Page 7 of Mason

In the anarchy of swinging fists and curses, Mason is a pillar of wrathful strength. His heavy boots planted firmly on the ground, anchoring us amidst the storm. A rival gang member lunges, and with a calculated twist, Mason sends him sprawling across a table. Glass crunches under heavy bodies, the sound like ice breaking on a frozen lake.

"Stay down!" he commands.

I obey without thought, crouching behind the bar, my heart hammering against my ribs. The scent of beer and blood mingles in the air, a metallic tang that makes me want to gag. But Mason—Pres—he's in his element, every line of his tattooed body screaming danger and dominance.

"Keep your head clear, Carlie," Mason instructs, flicking his eyes to mine for a half-second that feels like an eternity.

"Well I can't exactly do yoga right now," I grumble.

A laugh rumbles deep within his chest, and it's a sound that shouldn't be comforting, yet it is. It's the sound of someone who might just carry you through hell and back.

"Damn right," he says, before turning to intercept a chair flung at us, catching it and hurling it back with brute force.

"Mason!" I call out, reaching for him automatically when a bottle shatters dangerously close.

"Unbreakable," he assures, giving me a quick once-over to confirm I'm unharmed.

"Better be," I mutter, feeling the pull of something indefinable between us growing stronger with each shared glance, each protective sweep of his arm.

"Sweetheart, I've survived worse than this," he shouts over the roar of the crowd, a wicked grin splitting his face as he engages another assailant.

"Prove it," I challenge, emboldened by his confidence.

"Watch me."

And I do. I watch as Mason fights with a ferocity that's near-mythical, his punches precise, his loyalty to his family—a family born not of blood, but of choice—etched into every move he makes. He's a guardian, fierce and unyielding, and as I see him throw himself into the fray, I understand that he's fighting for more than just territory.

"Never seen anything like it," I whisper, almost to myself.

"Get used to it," he replies, his voice laced with promise.

"Perhaps I will." My voice is lost in the mayhem, but somehow, I know he hears me.

As the brawl rages on, the bond between us tightens—an unspoken pact in a world that thrives on spoken threats. Mason Blackstone, president of the Iron Reapers, has become my unexpected shield, and I, Carlie Meadows, have found an unexpected warrior within.

The sound of shattering glass cuts through the cacophony, a siren call heralding the end of the brawl. I watch as Walker's boys falter, their resolve crumbling under the relentless force of the Iron Reapers. One by one, they're beaten down, their bravado dissolving into desperate pleas for mercy.

"Time to ride out!" One of the Vipers shouts, voice hoarse with defeat, and just like that, the tide turns. They stagger away, supporting bruised egos and broken bones, casting wary glances over their shoulders.

Mason stands tall among the chaos, his chest heaving, tattoos glistening with sweat. His knuckles are bloodied, but victory ignites his eyes—victory and something fierce that has my heart pounding double time. The Iron Reapers holler around us, their roars filling the bar with the thrill of triumph.

"Looks like we scared 'em off," Mason says, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down my spine. He doesn't look at mewhen he speaks, too busy scanning the room for any lingering threats, but I feel his words like a touch.

"Seems so," I reply, trying to sound braver than I feel. The adrenaline fizzles out, leaving my legs shaky beneath me. I look around at the wreckage—the overturned tables, the shattered bottles, the splintered remains of what was once orderly chaos.

"Hey," Mason's hand finds mine, rough and warm. "You good?" His eyes meet mine, and I see the concern etched in the lines of his face—lines that tell stories of countless battles fought and survived.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm good." My fingers curl around his instinctively, seeking comfort and finding it in the solid presence of this man who's nothing like anyone I've ever known.

"Good." He nods, releasing my hand only to wrap an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close. "Let's get some air."

We step outside, the night air cool against my flushed cheeks. The distant rumble of motorcycles fades into the night, leaving behind a silence that feels both heavy and hollow. I glance up at Mason, taking in the way the moonlight plays across his rugged features.

"Thank you," I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper. "For protecting me."

"Anytime, Carlie." His gaze is steady, unwavering. "That's what we do here—look out for each other."

I nod, but a knot of unease settles in my stomach. Tonight was supposed to be about moving on, proving I could be brave. Instead, I've stumbled into something much bigger, something dangerous and all-consuming. And Mason... Mason is at the center of it all.

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