Page 63 of His Saving Grace

Chapter 14

Masonslammedthefront door of the house so hard, the glass rattled. He was so tired of this shit. Tired of tiptoeing around Owen. Tired of trying to get Grace to open up. Tired of feeling like the odd man out.

If he was smart, he’d pack up his stuff and head back to Virginia. He didn’t need any of this fuckery. He could go back to his old life, where everything wasn’t bat-shit crazy.

Problem was, he didn’t want that. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed this place. How much he’d missed his mother and the boys. How much he’d missed this life.

He toed off his shoes, kicking them aside. Not that he doubted his choices. He’d loved being a soldier, defending his country, and if he could go back, he wouldn’t change the decision. The only thing he’d do differently would be to sit down and talk with his dad. Make the old man understand why and what it meant to him. Not let stubbornness and stupidity keep him away from his family and his home for so long.

He stared at the family photos lining the hallway. Some he recognized, some were from after he’d left. So many memories, and so many he missed. He rubbed at the ache in his chest. He would make it up to them. Be there for them now.

He spun around and stomped down the hallway. He would, however, like to forget he’d ever met Grace Smith, or whatever the hell her name was. That woman turned him inside out, in both the good way, and also the super shitty way. He didn’t know whether he was coming or going and sex had only complicated the matter.

You knew it would, and yet you did it, anyway.

Yeah, because he was an idiot. And like an idiot, he still craved her with every cell in his body, which was stupid, because she was lying to him. Lying right to his face. Making him either an infatuated fool or the biggest moron on the planet. Maybe both.

He strode into the kitchen, practically seething. Without turning the light on, he stalked over to the fridge and grabbed a beer. Popping the top, he took a long swig and then slammed the bottle down on the counter. It didn’t help take the edge off. He made his way over to the table and dropped into one of the chairs, hoping the silence and darkness would help soothe his shredded nerves.

The doorknob jiggled and then Owen walked through the back door, snapping on the light. Mason’s back straightened, his muscles tightening. He rubbed his thumb against the condensation gathering on the beer bottle, waiting to see what Owen would do.

Owen was flipping through a stack of papers in his hand, so he hadn’t noticed Mason sitting at the table. Owen walked around the counter and grabbed a mug off the hook, pouring a cup of the day-old coffee in the pot. He turned, the cup halfway to his lips and spotted Mason.

Mason froze, and tried to blank his features. He didn’t know how well he did, not with his guts churning. Not that it mattered. You could snap the tension in the kitchen with a flick of a finger.

Owen glared at him for a handful of seconds and then tossed the cup in the sink beside him. By the sound of it, the mug broke on impact. Owen didn’t blink, just strode toward the door that led out into the hallway.

Mason grabbed his arm on his way by. “I’m done with this shit, Owen. If you’ve got a problem with me, then say it to my face.”

Owen stopped, but kept his gaze straight ahead. “Let go of me, Mason.”

“Or what?” Mason got to his feet but didn’t let go.

Owen tried to yank his arm away, but Mason held tight. “I swear to God, Mason, I will punch you.”

“Then do it. Do what you have to. But this ends now.” Mason shoved him back into the middle of the kitchen. Owen staggered, but kept upright. His fierce frown and the daggers in his eyes promised bloody murder.

Without warning, Owen swung.

Mason’s head snapped to the side. Stars flared behind his eyes. Pain exploded across his cheek. He shook his head to clear it, but a red haze crept in.

He bellowed and launched forward, his shoulder connecting with Owen’s middle. They slammed into the floor with the force of a Mack truck running full speed into a brick wall. Owen grunted, but didn’t slow. He flipped Mason off of him, scrambled on top, threw another punch that Mason blocked. Owen’s fist collided with his arm.

“Bloody bastard.” Mason grabbed Owen’s wrist and lifted his hips, bucking Owen forward. Owen’s shoulder connected with the corner of the counter and he swore. He hit the ground and then rolled to his feet, turning back to face Mason all in one smooth movement.

Mason scrambled to his feet. His jaw ached. His arm tingled. He touched the heel of his hand to his lip and it came away bloody. Yup, his lip was split. He wiped the rest of the blood away with the back of his hand, never taking his eyes off Owen.

Owen lifted his shoulder and winced, reaching over to knead his muscles.

An absurd amount of pleasure rolled through Mason, and he planted his feet wide apart, leaned forward. “That all you got?” He knew the taunt would hit the target. Owen was nothing if not predictable. Mason didn’t care, his entire body primed for a real fight.

Owen growled and came at him again, but this time Mason was prepared and ducked the incoming punch. He then threw an upper cut that hit Owen on the chin. Owen’s head jerked back, his jaw snapping shut.

He hoped the bastard saw stars for the rest of the night.

Owen took a step back, shaking his head. He stared at Mason through narrowed eyes, obviously sizing him up, searching for a weakness.

Good luck with that. Mason wasn’t the teenage boy who’d left here all those years ago. He was a man, trained in hand-to-hand combat. One who wasn’t afraid to use his skills when he needed to. Owen had got in his one freebie. Now, he wouldn’t be so lucky.