Page 30 of Mason

"Mason and Dagger—they threw down. Hard." The words tumble from her lips, rushed and raw.

I suck in a sharp breath. "What? Why?" Images of Mason, all coiled anger and brute strength, flash across my mind. My chest tightens.

"Doesn't matter. They're good now. Better than before, even." She releases my arm but pins me with a look that's almost challenging.

I can hear it, the unspoken message in her tone.This is your moment, Carlie.I nod, steel threading through my resolve. It's time to stop being the girl who waits for life to happen to her.

"Thanks, Jenny." I don't wait for a response; my feet are already moving, carrying me towards the Iron Reapers clubhouse.

Each step feels like a drumbeat, matching the fierce rhythm of my heart. Anticipation claws at my insides, wild and desperate. I've made up my mind—I'm going to confront Mason. I need to lay everything bare, for better or worse.

Perdition looms ahead, its walls thrumming with the pulse of heavy metal and loud laughter. My hands are shaking, but there's a fire flowing through my veins that drowns out the fear. I can’t believe it was less than two months ago

"Here goes nothing," I whisper to myself, pushing open the door.

My gaze slices through the smoky haze, locking onto him. Mason Blackstone, president of Iron Reapers, commands the space around him, even seated at the bar. But it's not his leather-clad figure that snatches my breath—it's her.

A curvy brunette leans into him, her fake giggles and even faker boobs that press against him grate on my nerves. She's draped over him, a hand tracing the inked lines on his arm, her red lips parting in an invitation.

Jealousy claws up my throat, fierce and unexpected. It's like a wildfire, spreading through my veins, igniting something primal within me. Mason’s mine, even if he doesn't know it yet.

"Excuse me," I spit out. My hands are fists at my sides as I march toward them. Her eyes flick to me, sizing me up as if I'm nothing more than an inconvenience. But I don't flinch, I've had enough of waiting on the sidelines.

"Hey!" I reach out, fingers wrapping around her wrist, yanking her away from him. "He's busy."

Mason's head snaps up, surprise etching his hard features before his eyes narrow, dark and intense. He knows what this means—what I'm saying without saying it. His world, our world, it's all about actions. And right now, mine scream louder than any words could.

"Something you wanna tell me, Darlin'?" Mason's voice is gravel, low and rumbling, challenging me to lay it all on the line.

"Yeah," I say, my heart thundering in my chest. "I want to talk to you. Alone."

The woman huffs, tossing her hair indignantly, but she backs off when Mason gives her a hard stare.

"Alright, Carlie." Mason's tone softens, just a fraction, just for me. "Let's talk."

In that moment, with his gaze locked on mine, the rest of the clubhouse fades away. It's just us, the way it was always meant to be.

Mason's smirk cuts through the tension like a knife. His hands, rough and sure, grab my waist and in one swift move, I'm on his lap, his strong arms caging me in. The heat of his body sears through the fabric of my dress, branding me with an invisible mark that screams 'mine'.

"Looks like our Carlie's got some fire in her," he drawls loudly to the room, but his eyes, those dark depths, are all for me—filled with a storm of emotion. Regret crashes against love, and I'm caught, drowning in the gaze that's both a caress and a plea.

"Damn right she does," Jenny chimes in from across the room, her wink a silent cheer. Her approval wraps around me like a sister's embrace, strengthening the resolve that brought me here.

I lean into Mason, my voice a fierce whisper meant only for him. "We're not done talking."

"Never said we were, Darlin'," he replies, his lips brushing against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. There's a promise in his words, a vow that this time, he'll listen. This time, things will be different.

A gritty guitar riff slices through the smoky air, the first notes of a song that feels like it's been written just for us. I stand, my heart a heavy drumbeat in my chest, and Mason's fingers entwine with mine. The world shrinks until there's nothing but him and me and the promise of something raw and real.

"Come on," he rasps, his voice gravel and honey all at once.

I let him lead me to the dance floor, where shadows play across the faces of our brothers and sisters. The clubhouse's dim lights cast a glow on Mason's inked skin, each tattoo a testament to the life he's led—a life I'm now a part of.

His arms wrap around my waist, pulling me close against the hard plane of his chest. My body molds to his, instinctively finding the rhythm of his movements as we sway to the music.His scent, leather and musk, intoxicates me. It's a dance that speaks of longing, of second chances.

"Pres," I whisper, using the name only the Iron Reapers call him, "What are we doing?"

"Living, Carlie." He dips his head, his lips hovering near mine, breath hot against my skin. "We're goddamn living."

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