22. Shelby
22
SHELBY
“ Y ou have no idea who torched the house?” Clay asks, his brows furrowed in suspicion.
I shrug, shaking my head, because lying outright feels like betrayal. But the truth? That would be worse.
Clay leans back in his chair, jaw tight, his fingers tapping against the armrest in a steady, rhythmic beat. A habit from prison, no doubt—small movements to keep himself grounded, to keep himself from losing control.
“Definitely David Eddy,” he mutters, gaze flickering to the window as if expecting the bastard to slither out from the shadows. “Trying to scare you back into his arms again.”
My stomach knots, but I force myself to stay neutral, to let the moment pass without giving anything away.
David Eddy is dead.
And I’m the only one in this room who knows it.
I toy with the idea of telling Clay. Of just putting it all out there, letting him carry some of the weight pressing down on my chest. But what good would that do? If I tell him, he’ll be complicit. That means if the feds come knocking—if some loose thread unravels—he’s right back in a cell before he even has the chance to start his life again.
I won’t do that to him.
He’s already sacrificed enough.
So I swallow the truth and bury it under a practiced indifference. “Maybe. But I don’t have proof.”
Clay exhales through his nose, clearly unsatisfied with my answer. His dark eyes pin me in place, reading between the lines the way only a brother can.
“You’re lying.”
Shit.
I reach for my coffee, taking a slow sip, willing my hands not to shake. “I’m not lying.”
“You’re leaving something out.” He studies me, his expression unreadable. “You always get that crease between your brows when you’re holding back.”
I force my features to relax. “You’re imagining things.”
He scoffs, shaking his head. “No. I know you. I know when you’re scared, when you’re pissed, when you’re about to burst into tears but pretending you’re fine. And right now? You’re not telling me everything.”
I press my lips together, forcing myself to hold the line. “I’m just exhausted, Clay. So much has happened the past few days, and I’m tired.”
His jaw flexes, hands clenching into fists. “Shelby.”
I look away, staring at the edge of my mug. “Let it go, Clay.”
Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy, filled with all the things I won’t say and all the things he wants to hear.
Then, his voice lowers—quieter now, edged with something raw. “I can’t. Not when it’s about you.”
I close my eyes briefly, because this —this is the part that always breaks me. The way Clay looks at me like I’m the most precious thing in his world. Like he’d burn the entire city to the ground if it meant keeping me safe.
But I don’t need him burning for me. I need him free.
I sigh, shifting in my seat. “What do you want me to say, Clay? That I know who did it? It’s a bit of a stretch to burn down a house, even for Eddy, don’t you think?” I shake my head.
Clay scoffs, running a hand through his hair, his frustration barely contained. “He tampered with my car, remember?”
The reminder jolts me.
If I had any guilt over killing David, it’s quickly erased when I remember that he almost killed my brother.
I look at him then— really look at him—and I see it. The darkness that prison left behind. The bitterness. The weight of time spent behind bars, plotting all the ways he’d even the score once he was free.
“You’re right,” I say softly. “He is capable. But you just got out of prison. You have a second chance, Clay. Don’t waste it chasing ghosts.”
His throat bobs as he swallows, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “A second chance? I was in jail for absolutely zero reason except that David Eddy wanted me out of the picture to get to you. I’m convinced of that.”
He leans forward, voice barely above a whisper. “Shelby, if he comes near you again, I will kill him. You hear me? If I’m going to do jail time, it’ll be because I actually deserve to be there.”
“Revenge won’t fix what’s already broken, Clay.”
I look away, but he reaches across the table, catching my wrist, grounding me.
“Tell me what he did to you,” he urges, his grip gentle but firm. “Tell me, and I swear, I’ll handle it.”
I shake my head, blinking back the sting in my eyes. “You can’t. Not this time.”
His fingers tighten around mine. “Try me.”
I exhale sharply, knowing I have to give him something. Just enough to ease his mind.
“David’s not going to be a problem anymore.”
Something dark flickers across Clay’s expression. “What do you mean?”
I hesitate. “Just… trust me. The moment he saw me with Mason Ironside, he backed off. I haven’t heard from him since.”
His stare burns into me, but after a long moment, he nods—slow and deliberate.
“Alright. I’ll let it go.” Relief floods through me, but it’s short-lived when he adds, “For now.”
I sigh, knowing that’s the best I’m going to get.
Clay leans back, arms crossing over his chest. “So, what now? You staying with Mason?”
The question sends something hot and uncertain curling in my stomach.
Mason.
I can still feel his touch, his breath against my skin, the way his presence makes me feel safe in a way I haven’t in years. But it’s dangerous—this thing between us.
And Clay? I don’t know if he’ll approve.
“For now,” I say truthfully. “He offered me a place to stay after the fire.”
He studies me again, his expression unreadable. “What’s going on between you two?”
“What do you mean?”
“You get a look in your eyes when you look his way. Are you catching feelings for him, sis?”
The question catches me off guard, and for a moment, I can’t breathe.
Is it that obvious? I only just met the guy. Like, days ago.
I don’t know how to answer that. How to explain the storm that rages inside me every time Mason looks at me like I’m his.
But Clay just smirks, like he’s already figured it out.
“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s what I thought.”
I open my mouth to deny it, but he cuts me off.
“Ironside’s a good man. He didn’t have to keep his promise and deliver my message to you, but he did. If he’s what keeps you breathing, then… fine.”
His voice tightens, a warning laced in his words. “But if he hurts you? I don’t care who he is. I don’t care what he’s done for us. I’ll put him in the fucking ground.”
A lump forms in my throat, but I manage a small, tired smile. “There’s no need. He’s been good to me.”
Clay nods once, as if sealing some unspoken vow. Then he exhales, rubbing a hand down his face.
“Jesus. First day out and I’m already planning a murder. Maybe I should’ve stayed inside.”
A soft laugh escapes me, breaking the tension. “You’re impossible.”
He smirks. “But you love me for it.”
I roll my eyes, but he’s right. I do. And I always will.
Because no matter how much time passes, no matter how many ghosts haunt us, we will always be us —brother and sister.
Battle-worn, but unbreakable.
And nothing—not prison, not fire, not even the weight of the past—will ever change that.
Mason’s fingers find a loose strand of my hair, twisting it between his fingertips before tucking it behind my ear. His touch lingers, rough knuckles grazing the curve of my cheek, his warmth seeping into my skin like fire meeting silk.
Then, without a word, he lifts me—effortless, like I weigh nothing at all—and sets me down onto the kitchen counter. My breath catches as the cool marble presses against the backs of my thighs, the contrast between it and the heat of Mason’s body sending a shiver up my spine.
He steps in, closing the space between us, his hips slotting against mine. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing—just the steady press of him edging between my legs, the way his presence demands my full attention.
I barely have time to process it before his lips brush against mine.
Soft at first. A tease.
Then, his tongue flicks across the seam of my lips, a silent request that has my breath stuttering, my fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.
Clay is gone—out with Jayson, retrieving the remnants of his old life from the storage facility we should have let go of years ago but somehow never did. It’s a place filled with backup drives and buried secrets, stacks of hard drives that survived fires, raids, and the slow, merciless passage of time.
Clay is meticulous like that. He doesn’t flinch when things go up in flames because he plans for it. He adapts. He rebuilds. And just like that, he’s back at work, untouched by the destruction.
Me?
I’m still learning how to do that.
Mason pulls back just enough to look at me, his thumb sweeping across my cheek. “You smooth things over with your brother?”
I huff a quiet laugh, still a little breathless from the way his lips felt against mine. “Smooth things over? The guy seems to hero-worship you.”
Mason smirks against my mouth, his confidence as unshakable as ever, but it falters the second I tell him exactly what Clay said. The warning. The promise of violence should Mason ever so much as think about hurting me.
The smile vanishes.
Mason tilts his head, studying me with something unreadable in his eyes. “Do you think I’d ever hurt you, Shelby?”
The weight of the question settles between us. Heavy. Unspoken things pressing in around us like the walls have ears.
I exhale slowly. “I don’t know you well enough to know what you’re capable of.”
The truth lands —sharp and unwavering.
His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t rush to reassure me. He just watches, waiting, as if he needs to see my answer before he hears it.
“From what you’ve seen?” he asks, voice lower now, rougher.
I let my hand drift down his chest, over the crisp fabric of his shirt. My fingers map the ridges of muscle beneath—every solid plane and valley—feeling the slow, steady thump of his heartbeat beneath my palm.
“From what I’ve seen,” I murmur, tracing the line of buttons until I find the top one and flick it open.
The movement is subtle, but Mason feels it—his breath catches, his fingers tightening against my thighs.
I lift my eyes to his. “From what I’ve seen of you, the gentleness you show me… it contradicts the man the world sees.”
Something shifts in his gaze—darkens—but not in a way that scares me. Not in a way that makes me second-guess this moment.
He leans in, close enough that I can feel the words before he even speaks them.
“The world doesn’t deserve my softness,” he murmurs.
The answer comes so easily—like he’s known it forever. Like it’s an irrefutable fact.
But I’m different.
I don’t know when it happened, when Mason decided I was worth something more than just his walls and shadows. But the way he looks at me now? Like I’m his, like I’m the only thing that matters in a world full of bloodshed and brutality?
It’s terrifying.
And it’s addictive.
I slide my arms around his neck, pulling him back to me, and when he kisses me this time, it’s different.
Deeper. Slower.
Like he’s making a vow.
Like he’s proving—with every inch of his body pressed against mine—that he’ll never be the man who hurts me.
No.
Mason Ironside?
He’s the man who will burn for me.