Page 61 of Mason

I watch her for a beat, then reach across the console, brushing my fingers lightly over the back of her hand. “Shelby, this isn’t me taking advantage of a bad situation. If you don’t want to stay, I’ll find you another place—somewhere secure, somewhere comfortable. And don’t forget, Clay will need somewhere to go when he gets out, also.”

She swallows hard, her gaze flicking to my hand, then back up to my face.

She nods, exhaling like she’s just made some huge decision, and then finally—finally—she pushes the door open and steps out.

I fall into step beside her, leading her toward the guest house nestled at the back of the property. Despite everything that’s happened—despite the loss, the exhaustion, the weight of the unknown pressing down on her—Shelby moves with a quiet resilience. Steady. Unyielding. She’s taken hit after hit, and yet she’s still standing.

But something about this doesn’t sit right.

I don’t know who set that fire.

I don’t know why they burned her life to the ground.

But I do know this—things like this don’t happen by accident. Not in my world. And not in hers, either. Not anymore.

A dead Fed doesn’t crawl out of the grave to exact revenge. So that means someone else is pulling the strings.

And I’m determined to find out who.

19

SAXON

The fire is beautiful.

A perfect orange bloom against the fading afternoon light, licking up the walls, devouring wood and memories in equal measure. The embers snap and pop, sending ash into the air like a final exhale. From where I stand, watching from the shadows beyond the police barricade, the blaze is mesmerizing.

Cleansing.

I adjust the cuff of my suit jacket and exhale slowly, feeling the heat on my face as I observe the controlled chaos. Firemen shout, working to tame the inferno, but it doesn’t matter. The damage is done.

Shelby’s home is gone.

And with it, every last shred of evidence that David Eddy met his end within those walls.

Because that’s what happened—I have no doubt about it. Somewhere in that small house, on this quiet street where the neighbors see everything but claim to know nothing, David died. I don’t know exactly who ended his life, or how it played out, but I know the bastard didn’t walk out of there alive.

The proof? His phone.

The last ping off the nearest cell tower was from this very location. After that?

Radio silence.

No more calls. No more movement. No signs of life.

So unlike the bastard.

If I know one thing for damn sure—David wasn’t the type to lay low. He wasn’t done with Shelby. Not even close.

Despite the numerous warnings I sent him about leaving her alone. We were able to keep his behavior toward her under wraps for so long, but eventually, there would come a time when someone would sit up and listen. I felt it in my bones.

If anything, he was more obsessed with her now than ever. More determined to get her back.

To‘reclaim her’, as he would so often say.

Like she was something he had ownership over—something he could claim with sheer force of will.

It was a power trip for David, the last desperate grasp of a man who had never once in his life been told no and had it actually stick.

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