Page 82 of Mason

“You don’t need to leave.” He leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his broad chest, his watchful eyes locked on Clay. Mason doesn’t do anything without reason. This isn’t just about convenience—this is about keeping Clay close. Keeping me close.

Clay, ever the stubborn bastard, scoffs. “I appreciate the offer, but I can’t just squat in your guest house forever.”

“You’re not squatting,” Mason argues. “And I’d rather have you here.”

I can see it, the struggle in Clay’s expression—a war between wanting to move forward and knowing damn well that leaving means possibly losing access to the protection Mason provides.

I stay out of it.

I stay in the guest house with Clay, knowing full well that Mason would have me in his bed every single night if I let him. Instead, we’re reduced to snatches here and there whenever Clay is gone, which is most of the time.

Mason doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t push. For now.

I don’t realize how fragile this truce is until I suggest going back to work. I’ve put my life on hold for too long, and I need routine. I need structure.

“I think it’s time for me to go back to work,” I say casually, setting my coffee cup down as Mason looks over something on his phone. A normal conversation. A normal thought. Not like I’m asking his permission, but even to my own ears, that’s what it sounds like I’m doing.

Then Mason snaps his head up so fast I think he might have whiplash.

“What?” His voice is too calm. Too still.

I blink at him. “Back to work. Teaching. Kindergarten, you know? The thing I love? The thing that isn’t sitting in this house waiting for the walls to suffocate me?”

His entire body tenses. I can see it in the way his jaw locks, the way his fingers tighten around the phone like he’s about to crush it in his grip.

And then he loses his shit.

“Absolutely the fuck not.” His voice is low, dangerous, but it’s the way he pushes back from the table that has my heart hammering.

I cross my arms and raise one disbelieving brow. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Mason’s eyes are dark, unforgiving, as he gets up and stalks toward me, closing the space between us in three long strides. “You’re not putting yourself in danger like that.”

I scoff. “In danger from what, Mason? A bunch of rowdy kindergarten kids?” The image in my head is laughable. Only, Mason isn’t laughing.

His hands go to my waist, gripping just tight enough to make me feel held, possessed. “That doesn’t mean I’m not concerned for your safety.”

“You’re treating me like a prisoner, Mason,” I snap, frustration bubbling up in my chest. “I can’t just stay locked up in this house, doing nothing all day.”

Mason’s jaw flexes. He doesn’t get it—doesn’t understand that I need this. That I need to feel like my own person again, not just someone being sheltered from the world.

“I protect what’s mine,” he says, his voice gravel against my skin, his grip firm against my hips. “And you, Shelby? You’re mine.”

The air between us crackles.

Neither of us is backing down.

And then?—

“Okay, seriously, you two need to stop.”

Clay.

Mason and I both freeze, then turn as Clay leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, one brow raised in that I know all your secrets way.

I immediately step out of Mason’s grip, heat rushing to my face.

But Clay just shakes his head. “You don’t have to hide it from me.”

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