Page 24 of Mason

I’ve been here before.

But every encounter after the divorce has taken on a life of its own. His assaults are escalating, his madness consuming. And no one will listen.

I swore I’d never be here again.

David tilts his head, studying me, relishing my fear—my helplessness.

“Where’s all that fight now, hmm?” His thumb drags along my cheekbone, the touch sickeningly gentle. “You were always at your best when you were scared.”

A breath shudders out of me as he winds a hand around my throat and starts to squeeze. Light at first, but I know how this goes. If I fight him, he’ll squeeze harder.

Maybe today will be the day he finally cuts off my air and rids me of this world.

His other hand goes to the neckline of my dress, and with one swift motion, he rips it down the front.

Humiliation burns through me.

It’s exhausting, standing here, completely exposed to him.

I never got into the habit of wearing a bra at home—opting for comfort over anything else—and I’ve never regretted that decision more than I do now.

David buries his head between my breasts, inhaling, licking, kissing, sucking.

I think I’ll throw up.

Then—a click.

And three words that change my world forever.

“Let. Her. Go.”

10

MASON

Idrive away, but my mind doesn’t come with me.

The road stretches ahead, dark and empty—the kind of silence that should be comforting after days spent in prison, but it isn’t. It’s heavy. Thick with need. Because no matter how many miles I put between me and Shelby Monroe’s house, she’s still there. Still lingering in my head like an unfinished sentence.

I tighten my grip on the wheel, jaw clenching as I push past the speed limit, as if I can outrun the thought of her. But it doesn’t work.

The image of her standing in that doorway—arms crossed, eyes wary but strong—won’t leave me. The way she watched me. The way I watched her. I knew, walking out that door, that I was leaving something unfinished.

I don’t have her number. I don’t even have an excuse to turn the car around. But I don’t need one, because my mind has already formulated why I’m going back. I already know what I’m going to tell her, and it makes reasonable sense.

I’m an enforcer. I’m a protector. It’s in my nature to want to help. Or so I tell myself.

And that woman needs protecting more than any damn person I’ve ever come across.

I tell myself it’s for Clay’s sake, and I don’t even try to convince myself otherwise as I toy with the idea of turning back.

Five minutes out, I slam my foot on the brakes and yank the wheel to the side of the road. The tires screech against the asphalt, and I sit there, breathing hard, gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing tethering me to reason.

I need to go back.

Because she’s alone. Because I don’t like the way she seemed terrified of the shadows surrounding her. Because I know a hunted woman when I see one—and Shelby Monroe is walking around with a target on her back.

The least I can do is offer two soldiers to stand at the front of her house and ward off her ex should he show up. Going by what she told me about the man, he’s capable of anything.

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