Page 16 of Mason

There’s a steep silence from the other side of the door. Then shuffling. The sound of a lock sliding back.

The door cracks open just enough for me to see one green eye framed by dark lashes, suspicion written in it.

“Where’s my brother?” she whispers, her gaze flicking past me, scanning the street like she’s expecting someone—or something—to emerge from the shadows.

She seems just as jumpy as Clay.

“He’s fine,” I say evenly. “Can I come in?”

She hesitates. I can see the war in her mind, the instincts screaming at her not to trust me.

“I don’t know you,” she says finally.

I smirk. “I don’t know you either. For all I know, the second I step inside, you’ll jump my bones.”

She lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Ha! Fat chance.”

And then, without warning, she flings the door open and grabs my wrist, yanking me inside before slamming it shut behind me, her back pressed against the door like she’s keeping the world out.

That tells me everything I need to know.

She’s more afraid of what’s outside than what’s in here with her.

“How do you know Clay?” she demands, crossing her arms as she steps further into the house. She gestures for me to follow, her fear fading with every second that passes. “He doesn’t usually send friends.”

I follow her deeper into the house, trying to keep my focus on anything but the sway of her hips beneath that knee-length dress. But my gaze betrays me, locking onto the way the fabric clings to her, the way every step teases a hint of the curves underneath.

Damn testosterone. I wasn’t locked up that long. My dick doesn’t get the memo my brain is sending it as I continue to stare at her from behind.

The dress itself is modest, sleeves skimming past her shoulders, the soft fabric accentuating the golden tone of her skin. She moves with quiet confidence, but there’s something restless about her, something that makes it seem like she’s always prepared to bolt.

Shelby Monroe is not what I expected.

Her hair is the color of autumn, somewhere between brown and red, catching the light in deep amber waves. Her jaw issharp, slicing clean across a face that is striking in its severity—until you get to her eyes. Green, brilliant, alive. If the rest of her wasn’t enough to make a man stop in his tracks, those eyes would be.

If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say she can’t be a day over thirty. She’s not skinny like the women who chase trends, starving themselves for the illusion of beauty. And she’s not heavyset in the way people like to categorize. She’sample. The kind of full, soft strength that speaks of something real, something tangible. Something a man could get lost in.

Too bad I’m not here for that.

She moves toward the kitchen, lifting the kettle off the stove with a fluid, practiced motion. “Tea?”

I shrug. “Sure.”

I probably won’t drink it, but refusing would prolong the conversation. Best to let her talk, ease her into what I came here to say.

“Clay sent me to give you a message.”

She quirks an eyebrow, sliding into a chair at the small round dining table and motioning for me to do the same. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

I drop into the chair, letting my body settle in a way that says I won’t be staying long.

“Clay’s fine,” I say first, letting her absorb that before I continue. “But he’s in jail. Has been for the past week.”

She stills.

Then, “Jail?”

She says it like it’s a foreign concept, like she doesn’t quite recognize the word. Like it’s something she never expected to hear. And I get the distinct feeling that this conversation is about to take a turn.

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