Page 125 of Mason

Still as a statue.

Spine straight, arms crossed tight across her chest like she’s holding herself together with sheer force of will. There’s no fear in her expression. No vulnerability. Just a calm, ruthless kind of readiness. She looks like she’d take a bullet just to see who fired the shot.

For some goddamn reason, I have the sudden urge to ask if she’s okay.

But there are too many eyes watching.

Too much history standing between us.

And this… this is not the time nor the place.

Her eyes meet mine, sharp and surgical. A warning.

Don’t.

She doesn’t want anyone knowing about what passed between us—just as much as I don’t want to explain it.

The air tightens around us, a silent battle of wills crackling between us like exposed wire. Neither of us speaks or blinks in the tense standoff.

Then, for the first time since I walked into this goddamn minefield, something inside me stills.

Because whatever I came here for—leads, clues, answers—I’ve found something else entirely. Something hanging heavy in the air.

A line.

A choice.

A quiet reckoning.

Maxine folds her arms tighter, chin raised in defiance, eyes locked on mine.

She’s daring me.

She’s always daring me.

“What are you doing here, Fed?” Her voice is cool—too cool. A blade disguised as a question.

I meet her stare, steady and unreadable.

“I’m glad you’re home, Maxine.”

The second the words leave my mouth, she stiffens. A reaction she probably hates herself for.

Brando blinks, frowning. “What’s he talking about, Max?”

Silence. She doesn’t answer. Her jaw locks so tight I swear I hear her teeth grind. Her pulse flickers at the base of her throat, a rapid, barely contained drumbeat. She’s waiting. Waiting for me to say it. To acknowledge it. To spill out the ugly, raw truth between us, right here, under the fluorescent lights of this goddamn hospital.

I don’t. I step closer. Close enough that I can smell her perfume, something light, floral, deceptively soft. The complete opposite of what she is.

I lower my voice, slow and steady. Dangerous.

“I kept you alive,” I tell her. “You know that.”

Her breath hitches.

“And if I had to do it again,” I continue, “to keep you from getting carved up by Kadri’s men, I fucking would.”

Her lips part—just slightly. But she doesn’t speak. For a moment, we just stare at each other. The air is thick with unspoken words, regret, resentment. She hates me for leaving her there. And I hate myself for not saving her. For fucking her and then walking out that door. For never going back. For never seeing her again until now.

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