Page 64 of Mason

“I was following protocol,” I say, even though it sounds pathetic the moment it leaves my mouth.

She steps closer, enough that I catch the full weight of her grief. Her rage. Her contempt.

“No,” she says. “You were protecting your partner.”

Silence stretches between us, taut and heavy. I wish I could tell her the truth—the full, brutal weight of it. That David Eddy has been under investigation since day one. He, and a dozen others tangled in a web of federal corruption that runs far deeper than she knows. But after the chaos with Altin Kadri, there’s no room for leaks. No margin for error. This operation is entering its second phase, and I’m not about to compromise it—especially now that she’s clearly aligned with Mason Ironside and the Gatti outfit. That kind of proximity? It’s a risk I can’t afford to take.

Ironside shifts slightly behind her, and I feel his stare crawl up my spine. I can’t help it—my hand twitches near my belt, where my badge used to mean something. Now it just feels heavy.

“You think we lit that house up?” I ask, softer this time.

“I think the Bureau has a way of tying up inconvenient ends,” she says. “And I think you came here to see if I was still breathing.”

“David’s missing,” I tell her. “We found blood in his apartment. Drag marks. I was wondering if you know anything about his whereabouts.”

She goes still. Her mouth parts—but she says nothing. It’s not relief. It’s not grief. It’s that hollow space in between.

“I didn’t come here to scare you,” I say.

Shelby’s chin lifts. Her spine straightens. “Are you the bearer of glad tidings, then? You don’t get brownie points for delivering the news just because the body count finally tipped in my favor.”

I swallow that one.

Behind her, Ironside still hasn’t said a word.

But when I glance at him again, there’s something in his face. Pride.

The quiet kind. The kind that saysshe doesn’t need me to step in. She’s already got him bleeding.

Shelby steps back. Not an invitation. Just enough room to shut the door.

“You can leave now, Agent North.”

And just like that, the door clicks shut in my face.

Not with fear, but with finality.

20

SHELBY

After a hot shower, I wrap myself in the thick silence of the guesthouse. The steam still clings to my skin, my pulse slower now, but the ache in my chest is alive and well—pressing against my ribs like it wants out.

I reach for another set of his clothes. More sweats. A T-shirt that smells faintly of cedar, earth, andhim. I pause before slipping it on, holding the shirt up to my face, burying my nose in the collar like a secret.

I inhale. Deep.

It’s instinctive, shameless. And it settles something in me. Like my nerves remember him even if my logic protests. Like the scent of him quiets parts of me that have never known peace.

He’s a stranger.

And yet somehow… it doesn’t feel that way.

With Mason, there’s no performance. No shrinking to make space. No filtering the volume of my thoughts. He looks at me like he already knows the worst parts—and doesn’t flinch. Like I’m not too much. Like I might even beenough.

I’ve never felt soseen. Soheard. Sovindicated.

It’s terrifying.

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