Page 41 of Mason

Mason steps up beside me, laying a heavy hand on the stranger's shoulder. "Piston, you being a dick again?"

The man—Piston—looks up at Mason, something unspoken passing between them. A glance over at Carlie, her hand still unconsciously cradling her stomach over the fabric of her dress, tells me she's caught in the middle of figuring out whether to be pissed or amused.

"Jenny, meet my cousin, Piston," Mason says, his gaze shifting to me, a silent apology written in the lines around his eyes. "He's got all the charm of a rattlesnake, but he's family."

"Family or not," I shoot back, my voice steady now, "he's gotta learn some manners."

"Got that right," Mason agrees, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a half-grin. Carlie reaches out, squeezing my arm gently, a silent show of solidarity.

"Welcome to the party, Piston," I say, not bothering to hide the ice in my tone. "Try not to bite the hand that pours your drinks."

Piston's face goes slack, the harsh lines around his mouth softening. He rubs a hand over his buzzed head, suddenly all sheepish and shit. "Shit," he mutters under his breath. Thename 'Jenny' seems to click something in his brain—recognition sparking behind those steel-gray eyes.

Carlie and Mason are pulled away by another brother congratulating them on their exciting news.

"Mason talks 'bout you," he says, voice losing some of its bite. The words feel like gravel being turned over, rough but rolling towards something smoother. "Didn't realize... Fuck."

I stare him down, arms crossed. His apology hangs between us, feeble and unwanted. I don't need his regrets. Don't need his words.

"Save it," I spit out.

Piston looks like he's been slapped, regret etched into the hard lines of his jaw. He knows he screwed up, but his sorry isn't changing a damn thing.

"Look, Jenny—" he starts, but I'm not here for it.

"Talk to the hand, 'cause the face ain't listening," I say, cutting him off mid-apology with a flick of my wrist.

Dagger's at the edge of the bar, watching the scene unfold. I catch his eye, and there's an unspoken agreement in that split second. I push through the crowd, grab Dagger by the hand, and jerk my head toward the makeshift dance floor.

"Let's dance," I tell him, and he doesn't need to be told twice.

"Lead the way, Darlin'," Dagger grunts, voice a low rumble that somehow smooths the jagged edge inside me.

We leave Piston standing there, his mouth open like he's got more to say, but I'm done listening. The music swallows us as we move away, the thumping bass a welcome distraction from the bullshit.

We hit the floor, bodies pressed close in the sea of leather and denim. No words now, just movement and heat. And for a moment, just a brief goddamn moment, I forget about Piston and his poisonous tongue.

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