Page 27 of Mason

My head spins, my body aching as I push myself up onto my elbows.

Shelby stands there, hands shaking, my gun still clutched tight in her grip. Her chest heaves, her breath ragged, her wide eyes locked on the body in front of her.

Then her knees give out.

Fuck.

She drops, shoulders shaking, hands clutching at her torn shirt, trying to hold herself together.

She doesn’t speak. Just presses her hands to her face, the sobs breaking free—raw and desperate.

I glance at the body, at the blood soaking into the floor, then back at the woman unraveling in front of me.

And the realization hits me.

She just killed a man.

With my gun.

Shelby has pulledherself together enough to attend to the blooming bruise at my temple. She hands me an ice pack, her fingers barely brushing mine, and I press it against the aching skin. The cold bites, numbing some of the throbbing, but my focus isn’t on the pain.

It’s on her.

She’s wrapped herself in a sweater, covering the torn fabric of her dress, but there’s no hiding the way her hands tremble as she rummages through the first aid kit. Her face is pale, her lips pressed into a tight line as she dabs antiseptic onto a cotton pad.

“This might sting,” she murmurs, kneeling in front of me.

Honey, that’s the least of our problems… there’s a dead man on your floor.

I barely flinch when she dabs at a cut on my cheekbone, but she still winces like she’s the one feeling it. Her fingers are soft, careful, but I see the way she forces herself to stay steady.

I let her work in silence, watching the way she moves, the way she takes slow, deliberate breaths like she’s trying to ground herself.

“You okay?” I ask, voice low.

Her hands still for a fraction of a second before she nods. “Yeah.”

She’s lying.

I don’t press her.

I let the ice pack drop into my lap and reach for the gauze she’s unrolling. She hesitates before handing it to me, her fingers cold despite the sweater draped over her shoulders. I startwrapping my knuckles, the skin raw from the fight, while she picks at the frayed sleeve of her sweater.

The silence stretches.

Then she starts fidgeting.

Her knee bounces. Her fingers curl and uncurl in her lap.

“Shelby.”

She flinches at the sound of her name, eyes flicking up to mine.

I narrow my gaze. “You need to call the cops.”

Her breath catches, and just like that, all the blood drains from her face.

“No,” she says instantly. Too fast. Too sharp.

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