Chapter 3
MASON
Lily walks in and everything stands still.
The noise.
The movement.
The years I spent teaching myself not to want the things I can’t keep.
My focus narrows on her, everyone else fading into background blur while the target sharpens into perfect clarity.
She’s wearing what I think of as her work outfit—jeans, a fitted black top under a practical jacket, and boots. Her blond hair pulled back in a ponytail that gives me ideas.
Her eyes track the exits—front, back, kitchen—with the precision of someone who's been trained or traumatized.
Probably both. You spend enough time in war theater, you know the look.
She catalogs threats in the same methodical way I do, and it hits me like a punch to the gut because I recognize myself in her.
My dick hardens painfully just watching her survey the room. The tactical awareness, the controlled fear she's fighting to keep buried, the way her hand stays loose at her side like she's ready to move fast.
Fuck, she’s beautiful.
I lift my glass to my lips, but it’s her I’m drinking in.
It undoes me every time I see her—the curve of her throat, the way her golden hair catches light, her lush lips, and the slim strength of her body.
I can’t see them from here, but I know her eyes are the kind of hazel that go stormy when she’s moved.
Women? Usually I can take ’em or leave ’em. I’ve got two good hands.
Lily? There’s no fucking way I can leave her, and I’m not going to.