my grip on the wheel. Saxon North . That motherfucker has been circling like a dog with a scent he won’t drop. The problem with men like Saxon is that they’re convinced they’re the good guys—that they’ve got the moral high ground. And that makes them the most dangerous kind of men—because they think whatever they do is justified.
Shelby shouldn’t be dealing with him.
She shouldn’t be dealing with any of this.
“You should stay with me,” I say, keeping my voice even.
She looks up at me, blinking as though I just suggested she fly to the moon. “What?”
I exhale through my nose, making a turn down a quieter street. “I don’t trust Saxon. He’s like a hound, and he won’t let go easily. I don’t want you anywhere near him if you don’t have to be.”
She shifts in her seat, eyes narrowing. “You think he’s dangerous?”
“I think he’s relentless,” I correct. “And you don’t need to be dealing with that right now.”
Shelby hesitates, chewing on the inside of her cheek. She’s considering it, which is better than I expected.
“I’m not sure that’s such a great idea, Mason,” she says finally, glancing at me.
I let out a low laugh, shaking my head. “You can have the pool house. No strings. No expectations. I may be many things, but I’m not that kind of asshole, Shelby.”
She studies me for a beat, then nods once. “Fine. But I need some things from my place.”
“Then we’ll stop by and get them,” I say, pressing down on the gas.
The minute we turn onto her street, I know something’s wrong.
Flashing lights bounce off the houses, a sickly mix of red and white bursting through the late afternoon. Thick black smoke coils into the sky, stretching toward the stars like grasping fingers. The acrid scent of burning wood and charred belongings hits me even from inside the car.
Shelby gasps beside me as we near her home. “Oh my God.”
Her house is on fire.
The entire structure is engulfed in flames, heat radiating off it in waves. Firefighters are already there, spraying water at the inferno, but I know before they say a damn thing—it’s gone. There won’t be anything left to salvage.
Shelby’s hands fly to her mouth, her breath coming in sharp, broken bursts. “No. No, no, no…”
I throw the car into park, barely registering the sound of my door slamming behind me as I round the vehicle. She’s already stepping out, her legs unsteady, her body trembling. And then she’s in my arms, burying herself against my chest like she can fold herself inside me and disappear from this nightmare.
I don’t hesitate. I wrap my arms around her, securing her against me. I can feel her heartbeat hammering wildly, her fingers clutching the fabric of my jacket in a white-knuckled grip.
“I can’t—” she chokes out, her voice thick with emotion. “How could this happen?”
I don’t have an answer for that.
One of the firemen approaches us, his face grim.
“You the owner?”
I give him a short nod, turning Shelby in my arms to talk to him.
“A neighbor called it in. The fire should be contained soon, but…” He hesitates, glancing back at the wreckage. “I’m sorry. It’s a total loss. And…” His eyes flick to mine, something unreadable in them. “It’s a crime scene now.”
I go still.
Shelby tenses in my arms.
“What?” I ask, my voice coming out lower, sharper.
The fireman exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “We can’t confirm yet, but based on initial signs, it doesn’t look like an accident.”
My jaw locks. Someone set this fire. We weren’t here long enough during the day to use any of the electricals and accidentally leave them running. And Shelby’s biggest threat-David Eddy-is gone. Yet someone wanted to reduce Shelby’s life to flames.
I force myself to remain still, to keep my breathing measured. Shelby is still pressed against me, still shaking. Now isn’t the time for anger—not when I have an audience. But I file this away, deep in the marrow of my bones, where grudges turn into retribution.
By the time Shelby is calm enough to give her statement to the fireman, there’s nothing left for us to do but leave. The flames have been reduced to smoldering embers, licking at the charred remains of her home, the smoke curling into the sky like a final farewell. It feels wrong to just walk away, but what else is there? Standing here won’t bring back what she’s lost.
She hesitates when I open the car door for her, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She looks back once, her throat working like she’s swallowing down a scream, and then—finally—she climbs into the passenger seat.
I don’t say anything as I pull away from the curb, guiding the car through the busy streets. She’s been stripped of everything in a matter of hours, and I don’t have the kind of words needed to fix that.
Instead, I focus on the road, on the weight of the silence between us. The low hum of the engine is the only sound for miles, and it’s damn near suffocating.
“Do you know anyone who could have done this?” I ask eventually. It feels like we’ve done nothing but drive all day, circling around in a loop of bad luck, but this? This is too much to be coincidence.
Beside me, Shelby lets out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. “The only person I can think of is dead.”
And then she freezes.
Her breath catches, her entire body going stiff before she whips her head toward me, her eyes wide, horror-stricken.
“He was dead, wasn’t he?”
I keep my eyes on the road, gripping the wheel a little tighter. “Two bullets will do that to a man, Shelby. He was definitely dead.”
Her lips part like she wants to argue, like she wants to demand more proof, but then she exhales sharply and shakes her head. “Then no. I don’t know who else would want to burn down my house.”
She turns toward the window, resting her head against the seat, but I can feel her gaze shift to me after a few seconds. The weight of it, burning through the side of my face.
“You keep looking at me like that, sweetheart, and I’m going to start thinking you’re planning my murder,” I murmur, flicking my gaze toward her briefly.
She huffs out something that’s almost a laugh. Almost.
“I just—” She pauses, like she’s trying to find the right words. “You don’t have to do all this, Mason.”
“All what?”
“This.” She gestures vaguely between us. “Taking me in, making sure I’m okay. There’s no reason for you to keep getting involved.”
I drum my fingers against the steering wheel, considering my response. I could lie. Could tell her it’s just logistics, just keeping her safe so she doesn’t get tangled up with Saxon North or whoever the hell else has decided to screw with her life. But that’s not the truth, and Shelby? She deserves the truth.
“Maybe I don’t have to,” I admit. “But I want to.”
Her breath catches, her fingers curling against her lap.
I don’t elaborate, because there’s no need to.
The road stretches ahead of us, but for the first time all day, the silence doesn’t feel quite so heavy.
When we pull up to my house, the motion lights kick on, bathing the driveway in a soft glow. I cut the engine, but Shelby doesn’t move right away.
“This is really okay?” she asks, her voice quieter now. “Me staying here?”
“You’ll have the pool house all to yourself,” I assure her. “You need somewhere safe, and I’ve got plenty of room.”
She nods, but she doesn’t make a move to get out.
I watch her for a beat, then reach across the console, brushing my fingers lightly over the back of her hand. “Shelby, this isn’t me taking advantage of a bad situation. If you don’t want to stay, I’ll find you another place—somewhere secure, somewhere comfortable. And don’t forget, Clay will need somewhere to go when he gets out, also.”
She swallows hard, her gaze flicking to my hand, then back up to my face.
She nods, exhaling like she’s just made some huge decision, and then finally—finally—she pushes the door open and steps out.
I fall into step beside her, leading her toward the guest house nestled at the back of the property. Despite everything that’s happened—despite the loss, the exhaustion, the weight of the unknown pressing down on her—Shelby moves with a quiet resilience. Steady. Unyielding. She’s taken hit after hit, and yet she’s still standing.
But something about this doesn’t sit right.
I don’t know who set that fire.
I don’t know why they burned her life to the ground.
But I do know this—things like this don’t happen by accident. Not in my world. And not in hers, either. Not anymore.
A dead Fed doesn’t crawl out of the grave to exact revenge. So that means someone else is pulling the strings.
And I’m determined to find out who.