Page 140 of Mason

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.

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