Page 40 of Mason

"Damn, girl!" someone shouts, and laughter ripples through the crowd.

"Congrats, Carlie!" another yells, raising their beer in salute.

But all I see is Mason – his dark eyes wide, shock carving deep lines into his tattooed face. He's always been thisimmovable force, but right now, he looks like I've just hit him with a freight train.

"Pres?" My voice trembles, a mix of hope and fear. "Say something."

He doesn't speak, though. Instead, Mason pushes off from the bar, his heavy boots thudding across the floor. The room holds its breath as he closes the space between us. His hands cup my face, those dark eyes searching mine for a truth that only I can give.

"My baby is having my baby?" It's barely audible, a raw whisper filled with a vulnerability I've never seen in him before.

"Our baby," I reply, my own voice matching his intensity.

And then he's kissing me, a kiss that's all fire and need and future promises. It's a kiss that speaks louder than any words could, telling me everything I need to know about this man, this president of the Iron Reapers, who has my heart and now a piece of my soul growing inside me.

Around us, the party roars back to life, but we're in our own world—just Mason, just me, just this love that's stronger than steel and wilder than the open road.

EPILOGUE

JENNY

The roarof the party fades to a low hum as I sidle up to the bar, the clink of bottles and raucous laughter creating a backdrop to my own restless thoughts. The air is thick with smoke and the tang of spilled whiskey, but it's the sight of a lone figure at the end of the counter that snags my attention—a mystery wrapped in black leather, with a Iron Reapers patch marking him as one of our own, yet unknown to me.

"Hey," I call to the bartender, leaning in to snag a cold beer from his grip. "Who's the new guy?"

He shrugs, pouring another round for a rowdy table by the window. "Ask him yourself."

I take a deep swig, feeling the chill of the bottle against my lips, and steel myself. Curiosity's got its claws in deep, and I'm not one to back down from a challenge. Pushing off from the bar, I saunter toward the stranger, noting the tension coiled in his broad shoulders, the way his eyes track every movement without turning his head.

"Mind if I join you?" My voice cuts through the noise easily enough, but he doesn't respond—doesn't even acknowledge me. His silence piques my interest further, and before I can thinkbetter of it, I'm sliding onto the stool beside him, close enough to catch the scent of leather and motor oil that clings to him.

"Who are you?" I ask, tilting my head to get a better look at his profile—sharp, shadowed, every bit as dangerous as the vibe he's giving off.

His head turns slowly, those dark eyes fixing on mine with an intensity that feels like a punch to the gut. "Name's not important," he rumbles, his voice gravel and smoke.

"Everything's important at some point." I quip, undeterred. "You're wearing our colors. Gotta have a name."

There's something about him that screams trouble, and normally I'd be wary, but tonight, there's a thrill in the unknown, a siren call I can't ignore. He seems to consider me for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might be amusement—or a warning.

"Call me what you want." He finally says, taking a long drink from his glass.

"Alright then," I say, flashing a grin as reckless as I feel. "Welcome to the chaos, 'Mystery Man.'"

He grunts noncommittal, but I catch the flicker of curiosity in his gaze. Maybe he's just another drifter passing through, maybe he's trouble... or maybe he's a story waiting to be told. Whatever it is, I've got a feeling I'm about to find out.

I lean against the worn wood of the bar, the amber glow of the neon lights flickering in my peripheral vision. He's still next to me, this enigma with a Iron Reapers patch that marks him as one of us, yet he's as familiar as a ghost story.

"Name's not on the guest list," I prod again, refusing to let his silence be the end of it.

The man turns, his glare sharp enough to cut. "What fucking business is it of yours?" The menace rolls off him like smoke from a burning tire, thick and suffocating. "I don't need no whore messing with me. Get lost, slut."

The sting hits hard, deeper than I expected. I’m tough as they come, but damn if his words don’t twist a knife in places I keep hidden. My mouth gapes for a half second before I snap it shut, pride swallowing the hurt.

"Real charmer," I mutter to myself, reaching for my drink with a hand that shakes just a little.

"Hey, what's going on here?" The familiar rumble of Mason's voice cuts through the tension. There's an edge to it, a protective growl that doesn't need raising to command attention.

"Nothing, just making friends," I say, but my sarcasm is brittle.

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