Page 20 of Mason

Framing him for murder? That’s exactly the kind of move David would make. A way to isolate me, to strip away my last line of defense. Because that’s what Clay is. He’s not just my little brother—he’s my protector. My only constant. The only person who has ever put me first.

He was my protector when we were kids, standing between me and the world when things got too hard. He took the hits soI didn’t have to. He carried burdens I didn’t even know about, because that’s what Clay does.

And now Clay is in jail. Not because he’s guilty, but because he did what he’s always done—he tried to protect me.

And if I don’t do something soon, I’m going to lose him for good.

The weight of that realization sits heavy in my chest, pressing down like a hand squeezing the air from my lungs. We’ve been fighting this battle alone for so long, screaming into a void where no one listens. Every plea for help, every report we filed—it was like shouting underwater. Muffled. Ignored. Unbelievable.

Because how do you prove the kind of abuse that doesn’t leave bruises? How do you convince people that a monster doesn’t have to snarl and swing his fists? That sometimes, the most dangerous ones are the men who smile too easily, who shake hands too firmly, who wear their charm like a second skin?

No one ever wanted to hear it. Not the cops, not the courts, not the so-called experts who chalked my fear up to paranoia.You’re exaggerating, Ms. Monroe. Has he ever hit you?

As if broken bones are the only proof of a shattered life. As if fear itself isn’t a cage just as confining as any lock and key.

And then Mason Ironside walks through my front door.

A man I’ve never met. A man whose presence takes up space. He looks at me like he sees right through the mask I wear, past the forced composure, past the years of exhaustion, straight into the raw desperation I keep buried beneath the surface.

Then he tells me he’s already hired a lawyer for Clay.

I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until my chest burns from the lack of air. I sit there, gripping the edge of the table, waiting for the catch. The fine print. The moment he tells me what this will cost, because nothing in this world comes free.Not mercy. Not justice. Not even belief. Because everything has a price, and no-one ever does anything for nothing.

But he doesn’t ask for anything.

He just says the words that no one else ever has—not the cops, not the lawyers, not the people who should have protected us from the beginning.

Somebody finally believes us.

Mason Ironside jotsdown his number on the notepad I slide across the table, his movements precise, deliberate. I glance down at the inked digits, noting the flow of his handwriting—steady, cursive, neat. Refined. Just like him.

It’s a strange contrast to the man himself.

His dark hair is an unruly mess, the kind that looks effortlessly styled, but I know better. It’s not the work of a mirror or a careful hand—it’s justhim, rugged, unbothered. His eyes, dark and watchful, track my movements as I rise and carry the teacups to the sink. I should feel uneasy under his gaze, the weight of it lingering, assessing. But I don’t.

There’s no edge of discomfort. No underlying threat.

David’s eyes always made me feel small, like I was under a microscope, waiting for my flaws to be dissected. Mason’s stare is different. It doesn’t shrink me. It doesn’t make me want to disappear. It makes me want to stand straight and roar in the face of adversity. This is a man I just met, and yet his company is the safest I’ve felt in a long time.

I steal a glance at him over my shoulder. His presence dominates the space, but not in an overbearing way. He’s justthere, unshaken, exuding something powerful without trying.

Do I care that he was just released from prison? Not really. My own brother is sitting in a cell—who am I to judge? And besides, prison doesn’t make the monster. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that the worst kind of men walk free every single day, hiding behind their polished shoes and perfect smiles.

Mason doesn’t hide behind anything.

“So, what’s next?” I ask, rinsing the cups under the stream of warm water, needing something to do with my hands.

“For Clay?” His voice is smooth, a slight rasp to the edges. “We wait. The lawyer’s already working on it, but it won’t be instant.”

I nod, shutting off the tap. The silence between us stretches, but it isn’t uncomfortable. It’s… charged.

I turn to face him fully, leaning against the counter. “And for you?”

His lips twitch at the corner, the ghost of a smirk. “For me?”

I cross my arms, tilting my head. “You’re out. Free. What happens now?”

Mason leans back in his chair, his broad shoulders shifting slightly. “I have some business to handle.”

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