Page 34 of Mason

Mason pushes the door open, flipping on the overhead lights. “You can shower here. There are towels in the cabinet, and I’ll grab you something to change into.”

I hesitate. “Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude.”

His brows pull together like the idea is absurd. “Shelby, you just killed a man. You can take a shower.”

Right.

I nod, stepping inside. The door clicks shut behind me, and for the first time in what feels like hours, I’m alone.

I let out a breath and turn in slow circles, taking in the space. It’s spotless. Minimalistic but expensive. A huge sectional takes up most of the living room, a mounted TV above the fireplace, a fully stocked kitchenette to the side.

But what really draws me in is the bathroom.

The shower is glass-enclosed, massive, with rainfall fixtures and walls lined with soft gray stone. When I turn the knob, hot water immediately floods the space, steam curling against my skin.

I don’t even bother undressing properly. I peel my ruined dress off like a second skin, stepping beneath the spray, letting the water scorch away the night.

David’s blood drains off me.

The feel of his hands on me? That will take longer.

When I shut the water off, I reach for a fluffy white towel from the stack on the counter, drying myself off before I pull the towel tight around my body and emerge from the bathroom and into the bedroom. A neatly folded pile of clothes waits for me at the end of the bed—Mason’s clothes.

I press my lips together as I slip into the oversized sweatpants and T-shirt. Even with my ample curves, I’m swimming in the soft, worn fabric that smells faintly of him. I roll the waistband a few times to keep them from sliding off before tying the drawstring tight.

I catch my reflection in the mirror.

My damp hair clings to my face, my eyes shadowed, hollowed out by exhaustion. I look like a ghost of myself—someone I used to be but don’t quite recognize anymore.

It’s the first time in years I’ve felt free from David’s reach, but even in death, he lingers. His presence is woven into my skin, his shadow stretching long behind me, clinging like a curse that refuses to lift.

I exhale, pressing my palms against the cool counter, grounding myself before stepping out of the pool house. The night air is brisk against my skin, raising a trail of goosebumps down my arms. I rub at them absently, my gaze drifting toward the main house.

Mason is in there, waiting for me.

I chew my lip, hesitating at the edge of the pathway. My pulse flutters uneasily, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on my chest. I don’t belong here. Not in his space. Not in his world. But I can’t bring myself to turn back.

Summoning what little courage I have left, I make my way to the back door.

And then I pause, fingers hovering just over the glass.

For a moment, I consider walking away.

Then, before I can second-guess myself, I knock.

Footsteps sound from inside, slow and measured, and then Mason pulls it open, standing there in nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants, his chest bare, his hair slightly mussed like he just ran a hand through it.

My stomach clenches painfully.

He eyes me, then quirks a brow. “You didn’t have to knock.”

I shift on my feet. “I don’t know who else lives here.”

His lips twitch, amused. “I live alone.”

Heat crawls up my neck, and I suddenly feel ridiculous for the formality.

He steps aside, letting me in, and the warmth of the house instantly wraps around me. The air smells like leather, like cedar and darkness. It smells like Mason.

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