Page 73 of Mason

“Jesus. First day out and I’m already planning a murder. Maybe I should’ve stayed inside.”

A soft laugh escapes me, breaking the tension. “You’re impossible.”

He smirks. “But you love me for it.”

I roll my eyes, but he’s right. I do. And I always will.

Because no matter how much time passes, no matter how many ghosts haunt us, we will always beus—brother and sister.

Battle-worn, but unbreakable.

And nothing—not prison, not fire, not even the weight of the past—will ever change that.

Mason’s fingersfind a loose strand of my hair, twisting it between his fingertips before tucking it behind my ear. His touch lingers, rough knuckles grazing the curve of my cheek, his warmth seeping into my skin like fire meeting silk.

Then, without a word, he lifts me—effortless, like I weigh nothing at all—and sets me down onto the kitchen counter. My breath catches as the cool marble presses against the backs of my thighs, the contrast between it and the heat of Mason’s body sending a shiver up my spine.

He steps in, closing the space between us, his hips slotting against mine. There’s no hesitation, no second-guessing—just the steady press of him edging between my legs, the way his presencedemandsmy full attention.

I barely have time to process it before his lips brush against mine.

Soft at first. A tease.

Then, his tongue flicks across the seam of my lips, a silent request that has my breath stuttering, my fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt.

Clay is gone—out with Jayson, retrieving the remnants of his old life from the storage facility weshouldhave let go of years ago but somehow never did. It’s a place filled with backup drives and buried secrets, stacks of hard drives that survived fires, raids, and the slow, merciless passage of time.

Clay ismeticulouslike that. He doesn’t flinch when things go up in flames because heplansfor it. He adapts. He rebuilds. And just like that, he’s back at work, untouched by the destruction.

Me?

I’m still learning how to do that.

Mason pulls back just enough to look at me, his thumb sweeping across my cheek. “You smooth things over with your brother?”

I huff a quiet laugh, still a little breathless from the way his lips felt against mine. “Smooth things over? The guy seems to hero-worship you.”

Mason smirks against my mouth, his confidence as unshakable as ever, but it falters the second I tell himexactlywhat Clay said. The warning. The promise of violence should Mason ever so much as think about hurting me.

The smile vanishes.

Mason tilts his head, studying me with something unreadable in his eyes. “Do you think I’d ever hurt you, Shelby?”

The weight of the question settles between us. Heavy. Unspoken things pressing in around us like the walls have ears.

I exhale slowly. “I don’t know you well enough to know what you’re capable of.”

The truthlands—sharp and unwavering.

His jaw ticks, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t rush to reassure me. He just watches, waiting, as if he needs toseemy answer before he hears it.

“From what you’ve seen?” he asks, voice lower now, rougher.

I let my hand drift down his chest, over the crisp fabric of his shirt. My fingers map the ridges of muscle beneath—every solid plane and valley—feeling the slow, steadythumpof his heartbeat beneath my palm.

“From what I’ve seen,” I murmur, tracing the line of buttons until I find the top one and flick it open.

The movement is subtle, but Mason feels it—his breath catches, his fingers tightening against my thighs.

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