Page 41 of Mason

They look at you like they’re measuring worth. Like they’re deciding whether your body is good enough, your voice soft enough, your heartsmallenough to fit inside their narrow world.

But Mason?

He doesn’t look at me like a prize. Or a problem.

He looks at me like I’m the last honest thing in a world built on lies.

Like every scar I carry only proves I survived.

He doesn’t flinch at the dark.

He recognizes it.

Welcomes it.

Wants it.

He doesn’t ask me to be smaller, quieter, sweeter. He doesn’t want the watered-down version of me.

He wants the girl who fought her way out. The one who’s still fighting.

And when his eyes are on me—heavy, deliberate, burning—I don’t feel exposed.

I feelchosen.

By a man who’s just as ruined as I am.

And it’s the first time in a long time that someone’s accepted me for who I am, unconditionally.

The smell of coffee drifts through the air as I step into the kitchen, finding Mason already at the counter, flipping pancakes like a goddamn pro.

He’s shirtless, hair slightly mussed, sweatpants slung low on his hips.

Unfair.

I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms. “Didn’t peg you for the domestic type.”

He smirks, not looking away from the pan. “I’m not. But I can feed a woman after I fuck her senseless.”

Heat blooms in my cheeks, but I roll my eyes, shaking my head as I step forward. “Such generosity.”

Mason turns, handing me a plate stacked with pancakes, a little crispy around the edges. I take it, sitting across from him at the kitchen island as he slides into the stool beside me.

I take another bite of my pancake, barely stifling the moan that threatens to escape.

“This is really good,” I mumble around my food, genuinely surprised. The pancakes are golden, fluffy, with the perfect balance of sweetness and crisp edges.

I don’t know many men who can even boil an egg, let alone make pancakes from scratch.

Mason smirks, spearing a bite of his own. “Practice made this the perfect recipe.”

I lift a brow. “Oh yeah?”

He nods. “Tested it on my nieces until I got it just right.”

I pause mid-chew, staring at him over my coffee cup.

Mason Ironside—lethal, brooding, sin on two legs—has nieces he makes pancakes for.

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