Page 196 of Mason

He stops in front of me. Still. Silent. Eyes locked on mine.

“You’re saying… you’re pregnant.”

“Yes.”

“And it’s mine.”

I blink. “Mason, who else’s?—?”

“Right,” he cuts in, holding up a hand like he’s trying to physically stop the avalanche of emotions steamrolling his brain. “Sorry. No. Yeah. Of course it’s mine. I just—I need a minute.”

He turns in a slow circle like he’s looking for the nearest exit or an emergency whiskey stash.

Possibly both.

I wait.

Because this man has handled bloodbaths with a poker face. He’s stared down death itself with barely a blink. And now? He’s being taken out by one pink line… then two.

“I didn’t plan this,” I say quietly.

He freezes.

Turns.

And then he kneels in front of me.

Just like that.

Drops to the ground like he’s reverent. Like I’m holy.

I swallow. “Mason…”

His hands come up—tentative, gentle—and rest on my hips. His voice is wrecked.

“You’re carrying something that’s half you,” he whispers, “and half me.”

I nod.

He stares at my stomach like it’s sacred. Like he can already see her. Feel her.

“I’ve never done anything in my life to deserve this,” he says, eyes shining now. “But if you let me—I will spend the rest of my days making sure this child knows what safety feels like.”

I reach for him, my fingers threading through his hair.

“You already are,” I whisper.

He presses his forehead to my belly.

“I swear to God,” he murmurs, “if it’s a girl, I’m building a moat. A literal moat, Shelby. I’m not joking. There will be background checks. Facial recognition software. Maybe a bear.”

I laugh, watery and warm. “A bear?”

“I have contacts.”

“You are deranged.”

“I’m in love,” he corrects, looking up at me. “With you. With this. With everything I didn’t know I needed until you walked into my life and tore it apart.”

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