Page 30 of Shattered Promise

She flinches like the sound of it touches something raw. She shuffles back a step, shoulders locked up and hands clenched into fists. There’s a flash of something in her eyes—fear, maybe—but then she turns, letting her hair fall forward like it’s armor.

Panic curls low and sharp in my chest at the sight.

“What are you doing here, Mason?” Her voice is flat, hollow. So unlike the way I’m used to hearing it. Like something in her has been sanded down to the grain.

“Me?” I blink. “I live here. What are you doing here?”

My feet move before I’ve made a choice. Two strides, and I’m in front of her. I reach for her without thinking—slow, steady, instinctive. My fingers find the side of her neck, light and careful,the same way I settle Theo. She doesn’t pull away, and that's good enough for me.

My thumb traces the curve of her jaw, tilting her face toward me. But the sunglasses hide everything. And that—notbeing able to see her—that unknowing wraps tight around my chest like a rope. I don't have time to examine that interesting reaction, so I shove it out of my brain and focus on the woman in front of me.

“How did you know I was here?” Her hand lands on my forearm. She's not pulling me closer, but she's not pushing me off either. Just resting there, like she needs something to hold on to.

“I didn’t.” My voice stays low. “Theo’s on a nap strike. Walking helps.”

“Right. Of course.” She nods, once. Then again, like she’s trying to convince herself of something.

I swallow hard, my gaze darting over her in a slow, rhythmic sweep. Like if I just look long enough, I’ll understand what the hell happened. That I’ll see something that tells me how to help. But I don’t—Ican’t.

Helplessness rises up in my chest, thick and hot, curling tight around my ribs. It makes my hands flex uselessly at my sides. Makes my jaw clench, and my next breath comes out too shallow. I fucking hate this feeling.

I clear my throat and force the words out. “Should I call Beau or?—”

“No.” The word punches out of her, sudden and sharp. Her fingers tighten around my arm. "Don'tcall Beau."

I go still. Not because I understand, because I don’t. Not yet. But her voice is thin and her grip is tight, something about the way she says it makes my gut twist.

If she doesn’t want me to call him, then . . .shit. Then it’s on me. A beat of silence pulses between us, thick with whatever she’s not saying. But I don’t press.

Beau’s voice rings in my head.We’re family, yeah? And family shows up.

So that’s what I’ll do.

If she won’t let me call him, then I’ll stay. I’ll be the one who’s here. Hers to lean on if she needs it.

I smooth my thumb along her jaw—barely a touch, just something steady. My hand moves on its own, like instinct’s the only thing I trust right now.

“Alright,” I murmur, voice low. “It’s alright. Just talk to me, baby.”

The nickname slips out, too easily, like I’ve been calling herbabyin my head for years already. She doesn't answer right away. Just stands there motionless, like she’s caught between instinct and exhaustion. Her shoulders rise with a sharp breath, then drop slowly, like she’s deflating. Her chin dips, and the tension in her jaw softens.

Her voice breaks on my name. “Mason.”

It guts me. The way she says my name, like she's hiding a mouthful of fear behind her lips. She shakes her head, quick and sharp, teeth catching on her bottom lip like she’s waffling. I raise my other hand slowly, giving her time to move. She just stands there, breath shallow and uneven.

“You’re alright,” I murmur. Then, carefully, I hook my finger beneath the arm of her sunglasses and lift them to the top of her head.

The bruise slams into me all over again. Dark and swollen, angry against her skin. I drag in a breath, and it burns on the way down. Something hot and protective coils in my chest. It has claws and too many teeth.

I step into her. Both hands frame her face now, my thumb ghosting beneath the bruise with the gentlest pressure I can give.

“Who hurt you, baby?” I whisper. “Give me a name.” The words shake loose from somewhere low and dangerous. Not loud. But lethal all the same.

Her eyes fill fast without warning. A sudden, sharp shine welling up like she’s been holding it off for too long. And she looks at me like I’m the answer to a question she can’t ask.

Something cracks behind my ribs, and I can’t fucking breathe.

My mind races ahead of me—flashing through worst-case scenarios like it’s building a case for revenge. Beau and I have handled our share of dirtbags over the years. We’d do it again. Hell, Cora’s man is a Reaper down in Rosewood. I don’t even know what he does exactly, but I’m pretty sure there are permanent options if it ever came to that.

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