Mason (Iron Reapers MC #1)

Chapter 9

NINE

MASON

Dawn's breaking, painting the sky a bruised purple, when we roll in, engines growling their last as we cut them. The compound's quiet, everyone probably sleeping. We're beat to hell, every last one of us, but there's a buzz under my skin from the win against Walker's crew. It’s not over, not by a long shot, but tonight, we showed 'em who owns this town.

"Mason," Tank mutters, killing the silence as we dismount. "You good?"

"Always," I grunt, clapping him on the shoulder. He nods, and the rest of the boys start scattering, all in need of their beds, a cold beer, or both.

I head for the office, paperwork doesn't fill itself out, and the feds love their damn trails. But what I find stops me dead—a sight way better than any pile of documents.

Carlie.

She's curled up on the couch like some kind of angel, blonde curls spilling over the armrest, breaths even and steady. This is no place for her, not here amidst the leather and steel and ink. Yet here she is, and goddamn if she doesn't belong more than any of us.

"Shit," I whisper, heart doing a weird jump. She's wearing one of my old shirts, too big on her, sleeves hanging past her hands.

I take a step closer, can't help it. She's got this peaceful look, like she's dreaming something nice. Probably is—Carlie's got that kinda heart, thinks the best of people, even a guy like me.

Her eyelashes flutter, and I hold my breath, but she just sighs softly and turns her head, still out. I'm relieved. Don't wanna wake her, not yet. She looks so damn serene, and after the night we've had, serene's a rare commodity.

"Mason?" Her voice is soft, barely there. So she's awake.

"Right here, Carlie." I keep my voice low, gentle.

"Did you kick Walker's ass?" There's a small smile playing on her lips now, innocent and teasing all at once.

"Something like that," I say, and the smile she gives me then, it's worth every bruise, every drop of sweat and blood.

"Good." She yawns, stretching like a cat, shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of bare skin.

"Go back to sleep, baby. You're safe." My words are a promise, a vow. This woman, in my shirt, in my office, she's under my protection now. No one touches what's mine. Not Walker, not anyone.

"Stay with me?" Her eyes are heavy, fighting sleep, but they're fixed on me.

"Always," I tell her, and I mean it with every fiber of my being. Iron Reapers might be family, but Carlie, she's home.

I stare down at Carlie. She's an angel amidst the chaos of my world, a softness against the backdrop of leather and steel. I’m not sure what she sees in a guy like me, but damn if I don't feel like the luckiest bastard alive right now.

"Sorry, Darlin'," I whisper, even though she can't hear me. Careful as I can manage, I slide one arm under her knees and the other around her back. She's light in my arms, like she's made of the same stuff as dreams. The warmth of her body seeps into my skin, and for a second, I'm lost in the sensation of her against me. But I shake it off. Gotta stay sharp. Can't afford to slip up, not when it comes to her safety.

We make it to my room without so much as a creak from the floorboards. I've walked this path a thousand times, but never with such precious cargo. Once inside, I lay her down on the bed, my bed, and it feels right—more than right.

CARLIE

I'm on the edge of consciousness, caught between dreaming and waking. There's a sense of movement, strong arms enveloping me, the faint scent of leather and motor oil—a scent that's become comfort, become Mason. I want to cling to it, to him, but sleep pulls me back under.

MASON

Her breaths are even, her face calm. Good. Wouldn’t want to startle her—not after tonight. With hands that have known more violence than tenderness, I undress her. It feels like defusing a bomb, like any wrong move could destroy this fragile moment between us.

The roughness of my fingers stands in stark contrast to the softness of her skin. Every curve I trace is a silent promise—to protect, to cherish. My hands might be stained with sins of the past, but here with Carlie, they're instruments of care.

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.