Page 16 of Mason

Once she's down to her underwear, I pull the blankets over her, tucking her in like something sacred. My eyes linger on her face, the innocence there that I've no right to touch, yet crave with every fiber of my being.

"Sleep tight, Carlie," I murmur, before pressing a kiss to her forehead. It's a benediction, a plea for forgiveness for the darkness I'll inevitably drag her into.

Finally, I strip down to my boxers and slide in beside her. The bed hasn’t ever felt this full, this complete. Her presence is a balm to the wounds life—and tonight—has inflicted. My last thought before sleep claims me is that maybe, just maybe, Carlie Meadows is the salvation I've been seeking all along.

TEN

CARLIE

Dawn creeps through the curtains,its gray light too damn cheerful for the heaviness in my chest. I'm lying there, cocooned in warmth, Mason's steady breathing a reminder of the tempest that raged just hours ago. My eyes flutter open to the sight of his tattooed arm draped over me—each inked line a story, a battle scar.

Gotta move. Can't think with him so close, can't breathe without remembering how his hands, rough and gentle all at once, undressed me and promised silent vows. I ease out from under his arm, my movements slow, deliberate. The cool air bites at my skin, but it’s a wake-up call—time to face reality.

I find my clothes, scattered like breadcrumbs across the room. Sliding into them feels like slipping on armor, each piece a layer between me and the world Mason reigns over—a world of leather and loyalty, where every ride could be the last. My fingers tremble as they button up my jeans, betrayal whispering with each fumble.

The door closes with a soft click behind me, sealing away the sanctuary of Mason's room. The compound is quiet, the bikers'snores a low rumble in the distance. They're warriors resting after battle, but me? I'm a deserter, fleeing for clarity.

My car's in the lot, alone and untouched. It's a stark contrast to the hulking bikes, a symbol of the life I know—safe, predictable. The engine hums to life, and I don't look back as I drive away from the Iron Reapers MC, from Mason.

Home is still home. The key turns, and the familiar scent of vanilla and old books greets me. It's a comfort and a pang of guilt all at once. This is where I belong, isn't it? Not in the arms of an outlaw biker, no matter how much my heart screams otherwise.

I head straight to the bathroom where the hot water pours over me, relentless, stripping away the grime and chaos of the night before. Each drop is an absolution, the steam a whisper urging me to forget. But can I?

Showering off, I wrap myself in a towel, watching the mirror fog over. My reflection's blurred, just like my thoughts. Who am I becoming? Who do I want to be?

Mason's world is danger and devotion, a ride without maps. My world is lesson plans and laughter, a path well-tread. But the crossroads is calling, and it's got Mason Blackstone's name written all over it.

Wearing leggings and a baggy, long sleeve t-shirt, I walk into my living room and curl up on the couch. The world outside is still asleep, unaware of the storm raging inside me. I feel terrible for running away on Mason after everything we shared last night. It was magical, until it got real and raw. I ran away like the scared little girl that I am. I want him more than I ever thought I could, while at the same time I’m scared to see him again. Scared to get sucked into his dangerous world.

Coffee. I need it to hold me together, to keep me from spiraling into the memory of Mason and I last night, and the terror that came after.

I walk into the kitchen and tell Alexa to play some music and turn it up. I need to feel something that isn’t confusing. She comes in with some oldies but goodies that brighten up my mood while I pull out a coffee filter and fill it with coffee grounds. I hop up on the counter and scroll through my phone while the coffee maker gurgles to life.

Mason, God, I can’t get the man out of my head. I'm caught in the web of our connection, each thread pulling tighter with thoughts of leather, inked skin, and midnight rides. When the music no longer drowns out my thoughts, I sigh and hop off the counter. “Alexa, turn off music.”

I walk into the living room hoping to find a new crime documentary to get lost in. Instead I find the man I can’t stop thinking about. "Mason? What are you doing here?" My heart stutters as I spot him, an unexpected shadow on my couch. Two steaming paper cups sit on the coffee table, a bag from Rosie's Diner beside them, the scent of bacon and eggs heavy in the air.

His eyes don't open, the dark lashes resting on weather-worn cheeks. Exhaustion has claimed him, etching deeper lines around his mouth, the kind that only worry carves. His chest rises and falls in a rhythm that speaks of deep sleep, not just a momentary rest. He shouldn't be here, but damn if I'm not flooded with relief to see him.

"Mason," I say again, softer this time, a mix of confusion and concern threading through my voice. I should be mad, hell, even scared that he didn’t even bother to knock, but broke into my place. But I'm neither. Just surprised and maybe, just maybe, a little bit happy. What the heck is wrong with me?

I sit down beside him on the couch and give him a nudge and that's all it takes. Mason stirs, and those black-as-midnight eyesflicker open, locking onto mine. There's a storm in them, raw and wild.

"Mason?" My voice is barely above a whisper. “What the hell are you doing here?”

His gaze doesn't waver. "You left," he starts, voice rough, like tires on a long, empty stretch of highway. He sits up slowly, deliberate, muscles coiling beneath his shirt. He reaches out, his warm palm cupping my jaw. "When I realized you were gone, I went out of my mind trying to find you. Damn near tore the compound apart."

My pulse quickens despite myself, like a fluttering bird trapped in my chest. "You did?"

He nods, "Until one of my guys found me and told me where you went."

"How did he know?" I gasp in disbelief, already knowing, yet still wanting an answer. I'm standing my ground, but something trembles inside me.

"Protection," he says simply, as if that one word should cover it all, explain the invasion, the tracking, the claim.

"Protection," I echo. Is that supposed to answer all of my questions? What is this, biker code or something?

In those dark depths, I see the truth of his world—family, loyalty, betrayal—all tangled up in the exhaust fumes of his life. But it's the other thing, the unspoken promise that gets me—the fierce need to keep me safe, even from shadows in the dark.

---