Boarlander Beast Boar (Boarlander Bears #4)(15)

“And did you know Bash really, really misses you? He’s asked me if you’ve called about a dozen times. I tried to explain to him that you aren’t my driver anymore.”

The smile faded from Mason’s lips. “Yeah, I knew that part, too. I’m moving back into my old trailer.” He heaved a sigh and rolled his head toward her, leveled her with a somber look. “I give it a week, and they’ll wish I would’ve stayed gone.”

Beck dipped her voice to a whisper. “You’re not as broken as you think, Beast Boar.”

The corner of Mason’s mouth ticked up and, slowly, he reached for her, pushed her hair back off her cheek with the barest brush of his fingertip—his first voluntary touch. “You’re wrong.”





Chapter Seven


The trailer park was a ghost town right now, not exactly the return Mason had imagined, but this was better. It would be easier for everyone if he slid back in quietly. He’d had a hard time ripping himself away from Beck after she’d been so open with him. After he’d heard the conversation with her ex. After talking to her until she drifted off to sleep, right there in the middle of the afternoon, as though she felt safe with him. After he’d tested himself, touching her cheek and reveling in the warm, comforting sensation that drew up his dick.

He couldn’t push too hard with her, though. If her quiet sobbing after she had gotten off the phone with her ex was anything to go by, Beck had been wounded badly. All Mason had been able to think about all afternoon was covering her, f*cking her until she screamed his name and forgot about that douchebag who talked to her like she was nothing. Asshole didn’t even realize what he’d lost. God, Mason hated people like him. Robbie. He wanted to rip his throat through his mouth-hole for calling Beck “boring” again.

Beck was the most interesting woman Mason had met since Esmerelda.

Letting off a steadying breath to cool his blood, Mason pulled a moving box from the bed of his truck and took it inside his trailer. The second he stepped through the doorway, he froze. Such a strange sensation washed over him, prickling his skin. His room at Damon’s house hadn’t ever felt like home, but this place…this dilapidated, thirty-five-year-old singlewide came pretty damn close.

He set down the box and ran his fingers over the neck of his old guitar in the corner, and then along the back of the couch to reacquaint himself with the place. It smelled like wood polish, floor cleaner, and soap. Someone had been in here to keep the dust at bay. Bash, he would guess, and an accidental smile took Mason’s face at the vision of that big clumsy brute in here with a dust rag, humming off-key to himself.

Mason made his way to the bedroom, and sure enough, Beck had been right. His covers were still unmade, just as he’d left them. A vision of Beck on her hands and knees, back arched and wet sex ready for him flashed across his mind, and there it was again—that instant boner. Geez, he felt like he was a rutting breeder again since she’d stumbled into his life in that f*cking sexy, muddy, see-through outfit of hers. Was that was this was? Maybe he was rutting, encouraged by his broken boar, or from how damn f*ckable Beck was. He had to be careful with that one. She wasn’t some sow in heat. She was human. Fragile. He would have to open her up slowly. Fuck. Stop thinking about her like that. She isn’t yours.

But he wanted her to be. And she had Ryder, so maybe she wouldn’t be as disappointed in the fact that he couldn’t give her a child. She already had one. Mason winced at the pain of that thought. He’d missed her being pregnant. Missed that entire part of her life, and why did that seem like such a huge thing? If he went after her, he would never see her belly swell with child. Would never press his hand against the movement there. Would never be there for her when she gave birth. She would never bear a child with a tiny piglet just waiting to present itself in that first year of life. Maybe he was biased, but boar shifter babies were the cutest.

Stop it! He couldn’t lose his mind over things that would never come to fruition. Beck wouldn’t have his child. No one would. That wasn’t the life that had been meant for him. At least she had Ryder. Good strong name, and Beck was a good mom for gifting it to him. Something inside him said that McFartFace hadn’t come up with anything so good.

“They’re coming.”

Mason hunched and spun, but no one was there. It had been Esmerelda’s voice, just a whisper over the drone of the AC unit. Chills blasted up his skin as he narrowed his eyes and searched the kitchen behind him. Shit. She really had followed him here, just like he’d feared. He would have to call Clara and ask if she knew a way to get rid of her. Or maybe he would pay Jason of the Gray Backs a visit. He’d somehow banished the ghost of a dead ex-mate a couple years ago. Or maybe Beaston, who saw so much more than everyone else, would have some advice for him. Mason had to do something because Esmerelda had only visited his dreams until now, and she’d never been powerful enough to speak to him in broad daylight.

His inner boar roared to Change. To fight…something.

If it was the last thing he did, Mason had to protect the Boarlanders from whatever was happening to him. He had to protect Beck from his past.

Outside, trucks rumbled through the trailer park, siphoning his attention away from the empty kitchen. Here we go.

Mason made his way out of his trailer and locked his arms against the porch railing. He watched the parade of cars filter into the park. The dumbfounded looks and slow smiles on his crews’ faces as they drove past made him think that maybe Damon had been right sending him back. If Mason ignored the skittering fear that he would hurt the people he cared about, this feeling of homecoming was actually nice. And about now, he would take any balm for his soul, no matter how temporary.