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Finally, the man obeyed, releasing his grip on me. I didn't wait, running as fast as I could in the opposite direction.

I collided with Mason, pushing him away as he gently caught hold of my arms.

I tried to get him off of me, because I didn't want to be touched—certainly not now, and certainly not by another male, but he was stubborn and pliant, allowing me to claw at him without retaliation.

"Blondie, I'm gonna need you to calm down and breathe for me," he said.

His eyes never left mine. Not for a second. It was unnerving and consoling at the same time.

Suddenly all I wanted to be against him and feel his warmth envelop around me. Shield me. Protect me.

No.

I gulped.

It even sounded wrong. Mason was not a permanent part of my life —whether I liked it or not, it was something I had to admit.

No one stayed for long, anyway.

He was more of a fresh addition—if one could even call it that. I didn't need anything from him— certainly not protection.

I couldn't allow myself to only feel safe in his presence.

Because what would I do when he wasn't there anymore?

I needed to protect myself. Shield myself.

And if I needed to protect myself from him, so be it.

I continued to fight against his hold —like he'd been the one to attack me, and not the other insane man.

Mason was calm and methodical. He reached for both my hands amongst the mess of my tantrum, and calmly brought them down to my sides.

"It's okay," Mason murmured. "Just count to three. Again, if you need to."

My heart leaked through its weak walls at the sound of his voice, at the touch of his fingertips.

One.

It was past the shock of the incident now. It was far more than that — and he knew it too. Everything about this, everything about Mason was reckless and confusing and wrong.

Two.

But it was so easy to give in. God, I sounded like some sort of drug addict. All I had to do was give in.

Three.

I succumbed.

I leaned against his chest, my tear-stained face dampening his shirt.

He didn't say a word — and if he did, I didn't hear him. I rolled up his shirt into my fist and let myself cry.

Again.

I hated it.

I hated crying in front of him — in front of anyone, for that matter.

It was a physical admission of weakness.

And I did not want to seem weak.

It was the homesickness and maybe that drink Caleb had given me and perhaps the continuation of that deep lonely feeling and then the pure terror that flooded my veins when the bottle collided with my teeth.

And it was him.

I was drawn to him.

Inexplicably.

And it was going to hurt like a bitch when life took him away from me.

So why feed it? Why feed this ravenous monster that was only going  to devour me in the end? Like it did to my mother?

I watched her cry. I remembered. I saw her physically hurt at the memory of my father.

Everyone leaves.

And Mason Valdez was no exception to the rule.

But maybe I was some form of a masochist, because I stayed in his arms, wrapped up in a cocoon of that temporary and fleeting safety.

He held me close, one arm around my back, his other hand in my hair—calm, noiseless. He drowned out the noise in the background, stroking my hair gently.

"It's alright, blondie," he hummed. Somehow, despite everything, I heard him.

That was the first time anything of the sort had happened to me. I'd always wondered why my brother had been so protective of me—now I knew why.

For too long I had been sheltered; protected. For too long I'd been naive about the real world, living in a bubble, they called it.

Today I got a glimpse of that real world.

I would remember today.

I would remember it because of Mason, simply because I couldn't forget him. And that frustrated me to no end.

Suddenly, it all hit me. That pine and cinnamon scent of him, how good his hand felt in my hair and how his body radiated warmth against my own. How the crevices of my body met perfectly with his.

I pulled away from him like he was wildfire. That little voice inside of my screamed —

he is, he is, he is.

Mason swallowed, placing his hands in his pockets. There was a sudden tightness to his jaw that I couldn't explain.

My mind couldn't help but draw back to the incident and a gnawing feeling clawed its way up my spine. Something was missing.

The thought crossed my mind, and at the same time, I spoke it.

"My phone," I said, panic creeping into my voice. "I think I dropped my phone somewhere close to the bar."

Mason looked up at me, hands still in his pockets. He didn't hesitate before nodding.

"I'll get it," he said, and made to leave.

Fear coursed through my veins, and the words fell from my lips before I could think about it.

"Wait," I said, "don't — don't leave me."

Mason titled his head to the side slightly, slightly enough for me not to notice.

But I did.

Suddenly, he took my hand, and I allowed it. It was his scarred one, and I could feel the roughness of his skin. I didn't care, though. It calmed me more than most things.

We recovered my phone at the floor of the bar. Mason let go of my hand to pick it up. The bartender made momentary eye contact with me, and quickly looked away. Anger surged under my skin. How many times had he ignored this sort of thing?

I supposed Mason saw the look in my face, because somehow his hand had snuck its way back to my own.

He cast a questioning glance my way.

"The bartender," I explained quietly, with a small frown, "he saw and he said nothing."

Mason was quiet in response, but something ticked in his jaw.

Still silent, he led me out the exit. Finally, we were out of the club, the cool air outside welcome. It bit at my skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake.

"Take my jacket," Mason said, shrugging his black jacket off his broad shoulders.

My eyes widened, and I found myself shaking my head.

"I'm not cold," I said.

Very smart choice of words, I thought, considering that I was now visibly shivering.

Mason rolled his eyes subtly, giving me an I'm not buying it look.

He stepped closer, draping the huge jacket over my shoulders anyway. I avoided his gaze, pulling tighter on to the edges of the jacket.

Mason's eyes caught on to my hand, and I followed his line of gaze.

Of course, my ultra-heroic punch had left my knuckles split and bleeding. It was still numb, though, so I felt nothing but a faint tingling.

He took my hand in his, frowning in distaste at the mess I'd made of my own hand. It had just healed from the peanut butter incident.

"What is this?" he asked. "If you're going to throw a punch, blondie, at least throw a decent one."

I couldn't pay attention to his words. I looked down.

All I knew was that he was holding my hand like I was made of glass.

I gulped as I stared back up at him.

I shook my head. "It's fine," I said, taking his hand in my freshly-bruised one, "compared to this."

I traced a thumb over the scarred tissue of his hand, and he bristled, slightly. I stopped.

"You're left-handed," I stated softly, out loud.

Mason's eyes widened, just fractionally, in surprise. I had remembered which hand he'd picked up my phone with. Which hand he'd handed me a plate with.

"And this happened when you were sixteen," I said under my breath.

Sixteen, I thought. He was still in school when it had happened.

I couldn't imagine having to have my writing hand practically mauled by a machine and still have to keep up with school.

A paper cut was about as much I could handle.

Mason didn't hide his surprise this time, but quickly realized. Looking away, he muttered an annoyed "Logan" under his breath.

"How did you write?" I asked, realising just how hard something like this might have been. It sent a shudder through me. "How did you write when your left hand was...so...hurt?"

There was a long pause. I sunk into silence, shrugging it off as something personal. He didn't have to answer me, after all. But then, he spoke.

"I trained myself to write with both hands," he admitted, casually. "It happened during summer break, and I had enough time."

I stared at him, unable to hold back a sad smile.

He was a roiling enigma. A mystery.

But maybe he kept himself that way —hid under all the crass words and those frowns and stupid, infuriating smirks — in hopes that someone would come along and at least tried to figure him out.

After all, mysteries existed for them to be discovered.

Something else nicked the edge of my mind. Mason had come with Gabriella, but now he was with me, which meant...

"Where's Gabby?" I asked, quietly.

Mason looked at me with slight surprise, obviously not expecting me to ask.

"She's fine," he said, "Logan's taking her home."

I glanced his way. He trusted Logan, at least. It was still undeniably stupid of him to have brought her for no rational reason, but I didn't say it out loud.

"Where did Caleb, that pinche pendejo, disappear?" Mason muttered then, annoyance creeping into his words.

"It wasn't his fault," I said, "he said he had to leave for an online conference. His driver's car is somewhere around here..."

I stepped forward, only to be held back by Mason's hand on my upper arm.

The gold in his eyes almost stung when I looked back at him.

"We're walking," he said, turning me back around, "I'm not letting you out of my sight again."

"But—"

"Hush," he said, "we'll be there in twenty minutes if you walk a little faster."

I pulled a face at him, widening my stride. My feet hurt like hell in the heels, and I was not planning to freaking walk home. Guess it was times like these where Rhia's bag of wonders could come into use.

The air was filled with silence for a long few minutes before I decided to speak.

"Why did he," I started, "why did he only stop when he saw you?"

Mason clenched his jaw, not looking at me when he answered. "Because the world is fucked up."

I swallowed, clamping down on my jaw.

"He saw things in me that he didn't in you," Mason continued. "Strength, power, assertion. He looked at you and he saw...opportunity."

Mason still didn't meet my eye when he looked at me. His jaw was tightly clenched.

"I want to be those things," I said, then, "I want to be strong and powerful and assertive. Not just emotionally."

Mason looked at me this time, his eyes holding a tinge of something I couldn't recognise. Something very close to pity.

"Even if you were those things, blondie, his opinion of you at first glance wouldn't change. All you'd be was a pretty girl he couldn't wait to get his filthy claws on."

"Well," I said, "I want to be them anyway."

He stared up at the lights surrounding us, anywhere but me, hands tucked in his pockets.

"Teach me," I said, and Mason looked straight at me, then. He didn't say a word.

"You said it yourself, I suck at punches," I persisted, "so teach me."

Mason narrowed his eyes, now full of skepticism. "You want me to teach you how to throw a punch?"

"Well you could start there," I quipped. "I want you to teach me self defence."

Mason frowned.

Again, it was a long time before he responded. "I'm not a professional," he said, "and it's best you learn from one."

"You're good enough," I replied.

He sighed. "You're really damn stubborn, you know that?"

I bristled a little, and Mason noticed, his resolve weakening.

"Fine." He sighed, again. "We start tomorrow. I'll be waiting outside your door. Meet me at six."

"P.m.?" I was hopeful.

Mason narrowed his eyes. "Nice try," he said, "a.m. Don't be late."

I groaned inwardly, not sure what I was getting myself into.

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