25. Shelby
25
SHELBY
T he biggest threat is finally behind us.
David Eddy is gone. Dead. And for the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I can finally breathe without that ever-present weight pressing against my ribs.
We settle into something that resembles normalcy at Mason’s guest house—a routine that is quiet, predictable, safe. Clay has already started talking about moving somewhere permanent, itching to rebuild, to claim a new life that isn’t dictated by the ghosts of the past.
Mason, however, has other ideas.
“You don’t need to leave.” He leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his broad chest, his watchful eyes locked on Clay. Mason doesn’t do anything without reason. This isn’t just about convenience—this is about keeping Clay close. Keeping me close.
Clay, ever the stubborn bastard, scoffs. “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t just squat in your guest house forever.”
“You’re not squatting,” Mason argues. “And I’d rather have you here.”
I can see it, the struggle in Clay’s expression—a war between wanting to move forward and knowing damn well that leaving means possibly losing access to the protection Mason provides.
I stay out of it.
I stay in the guest house with Clay, knowing full well that Mason would have me in his bed every single night if I let him. Instead, we’re reduced to snatches here and there whenever Clay is gone, which is most of the time.
Mason doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t push. For now.
I don’t realize how fragile this truce is until I suggest going back to work. I’ve put my life on hold for too long, and I need routine. I need structure.
“I think it’s time for me to go back to work,” I say casually, setting my coffee cup down as Mason looks over something on his phone. A normal conversation. A normal thought. Not like I’m asking his permission, but even to my own ears, that’s what it sounds like I’m doing.
Then Mason snaps his head up so fast I think he might have whiplash.
“What?” His voice is too calm. Too still.
I blink at him. “Back to work. Teaching. Kindergarten, you know? The thing I love? The thing that isn’t sitting in this house waiting for the walls to suffocate me?”
His entire body tenses. I can see it in the way his jaw locks, the way his fingers tighten around the phone like he’s about to crush it in his grip.
And then he loses his shit.
“Absolutely the fuck not.” His voice is low, dangerous, but it’s the way he pushes back from the table that has my heart hammering.
I cross my arms and raise one disbelieving brow. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Mason’s eyes are dark, unforgiving, as he gets up and stalks toward me, closing the space between us in three long strides. “You’re not putting yourself in danger like that.”
I scoff. “In danger from what, Mason? A bunch of rowdy kindergarten kids?” The image in my head is laughable. Only, Mason isn’t laughing.
His hands go to my waist, gripping just tight enough to make me feel held, possessed. “That doesn’t mean I’m not concerned for your safety.”
“You’re treating me like a prisoner, Mason,” I snap, frustration bubbling up in my chest. “I can’t just stay locked up in this house, doing nothing all day.”
Mason’s jaw flexes. He doesn’t get it—doesn’t understand that I need this. That I need to feel like my own person again, not just someone being sheltered from the world.
“I protect what’s mine,” he says, his voice gravel against my skin, his grip firm against my hips. “And you, Shelby? You’re mine.”
The air between us crackles.
Neither of us is backing down.
And then?—
“Okay, seriously, you two need to stop.”
Clay.
Mason and I both freeze, then turn as Clay leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, one brow raised in that I know all your secrets way.
I immediately step out of Mason’s grip, heat rushing to my face.
But Clay just shakes his head. “You don’t have to hide it from me.”
I blink. “Hide what?”
He gives me a flat look. “That you and Mason are fucking.”
My stomach drops.
Mason, to his credit, doesn’t react at all. Just tilts his head, waiting for Clay to continue.
Clay sighs. “I get it, okay? You don’t want to rub it in my face. But I’m a grown man. I can handle knowing that for once, my sister is sleeping with a guy I actually respect.”
I swallow hard, glancing at Mason, but his expression is unreadable.
Clay shrugs. “And by the way?” His gaze flickers to Mason. “I agree with her.”
Mason’s shoulders go rigid.
“She should go back to work,” Clay clarifies. “We can’t just sit in this house and pretend like life isn’t moving forward. She needs normalcy, and you need to let her have it.”
Mason’s hands clench into fists at his sides, and for a second, I don’t think he’s going to give in.
Then he exhales sharply, runs a hand through his hair, and mutters, “Fucking fine.”
Victory thrums through me, but before I can celebrate, Mason levels me with a dark look and warns me to be on high alert at all times.
“We still don’t know who burnt your house down,” he reminds me.
I snort, giving him a small shrug. I still think it was just one of those random acts, possibly even a wiring issue that the fire department got their knickers in a knot over.
“If we’re doing this,” Mason says, his voice low and uncompromising, “we’re doing it properly.”
I cross my arms, already bristling at his tone. “Meaning?”
His smirk is infuriatingly casual, but his eyes—his eyes aren’t. There’s nothing casual in the way he looks at me.
“Meaning,” he drawls, tilting his head, “you can’t very well go to work in my old sweats and T-shirts.”
And just like that, I know exactly where this is going.
Mason takes me shopping.
Not the casual kind of shopping where we wander from store to store, picking out things as we go. No, this is an operation. A mission. A meticulously planned extraction of every item he deems necessary for my new life.
I try to keep my exasperation in check as he dismisses half the racks with a single glance, his standards impossibly high, his expression dark and brooding as he steers me toward only the best.
It’s not about the clothes.
It’s about control.
It’s about the fact that he can’t stand that I’m going back to work. That, for the first time since this war began, I’m stepping out of his protection, out of his reach.
So instead of fighting it, he does the next best thing.
He armors me in his own way.
The bags stack up in the back seat of his car, evidence of his reluctant surrender, and when we stop for lunch at a little bistro outside the mall, I can feel the tension still rolling off him in waves.
Mason doesn’t eat like a man enjoying a meal.
He eats like a man on high alert, his eyes constantly scanning the streets, watching, assessing, tracking the flow of pedestrians like he’s expecting something to go wrong at any second.
I don’t miss the way the security presence has doubled—men stationed at strategic corners, their eyes trained on us, hands ghosting over the unmistakable bulge of weapons.
He’s already planned for every possibility.
Even now, when the immediate threat is gone, he’s preparing for the next one.
And that kills me.
That he can never turn it off. That his peace only exists in fleeting moments, and even then, it’s always laced with the bitter edge of paranoia.
I reach for his hand on the table, curling my fingers around his wrist. “Mason,” I say softly.
His eyes snap to mine.
For a second—just a second—something eases in his expression. But then?—
Jayson appears beside us, murmuring a quiet greeting before leaning in, his voice low, urgent as he speaks to Mason.
Mason stiffens. His jaw ticks, and then, without a word, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box, setting it on the table between us.
Jayson steps back. Leaves without another word.
My brow furrows. “What’s that?”
Mason doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he opens the box and lifts something delicate, elegant, catching the sunlight in a thin gleam of metal.
A bracelet.
He takes my wrist in his hands, gently, reverently, and fastens it in place.
I stare at it, something unsettlingly intimate about the way it sits against my skin, its weight too light to be innocent.
“I—Mason, it’s beautiful, but?—”
His fingers brush against my pulse, slow and deliberate, his voice quiet, rough, weighted with something unspoken.
“If you ever feel unsafe,” he murmurs, tapping the small, hidden clasp, “press this button.” His thumb trails over the cool metal, and when he lifts his gaze to mine, there’s nothing casual about it.
His next words are a promise and a warning all at once.
“And I’ll find you. No matter where you are.”
My stomach flips.
Not because of the bracelet. Not because of the implication of what it is—a tracker, a lifeline, a tether that ensures he never loses me.
But because of the way he’s looking at me.
Like the idea of something happening to me is unbearable.
Like he would burn the entire world down to get to me if I ever needed him.
I swallow. Hard.
“Is this a tracker?” I ask, my voice quieter than I intend. “Are you going to be following me around everywhere, Mason?”
His hand tightens over mine, but his voice is softer now, steadier.
“This is your panic button,” he corrects. “It’s more for my own peace of mind.”
I blink up at him, but he just shakes his head, his jaw clenching like he’s barely holding something back.
“You insist on going to work,” he says, dark eyes flickering with frustration, “and you refuse my bodyguards. So you promise me right now—you’ll use this if anything happens.”
I feel the weight of it now.
Not the bracelet.
The fear behind it.
The helplessness that Mason Ironside doesn’t know how to reconcile.
I see it in the way he watches me.
In the way he doesn’t trust this peace, the way he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
He’s already imagining the worst-case scenario.
Already preparing for it.
And it breaks something in me.
I exhale shakily, curling my fingers around his hand. “I promise,” I whisper.
Mason nods once, but I see it—the tension in his shoulders doesn’t ease, the darkness in his gaze doesn’t fade.
Because a promise won’t stop his fear.
A bracelet won’t erase the monsters in his head.
But when he leans in, his lips brushing against my temple, his voice barely audible, I know that none of this is about control.
It’s about survival.
It’s about me.
“Good,” he breathes against my skin.
“Because I don’t plan on losing you.”