Page 17 of Mason

I can only imagine that on any given day, Shelby Monroe would light up a room. She has that kind of presence—effortless,undeniable. But right now, she looks like a woman balancing on the edge of something uncertain, something dangerous. When she steps into uncharted waters, she doesn’t glide—she sinks, and it takes effort to claw her way back up.

I watch her closely as she stands stiffly, then as she pours the tea, her hand trembling just enough for me to notice. The liquid sloshes slightly before she slides the cup toward me. Then she drops into the chair across from me, wrapping her hands around her own cup like it’s the only thing keeping her steady.

“He asked me to give you a message.”

Her fingers tighten around the porcelain, but she says nothing, just watches me with those sharp green eyes that burn like wildfire in the dim lighting.

I take a beat too long to continue, my gaze drifting around the room, absorbing details, stealing quick glances at her.Damn.She’s stunning in a way that sneaks up on you, gets under your skin before you realize what’s happening.

“And that is…” she prompts, her voice quieter now.

I lean forward slightly, my voice low and even. “He wants you to know that David knows where you are. And to be careful.”

Her inhale is sharp, controlled—but it’s the exhale that gives her away. Long, measured, like she’s been expecting this. Like she already knew.

When her eyes open again, they’re different. Fire. Blazing, unshaken. No fear. Just a slow-burning acceptance, the kind of reaction that tells me she’s been waiting for something like this for a long time.

But she doesn’t ask about the message. Doesn’t panic.

Instead, she surprises me.

“Why is my brother in jail?”

Her voice is calm—too calm—and I feel the tension roll up my spine.

“From what I hear, the charge is murder.”

I expect a reaction—shock, disbelief, even anger. But there’s nothing. Just a slight downward shift of her mouth. A flicker of something in her expression that I can’t quite read.

“You don’t seem surprised.”

She doesn’t look at me right away, just stares at the tea she’s barely touched, then finally lifts the cup to her lips. Her lips are something else—full, soft, that perfect bowtie shape that makes a man’s mind wander.

“That’s because I’m not.”

“Oh?”

She ignores my curiosity and ploughs on, distracted.

“I’ll need to get him a lawyer,” she murmurs, pushing her chair back to stand.

And for some unknown reason, before I can stop myself, my hand shoots out, landing lightly on top of hers before she can move away.

Her reaction is instant. Her head snaps toward me like she’s been hit with whiplash, her eyes wide and questioning. I pull my hand back just as fast, my pulse ticking in my jaw.

“I already did,” I say quickly, watching her carefully.

“Did what?”

“My lawyer will be out to see him tomorrow.”

Her brows furrow. “Why?”

Her suspicion is written all over her face now.She doesn’t trust me.And she shouldn’t. She doesn’t know me from Harry next door, so what would compel her to trust me?

“Why would you do that?” she presses. “You never did tell me—how do you know Clay?”

I exhale, leaning back slightly, knowing she’s waiting for the truth.

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