Page 155 of Mason

Maxine straightens.

My stomach twists.

The airchanges.

We both rise at the same time, instincts clicking into place.

I follow Maxine down the hallway, the soft pad of our feet against marble the only sound until we round the corner?—

—and see Mia standing in the open doorway.

And there?—

Standing across from her like fate itself just showed up uninvited?—

Is Saxon North.

Again.

Of course it had to be him.

Maxine stiffens beside me.

He raises an eyebrow. “Wow. It’s a full house tonight. All my favourite ladies in one place.”

Maxine folds her arms. “Why the fuck are you here? Is this just the universe’s idea of a bad joke?”

Saxon smirks. “Not your turn tonight, honey.”

He gives Maxine a wink that could melt the pants off any other person, but has the opposite effect on her.

Maxine narrows her eyes. “Or maybe you’re cursed with proximity to badass women who’d rather be caught dead than in the company of a government employee.”

I blink between them.

And realize, very quickly?—

That I’m not the only one in this damn house with unresolved tension.

41

MASON

Isaiah Sloane’s place is the kind of backwoods hell you see in documentaries about serial killers who vanish people off highways.

Tin roof. Rotting barn. The smell of gasoline and burnt rubber bleeding from the walls. An oil-stained couch sits outside the front door, weather-worn and covered in cigarette burns.

It’s quiet.

But the kind of quiet that feels like something’s hiding underneath it.

We don’t knock.

Brando moves first—boot to the door, splinters fly—and I follow, pistol raised, adrenaline already lighting up my blood.

Sloane’s at a workbench, hunched over a gun he’s cleaning like it’s a Sunday afternoon and not the eve of his reckoning. He turns slow when we enter, not surprised.

Just annoyed.

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