Page 54 of Mason

Saxon doesn’t move. Doesn’t react.

But I see the way his jaw tightens, the way his nostrils flare just slightly, the way his fingers flex at his sides like he’s resisting the urge to do something.

Shelby leans in closer, her lips curling in something that isn’t quite a smirk—more like a challenge.

“Maybe you should check his basement. Or his fucking ledgers. Because if he's missing, Saxon, it’s probably because he finally crossed the wrong people. Just like I warned you he would.”

Fuck.

She’s playing with fire, and I love her for it.

The air crackles, thick with the unspoken, a moment stretched tight, waiting to snap.

I watch them, watch the way they hold each other’s stares—Shelby, spitting fury and defiance; Saxon, cold calculation barely reined in beneath the surface.

But this needs to end.

So I step in, my voice even, cutting through the static before something detonates. “We’re going to miss that scheduled visit with your brother if we don’t get going,” I say, making it sound casual even though it’s anything but.

We weren’t meant to be going anywhere together, but now we are. Because we need an out.

Shelby doesn’t hesitate.

She straightens, rolls her shoulders back, and breaks the silent war between them with a single, deliberate movement.

She turns her back on Saxon.

The ultimate dismissal.

Then she walks to the front door, closes it slowly, deliberately, before sweeping down the two steps to get to me.

Her expression is set, unreadable, but the slight tremor in her fingers as she clenches them into fists tells me she’s still burning. Still shaking with the adrenaline of confrontation.

She stops at my side, lifts her chin, and speaks—her voice smooth, cool, a final fuck you wrapped in something deceptively polite.

“I’m ready.”

She doesn’t look back.

Doesn’t acknowledge Saxon again.

Just follows me down the path, out to my car, and steps in without another word.

I don’t look back either.

But I can feel Saxon’s gaze drilling into my spine.

And I know—this isn’t over.

Not by a fucking long shot.

17

SHELBY

Istare out the windshield, my breath shallow, uneven, my vision narrowing until all I see is the blurred motion of the world passing by.

The houses, the street signs, the sidewalks—they all smear together, blending into something unrecognizable, something distant that I can’t focus on.

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