Chapter 8: Proving Ground

Mason dragged me to the military camp, where the only thing that mattered was whether you pulled your weight. Out here, men fought, women cooked, and everyone had a job. The air was thick with sweat and the sharp tang of gun oil, the sun merciless overhead.

"Since you’ve chosen to stay, you have to do as the locals do."

The place was a far cry from anything in Chicago—dust everywhere, uniforms stained with sweat and dirt. Mason was bold, telling me to do as the locals did, as if my title didn’t matter. Maybe it didn’t out here.

But if sharing hardship meant earning their trust, maybe that was worth it. My city-bred pride gave way to something new—a desire to prove I could hang with the best of them.

I looked around, noticing the absence of women. I wasn’t about to ask Mason about it. His presence alone was enough to grate on my nerves.

He seemed to enjoy my silence, waving for his guys to bring a folding chair and then sitting down like some kind of judge. "This is for your own good, Princess. Let’s start with the basics: holding a wall sit."

I shot him a look that could curdle milk. "What’s that supposed to mean? Why am I not doing laundry or helping in the kitchen?"

A snort, then full-on laughter. Mason slapped the armrest, tears of amusement in his eyes. He didn’t stop until I pressed the ceremonial sword against his throat.

"What’s so funny?" My patience was wearing thin.

He leaned back, totally unfazed. "Guess I overestimated you. If you want to do laundry and cook with the ladies, that’s fine too…"

His tone was pure contempt.

"No need." I sheathed my sword, drew a steadying breath. "Wall sit it is."

How hard could it be? I’d survived basic training, city council meetings, and three years of my little brother’s soccer games. I’d treat it like a workout. If nothing else, I’d out-stubborn him.

Big mistake. I shouldn’t have tried to win the argument. After a few days, my legs felt like lead, every muscle screaming. Yet Mason kept asking if I could handle it, smirk never leaving his face.

People live for dignity—so I forced out, teeth clenched, "I can handle it."

That night, dragging my sore body down the street, I spotted an old woman struggling with a bag of groceries. I made a move to help, but Mason beat me to it, striding over like some local hero.

He hefted the bags like they were nothing, muscles rippling, and shot me a look over his shoulder. I rolled my eyes, taking the long way around to avoid him.

"Officer," he called after me, voice ringing out. I ignored him until he caught up, dumping several heavy bags into my arms without warning.

I stared, dumbfounded. Mason just smiled. "If you can help, you should."

The old woman’s accent was pure South Side, vowels stretched and warm, her thanks tumbling out like she was handing over homemade cookies. When we finally reached her house, I was panting, arms aching.

Mason didn’t leave; he stayed to fix her porch, barking orders at me the whole time. I put up with it, not wanting to make a scene. By the time we finished, the sky was dark, crickets chirping.

On the way back, I let my annoyance show. "Didn’t expect you to have a soft side."

I’d pegged Mason as cold, maybe even heartless, but he’d told the women in the house to sit and rest, leaving all the heavy lifting to me. I couldn’t tell if he was playing a game or just liked pretending.

He missed the sarcasm, shrugging. "Guess that’s what guys are for—lifting heavy stuff, helping out… Why are you looking at me like that?"

I snorted. Mason was a contradiction—tough on everyone but me, it seemed. I was a woman too, but he never let me forget I was different.