Page 3 of Stalked (Mating Run #3)

Chapter three

Mason

Mason stepped into his spacious home, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. The empty foyer stretched out in front of him, almost suffocating, but it couldn’t quiet the storm inside his head.

Caleb’s blatant disrespect had sparked his anger, but it was Toby—so wounded, so cautious—that seemed to crawl under Mason’s skin, gnawing at him.

He crossed the threshold into his study, the scent of old leather and worn books filling the air. The walls, adorned with artifacts and trophies collected over years of tradition, should’ve grounded him. This room had always been a retreat for Mason, a place to process the weight of leadership and responsibility. But tonight, it was just a prison, its walls closing in as his thoughts circled back to Toby.

Mason leaned against his desk, fingers absently tracing the edge of an antique he barely saw. His mind wasn’t in this room. It wasn’t in the present.

It was back there. With him.

Toby.

The sharp tilt of his chin, the tension in his shoulders—bracing, but not breaking. The way his blue eyes had flickered, not in fear, but in assessment. Like he was taking Mason’s measure, deciding what to do with him.

Mason exhaled, slow, controlled.

He hadn’t felt this in years.

His wolf clawed at him from the inside, pushing a single word through his consciousness: Mate.

"No." The word tore from his throat, harsh in the silence of the study.

Mason reached for the silver-framed photograph on his desk—the one he couldn't bear to put away, even after all this time. His fingers shook slightly as they traced the smiling face in the image. Five years gone, and the pain still felt like yesterday.

That had been his forever. His one chance at the mating bond that Pack legends spoke of—rare, sacred, eternal. He'd buried his heart in that grave. Accepted the hollow ache as the price for having once known such completion.

And now this? A human boy half his age who made his wolf pace and snarl with need?

"It's not possible," he whispered to the empty room.

But his body knew differently. The primal recognition couldn't be reasoned with or bargained away. It simply was. His wolf had scented what his human mind refused to accept—that somehow, against all reason and timing, the universe had given him a second chance.

A second mate.

It had been so long that he’d convinced himself he never would again. That whatever part of him had been meant for one person only had died with them, burned to ash and left to fade.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Not like this.

Mason’s hands curled into fists against the desk, jaw tightening. This was wrong.

Toby was twenty. A boy. Half his age.

Mason had fought his own nature before. He knew how to control himself, knew how to want and not take. But his wolf didn’t give a damn about age or timing or what was supposed to be.

It knew.

And it wanted.

The sharp surge of need hit like a wildfire, sparking deep in his gut and spreading outward, hot, unrelenting. His breath came heavier, his skin too tight. In the wolf's world, Mason wouldn’t be standing here, gripping the edge of his desk like a man on the verge of losing control. He would already be claiming.

Toby beneath him, body shuddering, surrendering inch by inch. His wrists caught in Mason’s grip, his breath ragged against Mason’s throat. His body arching as Mason took, spoiled, ruined him for anyone else…

Mason cursed and shoved the thought away, but it refused to leave. His body was already reacting, already preparing for something his mind knew he could never have.

This isn’t happening. It won’t happen.

And yet, deep in his gut, where instinct ruled and reason didn’t reach—It already had.

“Lydia,” Mason called out, summoning his assistant from another room.

She appeared promptly, her professional demeanor unwavering. “Sir?”

“I need an intel folder on one of Caleb's classmates. Toby Jacobson,” he instructed, already feeling a rush of anticipation at the thought. “Everything you can find: background, interests, connections.”

When it came to running Mason's businesses and protecting his pack, a background check wasn't an unheard-of request. “Of course.” Lydia nodded, already reaching for her tablet. “Do you want it delivered to your office?”

Mason waved her off. “No time for delays. Email it to me.”

As she strode away, Mason paced his study like a caged animal. Toby was everything Caleb was not—careful yet resilient, some quiet brightness burning beneath layers of reserve.

What lay behind those evaluating eyes? Was there a strength waiting to be discovered? Mason leaned against his desk, arms crossed tightly.

If he's just some shallow human, if he's just some everyday, self-centered young man…

Then I'll know my instincts are wrong.

That second chances aren't real.

The moon arced through the night sky. In what felt like no time at all, an email from Lydia hit his inbox with a chime.

Mason scanned the pages quickly: a childhood in a small town, family dynamics strained by financial struggles. Toby’s academic achievements stood out like bright stars against an otherwise predictable sky.

Mason’s eyes flicked over the folder as he absorbed every detail about Toby. The boy's life unfolded before him, every step of his journey laid out for Mason's curiosity.

But Mason wasn't interested in grades and finances. He needed to know the real Toby, the one that had held his gaze.

And Lydia always delivered. Her background checks weren't just simple web searches. When it came to unearthing dirt, there was no-one better. All those dirty little secrets you didn't want anyone to find out about… she'd find them. The woman was a bloodhound.

At the bottom of the document were links to several social media accounts.

None of which had Toby's name.

Instead, they were for ShyBoy .

Something inside him gnawed at Mason. He opened a browser and typed in one of the addresses.

The screen filled with photos. Mason’s breath caught in his throat. He leaned closer to the screen, his heart pounding like a drum.

These definitely weren't on Toby's college application.

Mason scrolled through the photos, each click exposing more of a side of Toby he’d never imagined. The first image was artful, taken in the mirror of what looked like a sleek, dimly lit bathroom. Toby—or ShyBoy, here—stood shirtless, face cut off by the mirror's edge, one arm raised above his head, the other holding his phone. Drops of water beaded on his shoulders, glistening as though he'd just stepped out of the shower. His jeans hung precariously low on his hips.

It was a perfectly anonymous photo. Without a face in frame, it could have been any slender young man, in any dorm room the country over.

But here was the real him.

Another photo: Toby lying on his back on crumpled white sheets, his face mostly out of frame but his torso bathed in warm, golden light. His head was turned to the side; all that was visible of his face was his lips, parted as if he were lost in thought—or on the verge of saying something that would ruin you.

Mason’s gaze trailed down, landing on the curve of his hips, just barely visible beneath the edge of a sheet.

Holy shit.

Mason’s throat went dry as he scrolled, his fingers tense against the mouse. He knew he should stop. He should close the damn browser and forget this ever happened.

But he didn’t.

The next image loaded, and his pulse slammed.

Toby—no, ShyBoy—on his back, head tipped back against the dark headboard of a bed that wasn’t Mason’s. His lips were parted, his throat bare in offering, his flushed chest rising and falling like he’d been caught mid-breath. The rest of his face wasn't in frame, but somehow, it still felt like he was watching the viewer.

Waiting for them.

Mason’s fingers curled into his palm. Fuck.

He scrolled again, unable to stop himself.

A video thumbnail. Just a few seconds long. Toby—sprawled on his stomach, propped up on his elbows, his lower lip caught between his teeth. The softest shift of his hips against the mattress, like he needed friction. The faintest, teasing roll of his body.

Mason clicked before he could think better of it.

The thumbnail flickered, then came to life.

Toby moved slowly—almost lazily—as he slid a hand down his stomach, past the waistband of low-slung briefs. The way his hips arched, the way his fingers flexed as he tugged those briefs down—

Mason slammed the laptop shut, his breathing hard and uneven. His jaw clenched, muscles taut like a live wire about to snap. He pressed his palms against the desk, fighting for control, forcing his body to calm.

This was wrong.

This was his son’s classmate. A human. Half his age. Off-limits in every conceivable way.

And yet—Mason had never been so hard in his life.

His instincts howled in approval. His wolf, never one for restraint, liked what it had seen. The way Toby moved, the quiet confidence in every line of his body—Mason's first impressions had been right.

Mason closed his mouth, realizing only then it had fallen open. Heat flooded his face, and he dragged his hand through his hair in a futile attempt to shake the mix of shock and arousal curling through him.

"Jesus," he growled under his breath, though he wasn’t sure whether it was awe, frustration, or desire spilling into the words.

These weren’t just photos. They were an invitation to see Toby in a way that no one else seemed to know was even possible.

My life sucks. Sometimes I wish someone would just take control and show me what it feels like to be desired, one caption read.

Mason scrolled, his pulse a slow, steady throb in his throat. The next caption sent heat licking up his spine.

“I hate pretending I don’t want anything. I want someone stronger than me, someone who could just—push me down and take their time. Make me beg. Make me feel wanted.”

Mason could almost hear the frustration in Toby’s voice, raw and restless beneath the words:

“I don’t think people understand what it’s like to be the one who always has to be in control. The one who always has to be on guard. I don’t just want someone to fuck me. I want someone to… make me stop thinking. Make me let go. ”

Mason’s stomach tightened. He dragged a hand down his face, willing his body to cool, but his blood was running hot now, an electric current humming beneath his skin.

“I think about it all the time. Someone bigger than me. Stronger than me. Holding me still. Making me take it. I want to fight him, just so he’ll push me down harder. Just so he’ll show me I don’t have to fight at all.”

Mason leaned back suddenly, exhaling hard, his heart hammering against his ribs like a war drum.

He needed to stop.

He needed to close the damn laptop, push away the images playing on a loop in his head—Toby’s body arching under him, breath ragged, hands clutching at Mason like he was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. His mind raced, a million thoughts piling on top of each other.

Beneath Toby’s posts, comments had rolled in.

Sounds like you’re ready for someone to show you what real submission feels like ??

I'll help you explore that side, slave. Hit me up if you’re interested.

dm me baby ill pop that cherry lol

Mason clenched his jaw. Rivals .

He lifted his hand to his face, breathing in deeply. Toby's scent still lingered on his skin from their handshake earlier that day. The sweet, earthy aroma sent a jolt of electricity down his spine. His body responded instantly, cock hardening against his thigh as memories of those blue eyes and parted lips flooded his mind.

What would it be like to unravel those layers of shyness, to coax out the hidden desires that simmered beneath the surface…?

His hand moved, pressing against the growing ache in his pants. Hard. Needy. Already throbbing. He exhaled sharply, shoving his chair back as he leaned into the feeling, letting his instincts take over.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The way Toby’s body would feel against his. Smaller, softer, trembling just a little—not from fear, but from sheer, overwhelming sensation. Mason would take his time, make him squirm, make him beg for it, make him shatter completely.

Mason undid his belt with one sharp tug, his breathing heavier now. His fingers curled around the zipper, dragging it down slowly, deliberately, as if testing his own restraint. It was already too late.

His hand dipped inside, wrapping around himself, skin burning hot. His fingers squeezed just enough to make his breath stutter.

He stroked himself slowly at first, teasing, picturing Toby’s hesitant hands on him, uncertain but eager. The thought of Toby's lips parting in a gasp of pleasure made Mason's hips buck involuntarily. He quickened his pace, picturing the boy's slender body arching beneath him, yearning for his touch. Mason wanted to claim every inch of Toby's pale skin, to mark him as his own and show him the depths of passion that had been denied to him for so long.

Precome beaded at the tip of Mason's cock. He imagined Toby's blue eyes darkening with desire, his shy exterior melting away to reveal the bold exhibitionist that lurked within. Mason's hand moved faster.

He was too far gone now.

Precome slicked his fingers, his breathing coming in ragged bursts as his body coiled tighter, the pressure building, his mind lost in the image of Toby, sprawled beneath him, surrendering completely.

Mine.

The thought snapped something inside him, sending him over the edge. His climax hit like violence, the first thick rope of come shooting across his fist, across his desk. His cock pulsed again and again, pumping out his release as his body jerked with the force of it. Mason's hips thrust involuntarily as he imagined emptying himself deep inside Toby's willing body.

Mason slumped back, chest heaving, his skin damp with sweat. His mind still raced, the last shivers of pleasure pulsing through him, leaving something darker in its wake.

He should feel shame. Regret. Something. Instead, his blood still burned. His instincts screamed mine .

And now he was sure of what he had to do:

Take what was his.