Page 58 of Mason

I take a slow breath, exhaling through my nose, already anticipating what’s coming. The questions. The push. The unraveling of a past I don’t like talking about.

“He was David’s partner when I knew him,” I say finally, watching his reaction carefully. “I don’t know about now.”

Mason scoffs, making a sharp turn. “Definitely not his partner now.”

“You know what I mean,” I murmur, my fingers curling against my lap.

A beat of silence, then—“What was that about ledgers?” His tone is edged with something sharp, a tension that wasn’t there before. “What were you warning Saxon about?”

I sigh, pressing my head back against the seat. The memories claw their way to the surface, unwelcome and suffocating.

“I tried to leave David so many times,” I say, voice quieter than I intend. “Every time, he dragged me back. Until it felt like there was no way out. He had this way of making me feel like leaving wasn’t an option—like I didn’t even belong to myself.”

Mason’s grip on the wheel tightens. I notice the small tick in his jaw, the way his fingers flex against the leather, like he’s keeping himself from reacting.

I glance down at my hands. “A few times, I confided in Saxon—appealed to his human side. I thought he’d help. He wasalways the level-headed one between them, the one who didn’t seem entirely corrupt.”

“And he didn’t,” Mason says flatly.

I shake my head, swallowing down the bitterness. “No. He brushed me off. Said David was under a lot of stress, that things would get better.”

“But they didn’t.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “No. He just got worse. And I was at the end of my rope.” I stare out the window, watching the blur of the city, feeling the weight of those years pressing down on me. “So I did the only thing I could think of. I gathered everything I had—everything I knew could ruin him—and I went to Saxon.”

Mason’s eyes flick toward me then, the first real glance since this conversation started. “What kind of things?”

“The kind that would land David in prison.” My voice is calm, but my heart is hammering in my chest. “I knew he was involved in things—shady dealings, criminals, under-the-table agreements. I had evidence, dates, names. I laid it all out for Saxon, thinking he would finally do something. Help me, somehow.”

Mason doesn’t speak, just lets me continue, but I can feel the way he’s processing every word.

“If there was anything I knew for certain, it was that I’d only ever be free of David under one of two circumstances.” I turn to look at him then, my voice steady despite the weight of the truth. “Either he was in jail, or he was dead.”

His expression remains unreadable, but something flickers in his eyes—something dark and knowing. He doesn’t have to say it. We both know which of those scenarios played out. And I guess he must be wondering if that was what was on my mind when I pulled that trigger.

“What happened?” he asks, voice low.

I swallow, gripping my hands together. “Saxon listened. He took notes. He assured me something would get done. He told me to sit tight and not tell anyone else.”

A pause. Then—“Yet nothing was done,” Mason murmurs, already knowing the answer.

“Nothing was done,” I confirm. “I was destined to remain tethered to David Eddy until something drastic happened.”

Mason exhales slowly, like he’s keeping himself from saying something he’ll regret. The car slows as we hit a red light, and I see the heat in his gaze as he finally turns his head toward me. The quiet fury beneath the surface.

“What about the police?” he asks. “He was a federal agent, but the police—did you ever go to them?”

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Every complaint I ever filed went missing.Every single one.” I shake my head, my throat tightening at the sheer helplessness of it all. “David’s reach was magnificent, if nothing else. He had friends everywhere.”

Mason doesn’t respond right away. His fingers tighten around the wheel, his knuckles pale with the effort of keeping himself in check. For a moment, I swear I see it—the shift in his posture, the calculation in his gaze. Like he’s already mapping out a route, already deciding whose blood needs to be spilled to balance the scales.

The light turns green, and he exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders back, his grip loosening just enough to keep the car moving forward instead of veering toward destruction. It’s a quiet, controlled fury—the kind that doesn’t explode. It simmers, waiting for the right moment to strike.

I don’t know what kind of man Mason Ironside is. Not fully. But I know this—he’s not the type to forget. And that? That means everything.

18

MASON

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