Page 13 of Shattered Promise (Avalon Falls #4)

MASON

The trail behind the house runs long and quiet, the kind of quiet that settles in your bones if you let it. Technically, I think this stretch of land belongs to the county—some old nature preserve or maybe just forgotten acreage nobody’s bothered to develop.

I shift Theo’s weight in the pack on my back, one hand steady on the strap across my chest. He’s starting to drift, head slumped against my shoulder, breath warm through the mesh panel near my neck. These walks have become my last-ditch move on days he decides naps are a personal insult.

Fresh air and forward motion. Just me and my boy and the path ahead.

The creek chatters somewhere up ahead, soft and steady, like our personal sound machine. Birds trill above and filtered sunlight dances through the trees. It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty. The kind that reminds me I’m still standing.

This might be what it’s all about. The thought keeps sneaking in lately. Quiet and stubborn, hard to ignore once it shows up.

Not the blog posts. Not the sleep schedules. Not the shit those smug parenting videos promise you’ll master in three easy steps. Just this—the weight of him curled against me, his fingers tucked tight in my collar, like he knows I’ve got him.

My boots kick a scatter of pebbles as we round the bend. There’s a break in the trees where the trail curves close to the creek, and that’s when I see it.

A figure crouched low near the bank. Hood up, legs tucked in, and shoulders hunched.

In all the months I’ve lived here, I’ve never run into anyone on this stretch.

Then again, I only started walking this far recently—ever since I gave in and bought the baby-wearing pack one of those blogs swore by.

It takes me ten minutes to get us strapped in, but if it means he’ll nap without a fight, I’ll take it.

Maybe someone’s hiking. Or lost. Shit, maybe someone’s hurt. I remember the realtor saying most of the houses out here sit on a few acres apiece—modest homes spaced out enough you might never see who lives next door. Still, it’s rare to see someone out this way.

But then the person shifts, tosses the hood off, and flips long blonde hair over one shoulder.

My pace picks up, like my legs know something I don't. The person lifts their face, tilting it enough for the sun to highlight the features I've discreetly studied for years.

My breath stalls inside my lungs like I just took a punch to the gut.

“Abby?” Her name scrapes out, raw and quiet, like my ribs had to give it up just to make space to breathe again.

She startles at the sound, her whole body jerking as she whips around to face me. It’s quick and defensive, like she wasn’t just surprised but afraid .

Fuck me. I knew it was her. God, she’s still gorgeous.

Even now, with her hoodie bunched around her neck and tension riding her shoulders like armor.

It’s been over a month since I saw her in person.

I’ve seen her face more times than I can count—on screens, in memory—but nothing compares to seeing her now.

Real and close. But still not close enough.

My gaze moves over her as my long strides carry me toward her, caught between memory and instinct. Soaking her in before it stutters, snags on the bruising along the curve of her cheekbone. It blooms from underneath her sunglasses, dark and high across her face. Purple and black, like it's fresh.

“What the fuck?” The words slip out before I can stop them. Shock freezes me in its tight fist, momentarily gluing my boots to the dirt.

My blood turns thick and heavy. Every beat in my chest slows down until the sound of it fills my ears. And then she moves—jerking her hood up, fingers fumbling with the fabric like she’s trying to disappear.

That’s what breaks it.

A jolt of heat shoots down my spine, snapping through the fog. My body shifts before I even register the choice.

“Abby.” I say it again, softer this time, arm lifting instinctively—like I could catch her if she ran, like I could stop whatever this is from slipping through my fingers.

She flinches like the sound of it touches something raw. She shuffles back a step, shoulders locked up and hands clenched into fists. There’s a flash of something in her eyes—fear, maybe—but then she turns, letting her hair fall forward like it’s armor.

Panic curls low and sharp in my chest at the sight.

“What are you doing here, Mason?” Her voice is flat, hollow. So unlike the way I’m used to hearing it. Like something in her has been sanded down to the grain.

“ Me ?” I blink. “I live here. What are you doing here?”

My feet move before I’ve made a choice. Two strides, and I’m in front of her. I reach for her without thinking—slow, steady, instinctive. My fingers find the side of her neck, light and careful, the same way I settle Theo. She doesn’t pull away, and that's good enough for me.

My thumb traces the curve of her jaw, tilting her face toward me.

But the sunglasses hide everything. And that— not being able to see her—that unknowing wraps tight around my chest like a rope.

I don't have time to examine that interesting reaction, so I shove it out of my brain and focus on the woman in front of me.

“How did you know I was here?” Her hand lands on my forearm. She's not pulling me closer, but she's not pushing me off either. Just resting there, like she needs something to hold on to.

“I didn’t.” My voice stays low. “Theo’s on a nap strike. Walking helps.”

“Right. Of course.” She nods, once. Then again, like she’s trying to convince herself of something.

I swallow hard, my gaze darting over her in a slow, rhythmic sweep. Like if I just look long enough, I’ll understand what the hell happened. That I’ll see something that tells me how to help. But I don’t—I can’t .

Helplessness rises up in my chest, thick and hot, curling tight around my ribs. It makes my hands flex uselessly at my sides. Makes my jaw clench, and my next breath comes out too shallow. I fucking hate this feeling.

I clear my throat and force the words out. “Should I call Beau or?—”

“No.” The word punches out of her, sudden and sharp. Her fingers tighten around my arm. " Don't call Beau."

I go still. Not because I understand, because I don’t. Not yet. But her voice is thin and her grip is tight, something about the way she says it makes my gut twist.

If she doesn’t want me to call him, then . . . shit . Then it’s on me. A beat of silence pulses between us, thick with whatever she’s not saying. But I don’t press.

Beau’s voice rings in my head. We’re family, yeah? And family shows up.

So that’s what I’ll do.

If she won’t let me call him, then I’ll stay. I’ll be the one who’s here. Hers to lean on if she needs it.

I smooth my thumb along her jaw—barely a touch, just something steady. My hand moves on its own, like instinct’s the only thing I trust right now.

“Alright,” I murmur, voice low. “It’s alright. Just talk to me, baby.”

The nickname slips out, too easily, like I’ve been calling her baby in my head for years already.

She doesn't answer right away. Just stands there motionless, like she’s caught between instinct and exhaustion.

Her shoulders rise with a sharp breath, then drop slowly, like she’s deflating.

Her chin dips, and the tension in her jaw softens.

Her voice breaks on my name. “Mason.”

It guts me. The way she says my name, like she's hiding a mouthful of fear behind her lips. She shakes her head, quick and sharp, teeth catching on her bottom lip like she’s waffling. I raise my other hand slowly, giving her time to move. She just stands there, breath shallow and uneven.

“You’re alright,” I murmur. Then, carefully, I hook my finger beneath the arm of her sunglasses and lift them to the top of her head.

The bruise slams into me all over again. Dark and swollen, angry against her skin. I drag in a breath, and it burns on the way down. Something hot and protective coils in my chest. It has claws and too many teeth.

I step into her. Both hands frame her face now, my thumb ghosting beneath the bruise with the gentlest pressure I can give.

“Who hurt you, baby?” I whisper. “Give me a name.” The words shake loose from somewhere low and dangerous. Not loud. But lethal all the same.

Her eyes fill fast without warning. A sudden, sharp shine welling up like she’s been holding it off for too long. And she looks at me like I’m the answer to a question she can’t ask.

Something cracks behind my ribs, and I can’t fucking breathe.

My mind races ahead of me—flashing through worst-case scenarios like it’s building a case for revenge.

Beau and I have handled our share of dirtbags over the years.

We’d do it again. Hell, Cora’s man is a Reaper down in Rosewood.

I don’t even know what he does exactly, but I’m pretty sure there are permanent options if it ever came to that.

And if it’s her ex? If Jake fucking Lansing put his hands on her? I’ve been waiting years for an excuse to wipe that smug look off his face.

Abby lowers her gaze. Her mouth opens like she might speak, but all that comes out is a shaky breath.

“It was an accident,” she says finally, voice so soft I almost miss it. “Wrong place, wrong time.” But she won’t look at me. Her shoulders shrink inward. Her hands twist at the hem of her hoodie.

“You don’t have to protect anyone,” I say, softer this time. “You know that, right?”

Her gaze lifts to mine, startled. “I’m not—” She swallows hard. “I’m not covering for anyone.”

The breath I let out doesn’t bring relief. It knots tight in my chest—some twisted mix of guilt, frustration, and confusion I don’t have the words for.

“Abby . . .”

Her hand glides up my forearm, fingertips grazing skin, until it settles gently over my wrist. “I’m serious, Mason. It was an accident. I don’t even know who it was.”

My eyes search hers. Those deep, stormy blues that have always given her away. “Then why don’t you want your brother to know you’re here?”