37. Mason
37
MASON
S he falls asleep with the words still hanging in the air.
But I think I love you.
Jesus Christ.
I sit there, frozen, as her breathing evens out, her lashes fluttering once before her eyes drift closed again. It’s not the pain meds putting her under this time—it’s the exhaustion, the kind that crawls into your bones and shuts your body down after you’ve survived hell.
And she did survive.
Barely.
The machines beep softly in the background, an irritating, rhythmic reminder that she’s alive. That I didn’t lose her. That I got there in time.
Barely.
My elbows rest on my knees, hands hanging useless between them, and I stare at the tile floor like it’s got the answers I’m too much of a coward to say out loud.
Did she mean it?
Did Shelby actually mean that?
Or was it just the haze of trauma, the drugs in her bloodstream, the aftershock of waking up alive when she thought she was dead?
I can’t fucking tell.
She said it like it hurt. Like loving me was this terrifying thing she didn’t want to feel but couldn’t stop from happening.
And maybe that’s what guts me the most.
I’ve had women whisper they loved me before.
They didn’t mean it.
They loved the name. The danger. The lie.
Shelby doesn’t love lies. She hates them. She looks at the truth like it’s a blade she’s willing to fall on just to feel something real.
And now she’s lying here, broken and bruised and still bleeding on the inside, telling me she thinks she loves me.
I scrub a hand down my face, the scrape of my stubble biting at my palm. The guilt sits in my chest like concrete, heavy and immovable. I should’ve protected her. I should’ve never let her get that close to this world. To me.
But the second she walked into my life, all quiet fire and fierce independence, I knew I was screwed.
She got under my skin before I even realized it.
And now?
Now I can’t look at her without feeling like I’ve been cracked wide open.
I glance over.
She’s curled on her side, face turned toward me, strands of hair stuck to her damp forehead. Her hand twitches beneath the blanket, like she’s reaching for something even in sleep.
Probably safety.
Probably something I can’t give her.
Not without destroying everything.
I lean back in the chair, spine aching from hours of sitting, but I don’t move. Not far, anyway. Just enough to rest my head against the wall behind me.
The room is dim. Cold.
Too quiet.
And in that silence, my mind does what it always does—it spirals.
What the fuck is this?
I care about her. That much I know.
It’s in the way I can’t sleep unless I know she’s okay.
In the way I nearly blacked out from rage when I found her—bloodied and barely breathing, strung up like some kind of fucking warning.
It’s in how I won’t think twice about putting a bullet in the skull of the bastard’s who did this to her.
But love? That’s a loaded word.
Love, to me, has always been a weakness. A liability. A leash someone could yank tight around your throat the second you start thinking with your heart instead of your head.
But looking at her now, so small and strong all at once, I don’t feel weak.
I just feel... fucking wrecked.
Because if I lose her, I won’t come back from it. That much I know.
I lean forward again, my eyes trained on her, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. That’s all I care about right now. Just that.
One breath at a time.
One moment where I don’t have to wonder if she’s still with me.
And even though she’s asleep—maybe especially because she’s asleep—I find myself whispering into the darkness, words I’d never have the guts to say if she could hear them.
“I think I love you too.”
It’s not an admission.
It’s a death sentence.
Because loving her means I have something to lose.
Shelby’s coming home today. That’s what they tell us, like it’s some kind of victory.
And maybe it is.
But it doesn’t feel like one.
I lean against the edge of the window, arms folded, watching her from across the room while she wrestles with the buttons of her shirt. Her movements are stiff, shaky—frustrated as hell. She won’t let me help, won’t even look at me while she dresses. Instead, she turns her back to me and dresses quietly, her movements jerky at best.
Not that I haven’t seen her body before.
But that was before.
Before the bruises. Before the bandages. Before the world carved its mark into her flesh and left me the job of pretending I could fix it.
“I can do it,” she mutters, yanking at the buttons again. Her hands tremble.
I don’t move. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re staring.”
I say nothing, because she’s right.
She’s all bones and bandages and bruises now, a ghost of the fire she used to carry in her eyes—and it guts me. I hate that she flinches when I move too close. I hate that she hides her pain like it’s something to be ashamed of.
But mostly, I hate that she thinks I see her any differently.
Her hands fumble again, and she curses under her breath, voice tight.
I push off the window and take one step toward her.
“Don’t,” she snaps, eyes flashing to mine. “I said I’ve got it.”
I freeze.
Her breathing’s shallow, her cheeks flushed with sharp embarrassment.
“Shelby—”
“I don’t want your fucking pity, Mason.”
That stops me cold.
For a second, I just stand there, trying not to let the words hit too deep. But they do.
Because it’s not pity. I lower my voice, careful, steady. “It’s not pity.”
She won’t look at me.
Keeps her eyes on the buttons like they’re the only thing holding her together.
“I don’t need you to look at me like I’m some wounded animal. Like I’m going to break if you breathe wrong.”
“I don’t think you’ll break,” I say quietly. “I think you already did. And you still came back.”
She flinches. I regret it instantly. But it’s the truth.
She gets the last button done, but her hands don’t stop shaking. She sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders curled in like she’s trying to fold herself into something smaller. Something easier to ignore.
But she’s not. Not to me.
I grab her coat from the hook, step closer, and crouch in front of her.
“I’m not going to touch you,” I say softly, “unless you tell me to.”
Her lips press together, her eyes flicking to mine for half a second before they dart away again.
She nods. Almost imperceptibly.
I help slide her arms through the sleeves, slow and careful like she’s made of glass. Not because I think she’s weak—but because I know what it feels like to carry pain in places no one can see. The kind that makes your own skin feel like a trap.
By the time we’re wheeled out of the room and into the lobby, she’s holding herself together by sheer force of will. She’s got that look in her eyes again—the one that says don’t look at me too long. Don’t ask me how I’m doing. Don’t try to fix me.
But I’m not going to stop watching.
I’m not going to stop being here.
Even when she’s trying like hell to make me go.
In the car, she’s quiet. Staring out the window, her fingers curled in the hem of her sleeve like she’s anchoring herself with it.
I drive with one hand on the wheel, the other flexing in my lap like it wants something to do—like it wants to reach for her.
But I don’t.
Because right now, the most important thing I can give her is space.
Space to come back to herself.
Space to trust that I’ll still be here when she does.
And maybe… maybe that’s what love looks like for people like us.
Not flowers or perfect timing.
Just staying.
Even when it hurts.
When we get home, she won’t let me help her out of the car.
The second I cut the engine, I reach for the handle to swing around to her side, but her voice stops me cold.
“I’ve got it.”
Her tone is flat. No venom, no warmth. Just… empty.
Like she left the softer parts of herself somewhere between the hospital and here.
I don’t argue. I just sit there, jaw tight, watching as she opens the door and steps out slowly, cautiously, like her own body is foreign to her. Like the ground might shift beneath her feet if she puts too much trust in it.
She’s wearing my hoodie—too big on her now—and the sleeves swallow her hands, her frame drowning in fabric. It pisses me off how small she looks. Not delicate. Diminished.
The Shelby I met didn’t walk—she stormed. She had opinions, sharp comebacks, a spine like steel.
This Shelby walks toward the pool house like a shadow. Silent. Hollow.
I want to reach for her. I want to carry her inside, tuck her under every blanket I own, sit beside her like a fucking guard dog until she starts to feel safe again.
But she won’t let me.
So I follow.
A few steps behind.
Just close enough that if her knees give out, I’ll catch her before she hits the ground.
But she doesn’t stumble.
She makes it to the door, turns the knob, steps inside like she’s been holding her breath for hours and this is the only place she can finally exhale.
I hesitate in the doorway. The pool house is warm, quiet. Familiar.
It still doesn’t feel like enough.
She turns to face me, and the look in her eyes punches the air from my lungs.
“I just want to be alone.”
It’s not cruel or cold.
It’s just… honest.
And that hurts more.
I nod, jaw clenched, words clawing their way up my throat and dying on my tongue. I want to say I understand. I want to tell her I’ll be outside if she needs me, that I won’t go far.
But she already knows that.
So I step back. Close the door. And walk away.
Out of the pool house. Through the garden. Across the yard.
The second I step into my own place, the calm cracks.
All that restraint I’ve been gripping like a live wire? Gone.
My fists slam into the wall before I even think.
The impact rattles a picture frame. A crack splits the plaster. I don’t care.
Rage floods my veins, hot and fast and toxic.
Because she’s home, but she’s not home.
She’s back, but she’s not okay.
And some sick fuck is walking around breathing after what they did to her.
That’s not going to stand.
I pace the length of the kitchen like a caged animal, chest heaving, hands flexing. I’ve been patient. I’ve played the role—gentle, careful, quiet.
But that part of me—the one with blood on his hands and names carved into his bones—is done waiting.
Someone hurt her. Broke her. Made her flinch from me.
And I’m going to burn their fucking world to the ground for it.
One name, one bullet, one soul at a time.