40. Shelby
40
SHELBY
N ot everything bleeds on the outside.
I’ve got bandages across my ribs. Stitches down my side. Bruises like ink blots along my arms.
All things visible. Explainable.
It’s the other pain that’s harder to talk about.
The one that whispers to me that I’m weak now.
I’m ruined.
I’ll never be the same again.
I’m curled up on the couch in the pool house, wrapped in a blanket I’ve barely let go of since I got home. It smells like cedarwood. I think it’s Mason’s—because it smells like him.
Which somehow makes it worse.
He’s trying so hard. Always here. Always careful with me, like I’m some porcelain thing he doesn’t know how to hold.
But I hate that I flinch when he gets too close.
I hate that I can’t be who I was before this happened.
Strong.
Steady.
Untouchable.
I managed to survive years married to a narcissist. Then, in a matter of hours, I was reduced to this massive wreck.
Now, I’m just this hollow girl wrapped in wool, staring at the ceiling like it’s going to give me the answers that I need.
When the knock comes, I already know it’s him.
He doesn’t knock like anyone else.
It’s soft. Steady.
Polite in a way that makes me feel guilty. It’s his own damn house, and he feels the need to knock.
I shuffle over and open the door.
Mason’s standing there in a black hoodie, hands in his pockets, jaw tense.
His eyes—God, those eyes —scan my face like he’s afraid of what he’ll see.
I don’t say anything.
Just walk back to the couch and sink into it like it’s the only place that doesn’t hurt.
I feel him follow me in. He doesn’t come too close.
“I just wanted to check in,” he says quietly.
I nod, fingers curled in the edge of the blanket.
Silence stretches between us.
I can feel him wanting to help. Wanting to fix this.
Me.
But how do you fix something that doesn’t even know what it is anymore?
“I, uh… I have to step out for a few hours,” he says after a minute, tone careful. “But I’m not leaving you alone.”
I look up.
He pulls a phone from his pocket and sets it gently on the coffee table.
“Mia and Maxine are both in there,” he says. “On speed dial. I figured you might… I don’t know. Want someone to talk to. Someone who gets it.”
My throat tightens. “You didn’t have to?—”
“I know,” he cuts in, voice rough. “But maybe… maybe I’m not the best person for you to be around right now.”
The words land like a blade to the chest.
They don’t just sting—they break something.
Because it means he’s not just carrying his own guilt—he’s carrying mine, too.
And it guts me.
Because I know Mason would never intentionally hurt me. I know he’d lay his life down before he’d let anyone else touch me again.
But that doesn’t stop the hurt.
It doesn’t stop the grief that lives beneath my skin like a bruise that’ll never heal.
He thinks he’s the problem.
He thinks he’s the thing I need to be protected from.
And the part that shatters me?
I don’t know how to convince him otherwise.
There’s so much pain inside me right now, it’s eating everything.
The light.
The warmth.
The parts of me that used to smile without flinching.
I watch him linger in the doorway like he’s balancing on the edge of some invisible cliff.
Like he wants to step back toward me. Say something that might fix this.
But he doesn’t.
He just nods once—tight, silent—and turns away.
And I don’t say goodbye.
Because I can’t.
Because my throat’s thick with the ache of wanting to reach for him and not knowing if I deserve to.
Because deep down, in the quiet, broken corners of my heart, I’m still wondering what the hell he sees in me at all?—
—when all I see is wreckage.
I’m dozing on the sofa when there’s a knock on the door.
I almost don’t answer it.
I assume Mason forgot something. But when I open the door, it’s not him.
A pretty strawberry blonde with mesmerizing blue eyes stands on my doorstep. Her hair is plaited in a messy French braid, and she doesn’t look a day over twenty.
She’s in jeans, combat boots, and an oversized sweater that says Hell Was Full So I Came Back.
The sight nearly pulls a laugh from me— almost.
Instead, a ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Faint, but real. The first in days.
Her eyes sweep over me—sharp, knowing. Then she holds up a paper bag.
“I’m Maxine. I brought sugar and sarcasm,” she says. “And I’m not leaving until you eat something and stop looking like a Victorian ghost bride.”
I blink. Then, unexpectedly, I laugh. A real one. Small, but there.
Maxine steps in like she owns the place and drops onto the armchair like we’re old friends.
She doesn’t hover. Doesn’t do pity.
Just talks—about Mia’s latest mood swing, about some insane stalker she had to scare off last week, about the psycho bitch who keyed her car.
She makes the world feel real again.
After a while, she nudges my foot.
“Come on, let’s go raid the main house. I’m craving something cheesy and bad for my cholesterol.”
I frown. “Mason’s not here. We probably shouldn’t…”
“We absolutely should,” she says, already standing. “He gave us unrestricted access. So we’re taking full advantage.”
I hesitate, still half-curled in my blanket cocoon.
She grins. “We can even wallow in self-pity while we wait for your broody knight to return from his mysterious little mission .”
“Mission?” I echo, rising slowly to follow her.
“He didn’t tell you?” she asks, her eyes widening just enough to sting.
I shake my head as we walk side by side through the garden, wind curling around our ankles like it’s trying to listen in.
“He’s out hunting,” she says, matter-of-fact—like she’s talking about grocery shopping. “He tends to get a little... unhinged when someone puts their hands on what’s his.”
She shoots me a sideways smirk that’s full of mischief, and I can’t stop myself from wondering how Mason manages this little hellion.
I could swear this whole evening was pre-planned.
Maxine moves like a woman on a mission, heading straight for the pantry and pulling out everything she needs—cheese, jalapenos, sour cream, salsa, a full bag of tortilla chips.
Before I know it, she’s lining a tray like she’s done it a hundred times, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, not asking where anything is—just knowing.
I sit at the counter, watching her in quiet awe.
There’s something seamless about the way she moves. Confident. Grounded.
Like this kitchen belongs to her.
Like she belongs here.
“You don’t live here.”
It comes out more like a question than a statement—soft, hesitant, blurted before I can pull it back.
Because watching her work this space with so much ease, it doesn’t make sense.
If this isn’t her home, how does she seem like the only one in the world who could own it?
Maxine glances over her shoulder, cracking open the nacho bag. She shrugs. “Used to come over every weekend for Nacho Night.”
She says it casually, but her voice catches halfway through. Just enough to notice.
“You haven’t done it since I’ve been here,” I say carefully.
She pauses. Then nods.
“Yeah. We don’t really do it anymore.” A beat. Then: “My sisters and I… we went through a rough patch.”
It’s the first time all night I’ve seen her falter.
That electric, firecracker energy of hers dims for a second, like someone flipped a switch.
“I was… away for a while,” she adds, her voice lower now. “And Sophia—my sister—we lost her.”
The room shifts with the weight of that confession.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, standing from my stool and walking to her, hesitant but pulled forward by instinct. She doesn’t feel like a stranger. Not anymore.
But I don’t know how to hold her grief.
I can’t even hold my own.
Maxine wipes her eyes with the back of her sleeve and forces a shaky laugh. “Look at me. I came here to drag you out of the pit, and now I’m dragging you into mine.”
“You don’t have to be sorry about anything,” I say quietly.
I place a hand on her shoulder. A soft squeeze—reassurance, or maybe just a reminder that she’s not alone.
She looks at me then, eyes glassy, but full of something strong. Something solid.
“I’m really sorry for what happened to you, Shelby,” she says gently. “But if it helps… it does get better. Not all at once. Not neatly. But eventually, you’ll wake up one day and the air won’t feel so heavy.”
I swallow hard.
Her words settle deep in my chest.
Because she says them like someone who knows.
Maxine doesn’t need to tell me more.
She’s already told me enough.
Then the soft rhythm of heels on marble pulls both of us out of the moment.
Mia rounds the corner, holding a bottle of wine overhead like she just won a prize.
“I came as soon as I could,” she announces. “Where’s the party at?”
Maxine clears her throat and gives me a wink, already reclaiming her spark.
And for the first time since I woke up in that hospital bed—surrounded by the ghosts of everything I lost?—
I start to feel like maybe I haven’t lost everything after all.
Somehow, without asking for it, I’ve found a sisterhood.
Or maybe…
It found me.
Mason has surrounded himself with some of the best people I’ve ever met.
It surprises me, if I’m honest. A man like him—so guarded, so sharp-edged—I never would’ve guessed his circle would feel like a sanctuary. But Maxine and Mia?
They’re nothing like I expected.
They're fire and softness. Grit and grace.
Beautiful, grounded, real. The kind of women who’ve seen too much and somehow came out of it kinder instead of crueler.
Though… there’s something jittery beneath Maxine’s surface.
A barely-there twitch in her fingers.
A flash in her eyes when the room goes too quiet.
I recognize it. Because survivors have a frequency all their own.
And we hear each other even when no one else does.
We’re all curled up in Mason’s living room now, warm lights glowing overhead, the lingering smell of nachos in the air—cheese, spice, butter.
But even with the spread we laid out, it wasn’t enough.
The comfort food wasn’t comforting enough.
So we ordered pizza.
We needed the extra grease.
Something to soak up whatever feelings are still sitting in our stomachs like stones.
When the buzzer rings, the sound slices through the calm like a knife.
Mia sets her plate down with a soft clink and hops up, already moving toward the front of the house.
“That’s got to be the pizza,” she says over her shoulder. “Thank God! I’m famished!”
Maxine and I exchange a glance, but we don’t follow.
There’s something peaceful about this moment. About the silence that stretches between us without pressure to fill it.
For once, the quiet feels shared—safe.
But then?—
We hear voices.
Mia’s, first. Light. A little too bright.
Then something else. Lower. Masculine.
The tone not quite right.
Maxine straightens.
My stomach twists.
The air changes.
We both rise at the same time, instincts clicking into place.
I follow Maxine down the hallway, the soft pad of our feet against marble the only sound until we round the corner?—
—and see Mia standing in the open doorway.
And there?—
Standing across from her like fate itself just showed up uninvited?—
Is Saxon North.
Again.
Of course it had to be him.
Maxine stiffens beside me.
He raises an eyebrow. “Wow. It’s a full house tonight. All my favourite ladies in one place.”
Maxine folds her arms. “Why the fuck are you here? Is this just the universe’s idea of a bad joke?”
Saxon smirks. “Not your turn tonight, honey.”
He gives Maxine a wink that could melt the pants off any other person, but has the opposite effect on her.
Maxine narrows her eyes. “Or maybe you’re cursed with proximity to badass women who’d rather be caught dead than in the company of a government employee.”
I blink between them.
And realize, very quickly?—
That I’m not the only one in this damn house with unresolved tension.