Mason (Iron Reapers MC #1)

Chapter 10

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 eyes flicker 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.

"Protection," I mutter again, struggling to piece the puzzle together. Him being here speaks louder than the roar of a hundred bike engines yet I’m lost.

Mason rises from the couch, the motion fluid and controlled. He steps closer, and it's like my space isn't mine anymore. "You have my claim, Carlie." His voice is low, a growl that vibrates through the room. "My men will protect you with their lives."

He grabs the coffees and food and puts them on the table. "Now, sit down and have some breakfast." It's not a question—it's an order wrapped in gravelly concern.

I’m tempted to throw the man out of my house, but the smell of coffee is strong and my guilt possibly stronger. I’m the one who left without saying a word. He hasn’t done anything but be himself. My feet carry me to the table where he's already seated, watching me with those intense eyes that seem to see straight into my soul.

As I sink into the chair, he leans back, arms crossed, inked skin stretching over his biceps. "One of my guys followed you home," Mason admits, and it's not just the admission but the casual way he says it, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"He followed me?" The words come out strangled, my attempt at indignation faltering under his steady gaze.

"Claimed means protected. Always." His jaw clenches, the lines of his face etched with the weight of his own rules, his own law.

I wrap my hands around the paper cup, the warmth seeping into my fingers, giving me something to hold onto. Mason's world—the club, the danger, the unbreakable bonds—it's all right there, sitting across from me, asking for a place in my life without saying a word. More like demanding.

My body is heavy with a tiredness that's more emotional than physical. The coffee burns down my throat, a welcome heat in the cool morning air of my living room, but it's strong and black. Every other day of my life I’m a creamer girl and today is no different. I stand and walk to the refrigerator grabbing my creamer then a spoon from the drawer. I walk back to where I was sitting and pour in way too much creamer and give it a good stir before taking a sip. God, now that’s good.

“Noted,” he murmurs.

I look up to find him staring at me with a heat in his eyes that does something weird to my stomach. He barely has to say a word and he’s shaking my world up. That kind of hold is scary.

Without saying a word, he reaches into the greasy paper bag and hands me a foil-wrapped sandwich. There's something about the unspoken care in that gesture that tightens my chest. My fingers shake as I peel back the foil, revealing a breakfast sandwich. I take a bite, the flavors bursting on my tongue, rich and salty and perfect. A sound escapes me—a moan of pure, unabashed pleasure. I'm not even sorry for it until I see Mason's reaction.

His eyes lock onto mine, dark and hungry. "Honey if you keep making those fucking noises we aren't finishing breakfast," he says, voice rough like gravel tumbling down a mountain.

I can't help the blush that spreads across my cheeks or the way my heart picks up speed. It's not fear, though—no, it's something far more dangerous.

"Sorry," I murmur, not sorry at all. And I take another bite because damn, life's too short for bad food or good men who make you want to throw caution to the wind.

Crinkling foil, the last of our breakfast bundled up, I toss it into the trash. The kitchen feels smaller with Mason in it, a presence like a storm cloud ready to burst. He watches me, eyes smoldering, and I'm acutely aware of how my body responds to his nearness—every nerve ending buzzing like live wires.

"Good sandwich," I say, trying to keep things light, but my voice betrays me, a little breathless.

"Not as good as you," Mason counters, his tone teasing but edged with something raw.

I turn to face him, finding those dark eyes fixed on me. There's no hiding from his gaze, it strips me bare and sees right through me. It's unnerving and exhilarating all at once.

"Is that so?" I manage to get out, my attempt at sass falling flat as he steps closer, closing the gap between us.

MASON

She's fire and softness, wrapped up in one hell of a tempting package. As I step closer, her scent fills my senses—vanilla and something floral. It's intoxicating. Carlie's back hits the counter, and I've got her pinned, not that she's looking to escape.

"Absolutely," I growl, my voice low. "You're a temptation, Carlie Meadows."

Her lips part slightly, a silent invitation I'm all too eager to accept. I lean down, my lips finding the tender skin of her neck. She tilts her head, giving me better access, and a surge of possessiveness roars through me. My kisses trail upwards, hungry, claiming, until I capture her chin and lift her face to mine.

When our lips meet, it's like striking a match, heat flaring instantly. Her hands find their way into my hair, tugging me closer, and I can't help the groan that rumbles from deep within my chest.

This kiss—it's not just a meeting of mouths. It's a collision of everything we are and everything we could be. It's promise, it's pain, it's passion—all rolled into one perfect, searing moment.

And I know. I know I'll never get enough of her.

She breaks away, gasping for air then her forehead falls against chest,

"Mason," her voice quivers, "I'm scared. Of this—us. It's all moving so fast, and your world... It's a lot. I don't know if I can handle it."

My arms tighten around her. "Talk to me, Carlie," I say.

She's shaking, her voice a soft whisper against the thunder inside me. I listen, really listen. She's laying her soul bare, and damn if it doesn't make me want to wrap her up and shield her from everything dark and dirty about my life.

"Everyone thinks I'm tough, unbreakable. But here with you, I'm just... Mason. The prospect of losing what little peace I've found terrifies me."

Her eyes lift to mine, wide and glistening, a mirror to my own fears.

"Mason—"

"Shh, baby. You're not alone in this. We're both wading through some heavy shit."

"Is it always going to be this hard?" she whispers, a plea for something certain in the chaos we’re drowning in.

"Life's a bitch, but we don't back down. Not from fights, not from fears. And definitely not from something that feels this damn right." My words are a vow, etched deep in the marrow of my bones.

She nods, her resolve knitting together with mine, two souls entwined in the battle for something worth more than any war I’ve ever fought.