Page 8 of Mason

“You’re not in control in here, Mason,” he adds, his voice low, almost a growl. “The last thing you need right now is to make an enemy of me.”

His eyes are hard, cold, but I can see a flash of something—fear—behind them. Fear of what I might do. Fear of what he knows I’m capable of.

But that’s the thing. Ilikemaking people like him nervous.

“You done?” I ask, my tone heavy with amusement.

“I’m watching you, Ironside.” Saxon’s voice is tight, his body rigid. He’s itching for a reason to strike. I can see it in the way his fingers twitch at his side.

“Watch all you want,” I say, my voice turning cold.

His lips tighten, but he doesn’t respond right away. I can tell he’s trying to read me, trying to figure out how far I’m willing to push. But the truth is, I’ll push as far as I need to to get what I want.

“I’m watching you, Ironside. Like a hawk.”

I lean forward, my gaze locking with his. “You think you can alter the destiny I’ve already constructed?”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t answer.

Instead, he turns and walks to the door, his steps measured, controlled. The sound of his shoes scraping against the concrete floors echoes louder than his words ever could.

But before he leaves, he pauses.

“I will keep you in here until you rot if you push me,” he says, his voice almost a whisper, like a warning.

I sit back, letting the silence hang in the air like a thick fog, but I don’t say the words that linger on the tip of my tongue.

You can try.

4

GHOST

The prison yard is a cage, just like the walls inside, only colder, harsher. A slab of cracked concrete under my prison-issue shoes, barbed wire cutting the sky into slivers above me. Inmates move in packs—some playing cards on rusted tables, others throwing punches to settle debts. And then there’s me, standing against the wall, watching the world like a man who doesn’t belong.

Because I don’t.

They call me Ghost. Not my real name, but it might as well be. It’s the only name that matters now. It’s the name that’s been whispered on every news channel, printed in bold headlines, screamed through the bars of my cell.

Fourteen women.

Fourteen lives stolen.

That’s what they say I did.

The beautiful serial killer, they called me. The enigma. A monster hiding behind the face of an angel. The headlines practically wrote themselves, like they wanted me to be guilty just so they could keep selling the story.

The truth? No one gives a shit about the truth. They just want a villain they can sink their teeth into, a name to fear, a face to gawk at.

The cameras loved me. The world loved me.

Until they didn’t.

I was twenty-eight when they locked me up. Ten years ago now. They say a man hardens in prison, turns into something unrecognizable. But I was already an enigma before I stepped foot behind bars. Already the kind of man people couldn't figure out, couldn't pin down.

They only knew what they wanted to know.

That I was six-foot-four, built like a heavyweight boxer with a face carved out of marble. That women stared too long when I walked into a room. That I was polite, soft-spoken, a contradiction wrapped in flesh.

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