 
## **Contents**

Other Books by Pam Godwin

Buckled Chapter 1

Playlist

Other Books by Pam Godwin

Acknowledgments

About Pam Godwin

The terrain of childhood shapes the soul, and the soul never forgets.

It doesn't forget the fields of Julep Ranch under the watercolor sky.

The earthy scent of grass beneath Barnabe's heavy hooves.

The chirp of insects in the parched summer breeze.

Or Conor Cassidy, the sexiest girl in Oklahoma, soft and snug against my back.

I clutch the edges of my landscape and wrap it around me, taking nourishing breaths.

Barnabe, my chestnut stallion, twitches powerful muscles between my legs as he lopes along the dusty trail.

Behind me, Conor presses her tight little body against mine and slips a warm hand beneath the front of my shirt.

Now I'm twitching, too, restless and hungry. That's what she does to me. One touch and I feel like an ungelded horse, a beast with fire in his veins, bucking and panting at the whiff of a mare in heat.

I don't have to glance back to see her expression. With her chin tilted skyward, red hair ablaze, and guitar strapped to her back, I know she's curving those plump lips into a serene smile as she soaks up the fading warmth of twilight.

She loves this land as much as I do.

She loves me.

And this is our night.

I've memorized the contours of her body as thoroughly as the terrain of our ten-thousand-acre ranch. In a few hours, I'll know her even better. Deeper.

I'll know her in the most intimate way possible.

Awareness crackles beneath my skin like it always does when she's near. But tonight, the static feels sharper, more frenzied, and lower. Christ, the knot of electricity between my legs makes my jeans achingly tight. My cock is raging, swollen, throbbing like an angry heartbeat.

To think, I jerked off twice before I headed out. Lot of good that did me. If I bust a nut before I get inside her, I'll never forgive myself.

The cantering stampede of two horses approaches from behind. Jarret trots past, veering his black gelding along the trail while blowing a kiss at Conor.

My twin brother might look like me, but we're not identical. His hair's darker, his eyes a paler shade of brown. Some say his smile is bigger and more charming, and maybe that's true. The local girls trip right out of their panties whenever he winks at them.

"I thought Emma would be with you tonight," I say at his back.

He kicks up a shoulder, a noncommittal shrug, as Conor's brother, Lorne, brings up the rear.

"Jarret's thinking about liking Emma." Lorne slows his horse beside mine, grinning.

"I already liked her. A lot." Jarret holds up a hand in a peace sign. "With these two fingers."

"What a heartbreaker." Conor smothers her chuckle against the back of my shirt.

"You look beautiful, sis." Lorne tips the Stetson on his head, his expression doting.

"Thank you, darlin'," she drawls. "You're stag tonight, too, huh?"

"Yep." Lorne gives me a knowing look, adjusts the guitar case on his back, and rides ahead to join Jarret.

Lorne just graduated high school, and for the first time in our lives, he seems...older. I mean, he is older. A year older than Jarret and me. Two years older than Conor. But it feels like he matured overnight, maybe gained a few IQ points, grew some chest hair or something.

Nothing's changed between us, though. He might be protective as hell of his sister, but he's also my best friend and number one supporter of my relationship with her.

Our clan of four shares an extraordinary closeness, an inseparable bond that stems from childhood. We grew up on the ranch together. Our fathers own the cattle operation together. Our mothers died fourteen years ago...together. We've spent our entire lives playing, working, fighting, and laughing together.

Someday, the four of us will own Julep Ranch just like our parents before us.

Up ahead, Jarret's voice drifts downwind as he tells Lorne about the girl he banged last night. His graphic descriptions make me hyper-aware that Conor and I are the only virgins.

I'm not jealous. It's just... I used to think she and I would be the first to go all the way. We were the first to kiss, the first to make out without clothes on. But I hit the brakes on sex. She was always too young.

Insects whir through the grass, humming eager sounds as the sinking sun paints the sky with dark, hungry promises.

It's Conor's sixteenth birthday.

The day I've waited for my whole life.

Lorne and Jarret know my plans tonight, and they're here to run interference. All it takes is one ranch hand to stumble upon us and report to Dalton Cassidy that I'm in the south pasture, deflowering his only daughter.

But Conor's dad isn't the biggest threat. It's mine. John Holsten loves her like a daughter, but he's never condoned our relationship. In fact, he forbids it.

Jarret's allowed to spend time with whomever he wants, so I don't understand Dad's restriction on Conor and me. She's my past, my present, and my future. I'm everything when I'm with her and nothing without her.

Yet she's not permitted in my room. I'm not allowed to hold her hand or, God forbid, kiss her. Lorne and Jarret have mastered the art of covering for us while we sneak around the eight-thousand-square-foot home our families share. Most nights, we ride out to the south pasture after our fathers have retired for the evening.

Like tonight.

Lorne and Jarret disappear behind the ridge, and Barnabe ambles slowly after, rocking Conor against me in a cocoon of heat and friction.

I trail fingertips across her thigh, delighting in the clench of her legs around my hips and the rise of goosebumps along her skin. Creamy, silken Irish skin that burns so easily in the sun.

I know every freckle on her body, and I've ventured to count them over the years. But the dark one at the edge of her right nipple always distracts me from the task.

Goddamn, I love her tits. The dusky pink nipples. The way they harden against my tongue. I love all her pretty parts—the vibrant green of her eyes, the pout of her lips, the shape of her toned legs, and these shorts...

I run my hand over the frayed denim, intimately familiar with this particular pair of cutoffs. The worn hole near the zipper has been stretched over time by my prodding finger, and if she bends just right, I can see the crease between her perfect ass and thighs.

"You're quiet." I slide a hand under the back of her knee, tickling the soft skin there.

Mosquitoes buzz in the hush, biting my bare arms.

She swats at one on my neck and leans up to brush her lips against the sting. "I'm nervous."

"If I was a good guy, I'd tell you we can wait."

Not happening.

I've waited years, fantasizing, wanting. I wanted her when her kisses made me stutter. I wanted her when my dick started hardening in my hand. I wanted her when her boobs grew, and dark hair appeared under my arms. I really wanted her when I discovered porn and watched all the licking, sucking, pounding, filthy ways I could want her.

Over the past couple of years, I spent my nights kissing and humping the space in my bed that should've been filled with Conor Cassidy. But I couldn't have her the way I wanted.

Until now.

Some might think sixteen is still too young for what I have in mind.

Fuck them.

I'll be seventeen next month. We're the same age for only two weeks, and tonight feels like a long-awaited rite of passage. A momentous coming-together. The beginning of our future.

I don't know where this sentimental shit comes from. I was raised by a hard-ass man's man, who has neither the time nor the inclination for romantic ideals.

I'm cut from the same cloth, fashioned from the rugged land on which he raised me. But all my soft parts belong to Conor.

"No more waiting, Jake." She shifts her hand on my abs, dipping bold fingers beneath my belt buckle.

"Damn right." My breath runs away from me, chopping my voice.

I might be wildly worked-up and hard as a rock, but this desperation, this need, is bigger than just getting off inside my girl.

She's the nexus of my world. A world that goes beyond sex and wedding bells and riding off into the sunset. I'll ride east, if that's where she's going. I'll drive a sedan, if that's what she wants. I'll wear fucking loafers, if it makes her smile.

Hell, I'm so in love with her I don't even need feet. I'll just float on the high I get whenever she's near.

"It's going to be great." My cock thinks so. I've never been this painfully aroused. Pretty sure I can hit a home run with the wood in my pants.

"Oh, it'll be great for you." She shoves her hand deeper into my jeans and grips the ramrod length of me. "But this thing is gonna hurt."

"Conor..." With a choked groan, I pry her fingers off my dick. "I'll go slow."

"I know." She rests her cheek on my spine and sighs. "I love you, Jake Holsten. Even if you don't go slow. Even if it's not that great."

"Damn, baby." I press a fist against my chest, laughing. "Not the vote of confidence I was looking for."

"You don't need that with me." She lifts the Stetson from my head, strokes a hand through my hair, and returns the hat. "It's just us."

"And it's meant to be." I grasp her thigh and squeeze. "That's all we need."

When we reach the ridge, I tether Barnabe to a tree alongside the other horses. The trail continues down a steep slope and ends in a ravine surrounded by cliffs. That's where I'll take her when there's no light in the sky but the stars. We have about an hour till complete darkness.

While Lorne starts a fire, I recline against a log at the edge of the clearing with a direct line of sight on my girl. She stands near the fire pit and tunes her acoustic guitar, watching me watch her with a smile glittering in her eyes.

Long auburn hair falls to her waist in natural waves—the perfect length to tangle around my fist. She's a petite little thing, but those shorts make her legs look miles long. The rugged square toe boots are an added tease. Not to mention the way the flannel shirt hangs open and unbuttoned below her tits, revealing her satiny, toned midsection. The view makes me so damn hot I feel delirious.

I think she's trying to kill me.

Jarret pulls out his harmonica, and a few minutes later, he and Conor slip into a southern rock jam session. It's a bluesy warm-up melody with a little Skynyrd influence, maybe some Outlaws, but mostly just good ol' homegrown rockin'.

As the humming notes of guitar and harmonica swirl around me, I can feel exactly where the song comes from—our family roots, the soil of our beloved ranch, and the heart of our unbreakable friendship.

Lorne stokes the fire into hypnotic, crackling flames and sprawls out beside me with his guitar. Conor started playing guitar when she was the annoying kid-sister who wanted to do everything her brother did. She still idolizes him, but her musical talent surpassed him years ago.

"If you get her pregnant..." Lorne strums the strings, voice quiet and dark eyes fixed on Conor. "I'll kick your nuts so hard your grandkids will sing soprano."

"She's on the pill." I lean forward and capture his gaze. "I would never fuck with her plans."

After high school, she wants to study veterinary medicine an hour away at Oklahoma State University. She dreams of becoming the resident vet on our cattle ranch, and she's smart enough, tenacious enough, to make it happen.

He nods, his expression pensive. "My dad is promoting me to foreman."

"'bout damn time." I give him a hearty thump on the back.

Lorne knows the stocker cattle operation better than any of us, and the employees respect the hell out of him. He'll run the entire ranch someday, and no one will stand in his way.

"Yeah, well, you're the one with the brains." He eyes me from within the shadow of his hat. "We're all counting on you to improve the profit margins."

Only reason I have perfect grades in school is because I study hard. I'm a numbers guy. Accounting and finance. I'll be ready to take over the books full-time when I graduate.

Jarret, on the other hand...

My brother leans his back against Conor's as they play their instruments, laughing and swaying their hips. He says he's going to be an international man of seduction when he grows up. Truth is, he'll never give up the core part of cattle ranching. He was born to be a cowboy, riding and herding and working with his hands. I suppose there's a lick of that in all of us.

Conor changes the harmony and finds my eyes through the haze of campfire smoke. With a flirty smile, she strums the notes that make my blood thrum and my legs move. I don't play an instrument, but I can carry a tune, and I love to sing this song to her.

I rise to my feet and prowl toward her, mouthing the lyrics of Run by Matt Nathanson and Sugarland. She steps away from Jarret, and I slide up behind her, letting a twangy drawl thread through my voice while singing softly at her ear.

She hums happily, plucking the strings and grinding her ass against me. I drop my hands to her hips and drag my nose along her neck.

Good God, she smells pretty, like wildflowers and sweet cream frosting. I ache to sink my teeth into her. So I do, right in the soft part beneath her ear.

With a moan, she warbles the female part of the vocals. Such an angelic voice. And oh-so seductive.

I sing my lines next. Then we belt the chorus in unison, grinning and rolling our hips together.

She sets her guitar aside while Lorne continues the harmony on his. With Jarret's harmonica in the background, Conor and I slide into a slow, easy grind. I love the way the curve of her backside fits so perfectly against my groin. But I want her eyes, her lips. I want that ass in my hands.

Spinning her around, chest to chest, mouth to mouth, I kiss her with lyrics, and she kisses me with smiles. Then the kissing takes over, the song forgotten.

The synergy of our combined breaths heats my blood, and the round globes of her backside fill my hands. But I can't bring our bodies close enough. I want to crawl inside her and never leave.

Nightfall softens the ridge with shadows, chasing firelight across her features. She stares up at me, sighing with contentment. Relaxed and ready. It's time.

With a grip on her hand, I lead her toward the horses. She reaches for her guitar, and I tug her past it.

"You won't need that." I lift her to straddle Barnabe, facing backward. Then I swing up onto the low-pommel roping saddle and hook her legs around my hips. "Won't be needing these, either." I slip off her boots and socks, toss them, and urge Barnabe toward the sloping trail.

Lorne and Jarret continue to play, eyes down and deceptively alert. There's only one way in and out of the ravine, and they'll stay here as long as necessary to make sure no one sneaks up on us.

Barnabe follows the steep trail through the trees, winding around the juts of rocky bluffs. He knows the way to my favorite spot, which frees my hands for more important things.

Swaddled in privacy, I remove her shirt and tuck it under the saddle skirt. Her chest heaves, bulging her breasts over the cups of the bra. She frames my face with her hands.

Her gaze pins me, and I can't take mine off her. Communicating without words, locked in shared anticipation, we're a single thundering heart of elation and jitters.

"This is happening." I can hardly breathe.

Long thick lashes flicker over striking moonlit eyes. "Yeah."

Our mouths collide in a kiss of urgent necessity. I'm starved for her, for her familiar taste, the feel of her fat lips, and the comforting essence of her breath. She smells like home—my heart, my girl, my favorite scent in the whole world.

She's so painfully beautiful and kindhearted every guy in school wants to be with her. Yet she saved herself for me. She's here, right now, with every intention of giving me one of the most significant things she can give. Because she's mine.

It's humbling.

And goddamn exciting.

My pulse howls through my veins, and my hands tremble as I fumble with the clasp of her bra. And continue to fumble. Dammit, is the hook stuck?

"Jake, I love you." She nips at my lips, breathing heavily. "No matter how useless you are at removing a bra."

I'm flooded with nerves, shaking and laughing at myself. "Cut me some slack here."

"Never." She reaches behind her and frees the clasp with a snap of her fingers.

When the bra falls between us, my hands catch the soft weight of her breasts. The tautness of her nipples meets my thumbs, and my mouth waters.

"I'm so hungry for you." I band my arms around her and pull her tighter on my lap, feasting on her lips.

"God, the way you kiss..." She rubs her tongue against mine, panting. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you've been practicing on someone else."

"You know better." I grin against her mouth. "But I love your jealousy almost as much as your compliments. Keep going."

"You know how hot you are." She teases a finger along my freshly shaved jaw. "Hotter than the Oklahoma sun. Sexy in all the right places."

"Yeah?" I grip her hips and rock against her, letting her clit feel how hard she makes me.

She hums into my mouth. "I hate the way Sara Gilly looks at you in the cafeteria." Her nails bite into my shoulders. "And when you walk down the hall, they all stare at your ass."

"Who?"

"Courtney, Rosie, Shannon, Tina—"

"Not true." I know she's right, but none of those girls compare to the one on my lap.

"They all want a piece of you, and Lord knows there's plenty to go around." She pushes a hand between us and strokes the rigid shape of me through the jeans. "I can't believe you're going to put this inside me."

I search her face, but I already know I won't find vulnerability there.

My girl is sunshine, rawhide, and pure fight. Whether she's herding cattle, playing guitar, or losing her virginity, she's going to put on those square toes and wrangle the challenge with radiance and toughness.

Barnabe arrives at the ravine, and I dismount. Conor moves to follow, but I pat her thigh, signaling her to stay. She's barefoot, and I have some things to set up.

A shallow creek gurgles between the steep cliffs, loud enough to drown out the crunch of gravel beneath my boots. It's peaceful here, private and dark thanks to the canopy of trees.

I remove a blanket bundle from the saddle and unroll it on a bald spot between the rock wall and a large tree.

"What are you up to?" She leans across Barnabe's back and props her chin on a curled hand.

Unabashedly, gloriously, distractingly naked from the waist up, she watches me with a foxy smile. Definitely trying to kill me.

"You'll see." I light a small lantern from the bundle.

I waited until nightfall to discourage ranch hands from wandering this way, but there's no way I'm having sex with her in the dark. I need to see every inch of her nudity and the beautiful look on her face when I push inside her.

With the blanket spread in the ring of light, I return to her and lift her from the saddle. She clutches me tight in a cage of arms and legs, and her lips find mine with startling urgency.

I sink into the kiss and weave a hand through her hair as I carry her toward the blanket. Given the tangled frenzy of our tongues, it feels like I'm carrying ten years of pent-up desire.

She tastes and looks sinfully erotic, but there's an alluring innocence about her. If she only knew all the depraved ways I've imagined defiling her body. I don't want to go slow. I want to tear her open with ruthless thrusts. I want to hold her down and fuck her mouth. I want to tie her up and fuck her ass. I want to take her places I can't even let myself think about because it scares the hell out of me.

I won't hurt her, though. Not during our first time. But someday...

Someday, she'll tremble beneath me, so turned on and out of her mind she'll beg me to punish her.

We have our entire lives to work up to that, and I have endless patience.

I lower her to the blanket and, without taking my gaze off hers, I remove my hat, shirt, and belt. Her hands fly to my zipper, stroking against my cock in her hurry to strip me.

"Hold up, girl." I pin her wrists above her head and lean over her. "Keep that up and this'll be over in sixty seconds. I want it to last."

"I want you." Her plump lips pout the husky words.

With a groan, I settle my hips in the V of her thighs and cover her with my weight.

"You want this." I drive the length of my hard-on along the crotch of her shorts. "Feel it. Imagine it ripping you open."

I don't expect her to be scared or overwhelmed. Maybe a little bit hesitant? But she's not even that. She's breathless and impatient, trying to work her hands free from my hold to get to me.

"Let me touch you." She arches her back, rubbing her beautiful tits against my chest. "Come on, Jake. Don't make me wait."

She's going to wait, because that's what I want. To be in control, push her limits, and bend her to my will—it's what I crave. But tonight, I'll disguise my darker desires as sweet, playful teasing.

I slide off her shorts and panties, exposing her nude form in the lantern's soft glow. Fair skin, perky tits, slender hips, and an auburn triangle that leads to the wet seam of my destination—her flawless body deserves a lifetime of attention.

The scent of her pussy intoxicates the air as I shower her with devotion. My fingers worship. My eyes invade. My mouth devours. By the time I've licked her from mouth to slit and back again, she's writhing, drenched between her legs, and panting with full-body tremors.

With my hands busy, I haven't been able to stop her from grabbing and pulling at me. She wants to rush this, and I want to command every orchestrated second of it. I know the moment I crawl over her she'll shove those greedy fingers into my pants and steal my control.

But I have a solution for that, inspired by some taboo videos I sought out online. There's something undeniably arousing about bondage. It touches me deeply, stirring secret, indecent thoughts like nothing else.

Apparently, some women like to be restrained, and I get serious wood thinking about doing it. I know rope. I know knots. And I know Conor.

Reaching for the last item from the bundle, I lift a coil of rope and unravel it with shaking hands. The thought of her trussed up and defenseless makes me want to blow my load.

"What're you gonna do with that?" She wings up an auburn eyebrow. "Wrangle me like a cow?"

"Nah." I jerk my chin at the solid tree trunk near her head. "See that tree? I'm going to tie your hands to it and fuck you till we both pass out."

I look her in the eyes as she examines my face up and down, side to side. Her gaze is restless, searching. She knows me, loves me, and it's all there, open and unfiltered, in her flushed cheeks. She glows with arousal. And total, utter trust.

"Give me your hands." Just issuing the command makes my dick throb.

She holds up her arms, her eye contact as captivating as her obedience.

I lace her wrists together with swift movements. "I love you."

"Love you, too." She purses her lips. "I'd love you a whole lot more if you were naked."

"I'll give it to you when I'm ready." I want her so badly I'm damn near punching a hole through my zipper. But I need her to beg for my cock before I pull it out.

Unwinding the rope to the tree, I loop it around the trunk, tighten it, knot it, and give the binding a hard yank. On her back with her arms stretched overhead, her wrists are fettered together against the trunk. She's not going anywhere.

I edge back, rise to my full height, and stop breathing. Seeing her like this... My God, it's morally wrong. Unholy as hell. And absurdly, wonderfully right.

Arms bound and thighs spread, she's all curves and forbidden crevices, flesh and trembling breaths, soft mounds and tight holes.

Blood surges to my cock, and I stroke myself through the jeans. My muscles tense, fighting against the impulse to fall on her like an inexperienced boy.

While I might be inexperienced, I'm not without discipline. I've had years to think about this, plan it, and make it good for her. But I wasn't prepared for this...this feral, liberating reaction to the sight of her naked and tied up. It's a compelling, possessive sense of power, flexing and stretching inside me like a pair of wings.

"You're beautiful." Inadequate words for the image before me.

"Please, Jake." She plants her feet on the blanket and twists her wrists against the rope. "Stop teasing me. I need you with me. In me. Please, hurry."

Her begging balances me. My legs move on their own. My knees land between her thighs, and I yank down my zipper, rubbing and stroking my boner while trying to pull it out. Soothing the painful throb, halting the oncoming release, I don't know what I'm doing beyond the mindless need to fill her.

Her breathing accelerates as I blanket her body with mine. Desperation overrides control. My pulse skyrockets, locking my jaw and pounding my eardrums. I crush my mouth to hers, and the last shreds of my restraint evaporate.

I sweep my tongue past her lips, seeking her depths, craving something I can't name, aching for the hot wet of her mouth and the clenching grip of her cunt.

"You're shaking," she breathes into the kiss.

Mindless happiness vibrates my entire body. My dick's in my hand, and I'm sliding the head along her slit. She's bound and nude beneath me. I'm inhaling her sweet breath, seconds from experiencing the squeeze of her pussy. Of course, I'm fucking shaking. I'm hemorrhaging nerves and drunken desire.

With a fumbling hand, I line myself up and find her eyes.

At the edge of my periphery, her tongue touches her lip. Her chest heaves, jiggling her tits. Her thighs quiver around my hips. Oh, the things I want to command her to do...

Finger your cunt. Choke on my cock. Bend over. Ass up. Take it. Beg me.

The space between us narrows and closes. Our lips connect. My cock brushes against her dewy heat. My brain stops working. I'm in a zone. A skin on skin, mouth to mouth, carnal, reckless, crazed animal zone.

Until I hear something.

Movement beyond the trees.

I go still, listening.

Nothing.

Did I imagine it?

The air shifts near the trail, and I jerk my gaze to Barnabe. He doesn't twitch.

"What is it?" She follows my gaze.

Water babbles through the rocky creek bed, splashing the ravine in noise.

"Thought I heard something." I return my attention to her warm, wet center.

I only need to push, and I'll finally be inside her.

A crunching sound drifts from the trail.

Footsteps? I grit my teeth, head tilted, and hold my breath.

Barnabe flicks his tail. His ears. His neck.

He senses something.

My heart rate kicks up.

"A coyote?" Her wide eyes scan the perimeter.

"Shh." I sit back on my heels and fight the zipper over my erection as my hearing tunes in to the dark.

Silence.

I don't trust it and drag my abandoned shirt over Conor's body. It'll just take me a second to check it out. As I reach for the rope on her wrists, a twig snaps behind me.

She gasps, and I swing around. My gaze collides with my brother's through the trees.

I jump to my feet and try to block his view of her body. "What the hell are—?"

Jarret stumbles into the clearing, hands clasped on his head, eyes stark, and mouth stuffed with something soft. A bandana? The chilling look on his face screams, Run, run, run!

Confusion steals my breath. Shock paralyzes my limbs. Denial scrambles my brain.

"Jake!" Conor kicks my leg as panic shrieks through her voice. "Untie me!"

Quicker to react, she must've seen them before I did.

Two men in ski masks. Swift, threatening strides. Shotguns ticking between everything that moves. Lorne emerges from the trail between them, hands behind his back and a gag in his mouth.

"What the fuck?" My voice cracks, and my stomach bottoms out. "Lower your guns!"

I have no weapons. Nothing to fight with but my hands.

Conor doesn't even have that.

"Don't move." One of the masked men rushes forward, his rifle trained on my chest.

I don't recognize the voice and don't waste time inspecting the eyes in the mask. I launch toward Conor, falling to my knees and diving for the knot on her wrists.

Goddammit, it'll take forever to untie her. Fuck fuck fuck!

"Told you not to move." Footsteps advance, kicking gravel and hardening my stomach.

The second man ushers Jarret and Lorne closer, jabbing their backs with the barrel of the gun. They shout behind the gags and trip over rocks. There must've been a scuffle on the ridge, because neither are wearing their hats.

"Hurry." Conor scoots toward the tree, attempting to put slack on the rope.

The wheezing sounds of her breaths reinforce my number one priority. I'm nothing if not her protector.

"Don't come any closer." I tear at the knot, unable to loosen it. I made it too damn tight, and my sweaty hands keep slipping. "Just tell me what you want."

A boot rams into my side, shooting pain through my ribs and knocking me onto my back.

"Help! Somebody, help!" She screams at the top of her lungs and fights the rope, causing the shirt to fall and expose her nudity.

Motherfuckers are going to pay for that. Rage crashes through me as I roll back and grab her hips, desperate to cover her.

The masked man towers over me. "Sorry about the headache."

I glance up. "What—?"

He slams the stock of the shotgun into my skull.

Pain captures me in its fist and rattles my teeth.

I lose my hold on Conor.

Blackness crashes in and sinks me into the ground.

I lose my hold on everything.

Awareness oozes through my head, muddy and nauseating. Pain throbs behind my eyes and prickles down my spine. Rope shackles my hands behind my back, and scratchy cloth fills my mouth. This isn't happening. It's not real.

But the sucking panic in my throat already knows what my mind rejects.

I lost consciousness.

We're in danger.

Can't scream.

Or fight.

Or run.

This is bad.

Reality barrels into me like a bucking bull. Men in ski masks. Shotguns. Gags and rope. Conor...

I pry my face from the dirt and register the bits of gravel embedded in my chest. I've been moved to the other side of the ravine, dragged here on my stomach. Beside me, Jarret and Lorne are bound and gagged with their backs against trees.

The fury in Lorne's eyes makes me cringe. I've never seen him look like that. Jarret wears his distress so blatantly it soaks his face in tears. My brother hasn't cried since we were kids, and the shock of it speeds up my heart.

How long was I knocked out? Where the hell is Conor?

"Hurry up," a gravelly voice drawls behind me. "I want another go at her ass before we do her."

My stomach solidifies with ice-cold dread. I twist my neck and come face to face with a scene so sickening I struggle to come to terms with it.

Two joined bodies. Hers, without clothes. His, still dressed except for the swath of skin between his shirt and waistband. His pants are lowered just enough to expose the part of him that repeatedly stabs into her from behind.

Everything inside me thrashes and howls.

Blood stains her thighs. Puffy welts mark her skin. His hand clamps over the cloth in her mouth, and her hands... The knotted rope still imprisons her to the tree.

I did that. I took away her ability to escape.

Her eyes stare at nothing, rimmed red and dripping tears. Face down on the twisted blanket, her limp body jerks like dead flesh beneath the hammering thrusts.

Thrust.

Thrust.

Thrust.

No sound. No fight. She's either too exhausted or too broken. They've been hurting her for a while.

Violent tremors attack my muscles. Anguish spills from open veins. I bleed helplessness and drown in horror.

Seconds pass before I come up for air, heaving rabid breaths. I push my tongue against the gag and roar, "Get off her. Don't touch her. Leave her alone."

They can't hear my words, but they can fucking see me. I kick and flail, wrenching my arms and tearing my skin against the rope.

He said he's going to do her after he rapes her again. Does he intend to kill her?

I fight harder, blood pumping, boots scraping dirt, twisting and heaving and going nowhere.

"Calm your ass down." The voice barks from a mouthless mask. The man who wants another turn with her.

He prowls toward her with a knife in hand. Crouching beside her, he grabs the hair on the back of her head and yanks her neck at an awkward angle to hold the blade at her throat.

She closes her eyes, and the sick fuck on top of her continues to rut.

"I can kill her slow and painful like." The man with the knife glares from the hole in the mask. "Or I can do it fast and efficient. The how is up to you."

"Why?" My question garbles against the gag.

Why would he kill her? She's just a girl. Never hurt anyone. She won't even squash a spider. We haven't seen their faces. Can't identify them. Goddammit, I need my voice. I need them to hear me.

That's not an option, so I force myself to settle, relaxing my muscles one by one. I need to think. I need time. How can I stop this?

The knife pulls back, and he steps away as the other man groans through his vile release.

Then they switch places.

"You should've tried out her tight little asshole." The talkative one kneels behind her and grips her hips. "I broke it in real good for you."

Bile hits my throat, and my vision blurs with fire and venom, madness and malice.

"Couldn't pass up a virgin cunt." The second man tucks himself into his jeans. "Make it quick. We need to wrap this up."

A cold sweat sweeps my skin. Every molecule in my body seethes to gut them.

I turn my head toward Lorne and Jarret. All my thrashing moved me closer to the tree line, giving me a direct line of sight between their backs and the trees they're tied to.

From the front, they appear frozen and crippled by fear. But behind them... Holy fuck, their hands are moving in tandem. Is that a knife? And blood.

Adrenaline floods my system, amping my pulse. One of them is definitely bleeding. Lorne, I think. He always carries a blade in his boot. I don't know how Jarret scored it, but it's in his grip. My brother blindly saws at the rope on Lorne's wrists, slicing him up in the process.

Conor muffles a cry as that son of a bitch plunders her body. He impales her most sensitive hole, grunting sick sounds of pleasure and leaning into his depravity with vigor.

With each ram of his hips, he decimates the joy of a long-awaited night, hacking and mutilating it into a nightmare of everlasting scars.

All I can do is watch. I endure every cheated moment with her, but I can't feel her pain. Not the physical agony. I can't take that from her. Can't protect her from it. And I'll never be able to return the glow of innocence to her heart. It's been permanently stolen from her, from all four of us.

But we're still alive. If Jarret cuts through that damn rope, we'll stay that way.

Both shotguns lean against the rock wall. I trust Lorne to go for them the moment he's free. The men are too preoccupied with Conor to pay us any attention. One paces a circle around her. The other groans and bucks against her bleeding backside. But I don't look at them.

I stare directly at her. Not at her nude body or the knot around her wrists or the gag in her mouth. I stare at her eyes. I stare so hard she finally senses me, stirring just enough to lift her lashes and find me across the ravine.

I harden my expression with the words I can't voice.

I have you.

You're my girl.

I'm sorry I restrained you.

I'm sorry I can't take your pain.

You'll survive this.

That works for a while. The furrows of agony on her face smooth beneath the sheen of love in her eyes. But eventually, the cruelty pushes its way in, suffocating the space between us with an ugly truth.

I don't know how we'll come back from this. It's worse than the worst thing I've ever experienced. Worse than the stillbirth from our prize-winning cow. Worse than the fire that destroyed our thirty-stall mare barn. Worse than the rattlesnake bite that almost killed me. Maybe worse than the car accident that took our mothers. But none of us remember that.

Each second that passes leaves an immutable, catastrophic mark. Every thrust into her precious body baptizes my soul in darkness. I feel it slithering in, the oily, toxic, oppressive tendrils of rancor. It hooks malignant roots into muscle and bone, claims blood cells, and rewires neurons.

I won't walk away from this the same.

But I will walk away, directly onto a warpath. I'll take whatever road that leads to vengeance and bloodshed. Fuck the law. These fucking bastards stole something from me. Something priceless and dear. They hurt my girl from the inside out, extinguished her glow, and made her bleed.

They'll die for that.

At the edge of my vision, the pacing man veers to the creek and takes a leak. As his piss splashes water, a scuffing sound disturbs the ground behind me.

I don't take my eyes off Conor, but I see it in her face. The spark of alarm. Tension. Hope.

My muscles stiffen, and my lungs swell with readiness as a silhouette blurs past me.

Lorne is on the move.

A firestorm incinerates my guts and burns deep between my legs. Constant pain weakens me beyond exhaustion, and the inconsolable look on Jake's face shreds my heart. There have been moments, pitch-black tunnels of time, when I was certain I would die.

But not anymore.

Lorne just escaped his restraints.

My pulse explodes as he sprints toward the shotguns with a knife in his hand and determination in his raving, bloodshot eyes.

"Shit!" The man near the creek spins around, yanks up his fly, and gives chase.

Fucking fuck! Run faster, Lorne! Faster! If he reaches those guns first, he'll slaughter the men who hurt me.

"Get him!" The one on top of me slams to a stop, stretching my bottom with intolerable pressure.

At some point, I shut off the part of my mind attached to what's happening to me. I'll have to deal with it eventually, but right now, the instinct to live overrides all emotion.

In a blink, I go from liquid bones to rigid muscle. Pushing down on my elbows, I arch my spine and ram my head back with the last of my strength. I tried this when they first attacked me, but this time my skull connects with cartilage.

He falls back with a yelp, cupping his nose through the mask. The absence of him in my body brings overwhelming relief, but as I move to my knees, the ground shudders.

The blast of a shotgun.

It reverberates through the ravine, and my tormentor collapses beside me. Blood saturates his shirt, spilling from a hole in his chest. Glassy eyes fixate on nothing, unseeing.

Racing footsteps retreat to the trail. The frantic sounds of a monster on the run.

"You're dead, motherfucker!" Lorne drops his gag and trains the gun after the second man. But he doesn't fire.

The man's already out of sight, concealed by the bend in the trail.

I clench my hands around the rope. We don't carry phones, because there's no cell service out here. Lorne can either run for help or pursue our attacker.

I know my brother. He won't chance the man getting away, and he's a damn good hunter.

As he launches toward the trail, Jake kicks out a leg, shouting behind the gag and bucking against his restraints. I don't blame him for not wanting to be left behind and tied up. He probably wants to shoot the man himself. But I don't want that.

I jump into the wordless argument with muffled objections. I can't bear the thought of either of them running headlong into danger and getting themselves hurt. Or worse.

Lorne glances at me, eyes wild. Then his gaze shifts, sailing over my body. His entire demeanor darkens, stiffens. He goes terrifyingly still.

Knife in one hand and the gun in the other, he drops his head back and unleashes a guttural scream at the sky. The sound of his grief fractures things inside me. I pull my knees to my chest, huddling, hurting, and sparing him the sight of my nudity.

Jake continues to thrash like a feral animal, and Lorne's head makes a sharp turn. A millisecond of indecision swings his gaze between Jake and the trail.

"Fuck!" He doubles back and crouches between Jake and Jarret. "Stay here and wait for me." Urgency tightens his posture as he cuts Jake loose and thrusts his chin in my direction. "She needs you."

He's going hunting.

I frantically shake my head, yelling against the gag. Don't do this! Call the cops! Get help!

Dammit, I want that man as dead as the other one, but not at the risk of losing my brother.

He shoots me a look infused with regret. I don't like it. There's too much pain aging his eyes. And fury. It seeps in at the edges, black and sour.

Jake yanks away his gag and unties Jarret, shouting at him, "Get the other gun."

Lorne pivots toward the trail. Then, armed to kill, he takes off and fades into the trees.

With a sinking heart, I let my head fall to the ground and close my eyes. The humid night air wraps me in worry, hanging on the retreating sounds of booted feet, whispering, It's not over.

That's when the tremors creep in. Maybe I've been shaking the whole time, but now I feel every vicious quake. The stress on my body, the throbbing pain in my gut, the shattering shock of it...

"Shh." Jake pulls the rag from my mouth and traces my face with trembling fingers. "I'm so sorry."

I work my jaw and lick cracked lips. "Not your fault."

"Fuck if it's not!" Shirtless and breathing hard, he tackles the rope on my wrists. "I shouldn't have—"

"Don't say it." I'm too wrung out for this conversation, but I form the words I need him to hear. "You couldn't have stopped this. Even if I hadn't been tied up, I wouldn't have run. I wouldn't have left you."

The severe line of his mouth says he wants to argue, but he remains quiet and rigid, pulling on the knot. When the rope finally falls away, he wrangles his shirt from beneath me and drags it over my head, stretching it to my thighs.

His beautiful face twists with tortured emotion. His eyebrows gather in a sharp V over bleak brown eyes. Blood-wet strands of hair stick to a swollen gash on his forehead.

I reach for the wound. "Are you—?"

"I'm fine." His voice clips as he catches my arm in a too-tight grip and releases me immediately.

He won't meet my gaze and instead focuses on the rope as he twines it into a loop and drapes it over his shoulder. Jarret hovers behind him, holding the shotgun and staring at the trail like he wants to fill it with lead.

I shift to my knees in front of Jake. "Look at me."

When his lashes lift, he doesn't just look. He examines every scratch, every smudge, every tear on my face. But he doesn't touch me. Doesn't regard me with his usual pining affection. I don't think he can. Every muscle in his torso contracts, and the rapid blinks of his eyes play out violent plans of vengeance. He's fit to be tied.

He snatches his Stetson, dusts it off, and sets it on his head. "Jarret?"

"I'll stay with her." Jarret hands him the gun. "Go."

"No." I grab Jake's free hand.

He pulls away, and rejection smacks my chest.

He must see it on my face, because his eyes soften. His arm hooks behind me and pulls me into a stiff embrace, vibrating with tension.

"Conor..." He touches his lips to my hair, but the rest of him coils tightly, thrumming to make a break for it.

"Stay. Please."

The cords in his neck stretch taut, and he releases me. "I have to do this."

He stands, casts a withering glare at the dead body, and bolts toward Barnabe.

I wobble to my feet, aided by Jarret's grip on my arm. "We don't know if that man has another gun—"

"He doesn't." Jake mounts the saddle, shirtless and rigid as steel with the rope looped around his shoulder.

"What if there are more of them?"

"They were alone when they jumped us." Jarret snags my shorts from the ground.

"Jake, wait." I take a step, and a wave of pain stitches through my gut. "Listen to me."

"She can't walk and shouldn't be on her feet," he says to Jarret, slinging the shotgun across his back. "Take care of her."

My molars crash together. "It's not his job to take care of me."

It's yours.

Muscles twitch beneath his scowl, telling me he heard the unspoken accusation.

"My job"—his voice erupts in a thunderous roar—"is to make sure that son of a bitch never hurts you again!"

With the squeeze of his legs, he drives Barnabe onto the trail and kicks into a gallop.

"I'm not helpless," I say quietly, but he's already gone.

I know he's not trying to make me feel weak. It's just the way he is with me. Possessive. Protective. Unbending.

If I was curled up in a ball and bawling my eyes out, then yeah, I wouldn't be able to walk. Maybe that will come later, when I return to the house, when the cops leave, when I'm in my room, alone with my thoughts.

But I'm not there yet. I'm not ready to examine the heavy thing pressing at the back of my mind. I'm not helpless.

"I don't know what to do." Jarret squats at my feet and holds out the shorts, his voice brittle with shock. "Lift your foot."

"I can do this." I take the cutoffs and pull them on, flinching at the soreness between my legs. "Wish I would've worn a skirt."

"Conor... I..." He rubs the back of his neck, uncharacteristically awkward and unsure. "We should head to the house." He glances at the trail and returns to me. "I'll carry you to the ridge. The horses are—"

"We're waiting for Jake and Lorne." My gaze latches onto the dead body, and my stomach roils. "Where did they come from? Who are they?"

"Don't know." He bends down and yanks off the mask.

Blond hair, dull blue eyes, and a mid-twenties face, he's no one I've ever seen before.

In our rural town of Sandbank, Oklahoma, population 415, there are no strangers. Everyone knows everyone, up close and personal.

"He's not from around here." Jarret drops the mask, covering the disgusting frozen expression. "I thought I caught a northern accent from the other one."

"Northern? Like Minnesota? Canada?"

"Fuck if I know."

We've never been out of Oklahoma and wouldn't know the difference between a northern accent and a southern one. Regardless, no one just passes through Sandbank. There are no freeways around here. No attractions. Nothing to see but farmland. An out-of-towner needs a reason to stumble onto our ranch.

"They were going to kill me." I wrap my arms around my waist. "They...did..." Did things to me. "They..."

A crack runs through the wall around my mind, and my defenses start to crumble.

"Dammit." A sob climbs up my throat, and I swallow. Swallow again. I can't fall apart. Not in front of Jarret. He's already traumatized.

I limp to the other side of the ravine, holding up a hand as he tries to intercept. At the rock wall, I lower to the ground, rest my forehead on my knees, and heed the silence beyond the gurgling creek. Jake and Lorne are out there, chasing down evil when they should be running in the other direction.

"If they kill him..." Panic rises, and I lift my head. "Will they get in trouble?"

"They'll bring him back here." Jarret sits beside me and slides his palm beneath mine, weaving our fingers together. "They'll make it look like self-defense."

"How do you know?"

"Because that's what I would do."

I nod, staring at our laced hands. "This is going to change us."

"We won't let it."

"You believe that?"

"No." He blows out a breath. "But you're still my future sister-in-law. Jake's still my brother. Lorne's still my best friend." He wraps an arm around my back, tucking me against his side. "The important stuff won't change."

My throat constricts. "Okay."

"Are you?" He gives me a sidelong glance. "Okay?"

"I don't think so."

"God, Conor." He stares at the body across the ravine, flexing his hand against mine. "What they did to you..."

The muscles between my legs spasm, aggravating the hurt. "I don't want to talk about it."

I don't want to think about it or dwell on it or inspect it in any way.

"You'll have to," he says softly. "When we get to the house."

"Yeah." Torment pushes down my shoulders.

There will be interrogations. Probing, humiliating, personal questions. I don't want to relive what happened here.

"Did you and Jake...?" He shakes his head. "Never mind."

"Did we have sex?" My chest aches so badly I can't look at him. Can't let him see the devastation in my eyes.

"I shouldn't have asked."

Since when is any topic off limits? We share everything without embarrassment or discomfort.

Until now.

Things are already changing between us.

"They'll ask." My chin quivers. The cops, the doctors, my dad—they'll ask all the questions. "The answer's no. Jake and I... We didn't get that far."

"Jesus." He pulls his hand from mine and rubs his face. "Jake is... Fuck, he's not going to get over that."

Jake was supposed to be my first. My one and only.

"I know." More torment. My shoulders weigh a ton with it.

Jarret hugs me tighter, and his hand strokes a restless path up and down my arm. He's built like Jake, his chest wide and muscled and his jaw a square slab of stone. I love him dearly and am glad he stayed with me. But I need Jake.

The minutes that follow feel like hours, the wait unbearable. Just as I open my mouth to break the silence, the distant boom of a shotgun shivers the air.

Jarret jumps up, wildly scanning the perimeter as he thrusts a finger at me. "Stay there."

I hug my knees to my chest, too rattled to move. "Which direction?"

Spinning away from the ridge, he faces south. "The back road." He tilts his head, listening. "Makes sense he would run that way. They probably left a car there. No one around to see them come and go."

Who fired the shot? Jake and Lorne both have guns, but so does every man on the ranch.

Something crashes down the trail. I'm on my feet in a heartbeat, pulse racing and palms sweaty. Jarret rushes toward the commotion and stops as Barnabe bursts into the ravine with Jake in the saddle.

He drags a running, stumbling, barefoot man behind him, connected by a rope—one end in Jake's fist, the other around the man's neck. A familiar black mask gags the man's mouth, his hands tied behind his back with shoestrings.

Jake caught him.

And he's still alive?

I step forward, aching for Jake's arms around me. "The gunshot?"

"Wasn't me." He pulls Barnabe to a halt and dismounts, his eyes ablaze with manic rage.

My limbs shake as I close the distance. "Where's Lorne?"

"Don't know." He grabs the rope and jerks it, causing the man to crash face-first on the ground. "He's probably on his way back." As distracted as he is with his prisoner, he takes a second to find and hold my gaze. "It'll be over soon."

"Why is he breathing?" Jarret moves in and presses a boot down on the man's head, pinning him to the dirt.

"I want to kill him slow and painful like." Jake turns toward the dead body, and his gaze lands on the knife they held against my throat.

No. I can't let him do this. How would he explain a dismembered body to the cops? And the restraint marks on the wrists? What if they don't believe his self-defense plea and charge him for murder?

I'm half the distance to the knife and beat him to it. I clutch it, yank it behind my back and out of view. "Just hang on for—"

"Hand it over." Nostrils flaring, he tries to grab around me.

I spin, dodging him. "You're not thinking straight."

"Conor," he growls in a patronizing tone, clenching his hands at his sides. "Give me the goddamn knife."

"We need to find Lorne. The gunshot—"

The sound of an approaching horse stomps down the trail. We all turn, fixed on the noise, as Lorne appears in the ravine. His face is white as a sheet, his shoulders stiff and eyes harried.

"What happened?" I run toward him, powering through the pain in my groin as I inspect him for bullet wounds.

"I did something..." With jerky movements, he dismounts and shoves his hands in his wind-blown hair. "Oh God, it was dark as fuck, and I thought—" His attention seizes on the squirming man beneath Jarret's boot. "That fucking motherfucker!"

He yanks the knife from his boot and charges forward.

"Lorne, no!" I lurch in front of him. "Wait!"

He whirls around me and collides with Jake's chest.

"Who fired the shot?" Jake grips his arms, holding him.

He gives Jake a blank look, one of stupefied horror. His breathing quickens. His throat bobs, and his lips part.

"I shot him." He stumbles back, presses a palm over his lips, and paces away in quick, scuffing steps. "I saw someone running near the back road and chased him down on horseback. I was shouting, telling him to stop. He kept running. Why wouldn't he listen?"

Oh no. Oh God, please, no. My neck goes painfully taut, and I drop the knife, my fingers too shaky to hold it.

"Lorne?" Jake falls into step with him slowly, cautiously, as if afraid to spook him. "Are you sure you shot someone?"

"I never miss." A whisper.

"Who?" Jake asks.

"I thought he was the man who hurt Conor." He clasps his hands on his head and stares, unblinking, at his boots. "When I fired, someone screamed behind me. Goddamn Andy. He saw me pull the trigger. He was over by the fucking fence, and I didn't fucking see him."

Andy Longley. One of our oldest cowhands. He lives on the ranch with his thirty-year-old son, Wyatt. The father-son team always works together, tending the cattle and repairing the fencing.

"Was it Wyatt?" My voice breaks. "Is that who you shot?"

"I—I don't... Dammit, I freaked out and hightailed it on the horse. Andy knows it was me." He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Oh my God, I fucking killed his son. They'll come for me."

"It was dark." Jarret digs his boot into the man's back while pulling on the noose. "You didn't know."

"You were trying to protect me." Anguish attacks my lungs, my throat, my heart. "After everything that happened tonight, they'll sympathize. You didn't mean to do it. They'll understand that."

"That's bullshit, and you know it." Lorne resumes his pacing. "I plowed a man down with every intent to kill him. An innocent man!" He yanks on his hair, gasping for air. "I'm so fucking fucked. There's no fixing this. No redo's. None of this would've happened if—"

He spins toward the gagged man, who stares up at him with bulging eyes. A black murderous cloud storms across Lorne's features. Jake and Jarret wear the same malicious expressions. When they look like that, stripped down to pure, raw fury, it's hard to remember they're only teenagers.

If I don't defuse this, they'll spend their adult lives behind bars.

"If anyone's going to kill him, it should be me." I hold a hand out to Jake. "Give me the gun."

He cuts hard eyes at me. "You don't know what you're asking."

"I'm not asking."

All flexing muscle and rock-grinding teeth, he glares at me. I return his glare, refusing to back down.

His spine straightens. As if he needs any more height on my five-foot-two frame. Then he slips the shotgun off his back and holds it out.

I take it, aim it skyward, and smash the wooden stock against our attacker's skull. "That was for hitting Jake in the head."

The man slumps in the dirt, unconscious and bleeding above his eye.

"He's not dead." Lorne nudges the limp body with a boot.

"We can explain two deaths but not three." I pump the shotgun, ejecting the shells. "We're going to send him to prison."

"Then what?" Jake widens his stance, eyes burning with challenge. "He won't stay locked up forever. When he gets out in three years, five years—"

"We'll kill him." I set the gun aside and face the group. "We'll do it calmly, smartly, when we've had time to plan and make damn sure we don't get blamed."

Sirens sound in the distance, and our huddle of four snaps into a livewire of tension.

"Conor." Jake clutches my hand, his tone urgent. "I want this behind us. It needs to end now."

"You're the most patient guy I know." I intertwine our fingers. "Let him sweat it out in prison. Then we'll get our revenge. He won't see us coming."

Wheels turn behind his eyes, but he doesn't nod or give any sign of agreement.

"She's right." Jarret shifts beside me. "Andy Longley would've called the cops. They're coming. If we kill him now, it'll weaken Lorne's defense." He looks at my brother. "Hold out your knife."

Creases mar Lorne's eyes as he angles the blade toward the center of our circle.

"When he gets out, I vow to kill him." Jarret grips the blade and slides his palm along the razored edge, hissing as it tears through his skin.

I hold out my palm. "When he goes free, I vow to kill him."

I reach for the knife, but Lorne uncurls my fingers, cradles my hand, and does it for me. He cuts deep, leaving a blood-welling gash meant to scar. The pain steels me with purpose, grounding me to the only three people who matter.

Jake and Lorne follow suit, uttering their blood oaths through clenched teeth. We seal it with our hands joined in a tangle of fingers and blood and unbreakable friendship.

The din of commotion drifts beyond the ridge—the rumble of cars, barking dogs, and blaring sirens.

My toes curl against the rocky ground as Lorne and Jarret drag the unconscious man to the dead body, tying him to the lifeless weight.

I'm not ready for the interrogation. The medical examinations. The personal questions. What if I say something that jeopardizes Lorne's defense? What should I be doing now? Practicing my testimony? Helping Lorne and Jarret? I feel uncertain and utterly shell-shocked.

Jake moves into my space and touches a knuckle beneath my chin, lifting it. There's a deep fracture in his eyes, and it sees how lost I am and pulls me in.

His arms come around me, and I sink against the warm skin of his chest. My face finds a home there, right against his sternum. My hands follow the grooves of his ribs, around to his back, and dig into muscle and spine.

"I'm sorry." He drags his nose along mine and breathes against my lips. "You needed me, and I left you. I wasn't thinking."

"No, you weren't, but you got him." My heart reaches up, floating pieces into my throat and around my words. "Thank you for...for enduring that..." I close my eyes and open them. "When the worst of it was happening, you were with me."

"I couldn't get to you. I couldn't—"

"You were there, looking right at me, holding me with your presence. It made a difference."

He grips the back of my head and crushes me to his heaving chest. A low, rumbling sound vibrates against my ear, followed by a sharp sob. He silences his sorrow, trapping it behind pinched lips, but a drip lands on my cheek. Then another, and another. The splash of his tears unleashes my own, sending up clouds of heartache.

Another pair of arms encircle me from behind, and my brother bows his head against the back of mine. "We'll get through this."

Jarret joins our side, and Jake pulls him in.

The horses flick their heads and chuff, but we don't move. Shouting and footsteps invade the trail, and we squeeze tighter together.

Uniforms and badges sweep into the ravine, guns drawn but not raised.

"Lorne Cassidy." Gravel crunches beneath the tread of boots, hunching my shoulders.

My brother straightens, turns, and I clutch his hand.

A beam of light shines on his face. "You're under arrest for the murder of Wyatt Longley."

Three days later, I stand at the kitchen sink and soak in the guitar chords drifting through the open window.

The view of the ranch from here gets me every time. The rolling green meadows, grazing cattle, sparkling ponds—the rawness of the landscape imprints itself on the soul.

But it pales in comparison to the mesmerizing girl on the back porch.

Conor sits sideways on the steps, red hair swaying around her angelic face as she evokes powerful emotion with strings and wood. Eyes closed, she strums rhythmically, quietly singing Mile On The Moon by Sarah Jarosz.

Since that night, she's been zoned out on songs with thematic threads of sorrow and feeling lost. I don't pretend to understand the depth of hurt that's been done to her or what she needs to heal. If it had been me in that ravine enduring what she did, I'm not sure I'd ever leave my bed.

That's the difference between her and me. She's stronger, more resilient, and she'll overcome the physical trauma without complaining about the pain. Maybe she doesn't need me hovering over her like a mother hen. But I need it. I need her to know she's not alone.

So when she's in her room, I pace outside her door. I sit in the hall. I knock and demand to fetch things for her. Then I pace some more. When she emerges, I follow her, hold her, listen to her, and feed her. She won't eat, but I make the food. And I'll keep making it. I don't know what else to do.

I grab the orange juice with my bandaged hand and a plate of scrambled eggs with the other. Halfway to the door, I remember the toast. Circling back, I pull the slice from the toaster with my teeth and head to the porch.

I know Conor hasn't mentally dealt with what happened to her. Hell, I'm still struggling with the feelings that haunt me day and night. With Wyatt dead and Lorne in jail, she and everyone else is too wrapped up in the impending trial to address her emotional wellbeing.

Has her dad even said two words to her? He has plenty to say to my dad. Dalton and John spent most of the last three days behind closed doors. When they emerge, bitter tension chokes the house. Whatever's going on between them isn't friendly.

With my hands full and the toast between my teeth, I work the back door with elbows and boots and step onto the porch.

The guitar falls quiet, and she peers at me from beneath her lashes. "Where did Dad find that attorney, anyway? He isn't from around here."

Evidently, I walked in on a conversation she's been having in her head. I sit on the step above her.

"Shouldn't Lorne be out on bail?" She grabs the toast from my mouth and waves it around. "I haven't heard shit about a plea deal, and my dad won't even look at me, let alone talk to me about the trial. Swear to God, Jake, every minute Lorne spends behind bars breaks me a little more."

Conor Cassidy doesn't break, but I feel her frustration and worry. All this has been eating at me, too.

I set her breakfast at her feet and position her to sit between my legs, one step down and facing the open grassland. Jarret's been out there before dawn every day, covering the workload for Lorne, Conor, and me. He volunteered for the extra shifts to keep his mind off things, but I intend to pull my weight today. After I take care of Conor.

"Deep breaths. In and out." I lean over her from behind and rub the muscles above her breasts, working upward to massage her shoulders and the curve of her neck.

She sleeps in my t-shirts and still wears one now. It swallows her tiny frame like a potato sack, brushing her knees and hanging off one shoulder. Seeing her in my clothes fills me with possessiveness. Soothing her with my hands injects shots of rightness through my blood.

"That's so good." Her head falls back, and she drapes her arms over my knees, the toast forgotten in her grip.

I stop.

She twists her neck to squint at me. "Why did you—?

"Eat."

Her eyes slide to the toast, squinting harder. I know her stomach's too twisted up to acknowledge hunger. I expect her to refuse. So when she takes a hearty bite, I mentally fist pump.

Pushing my luck, I nudge the plate of eggs with my boot. "All of it."

"Fine."

She eats, and I massage. She hums, and I idly stroke her hair. Together, we watch the sun climb and think about Lorne.

Curling up in the V of my legs, she hooks her arms around my thigh. "What's going to happen to him?"

"I did some research online."

"I did, too." Her nails bite into my denim-clad leg. "It's all...too much to take in. Maybe I just can't focus right now. What did you find?"

I read about homicide cases similar to Lorne's, and the verdicts make my chest so tight I can't breathe. "It's too early to—"

"I need honesty. Please. Don't sugarcoat it."

With my arms bracketing her from behind, I lean closer and hover my mouth over her bare shoulder. She smells so sweet I ache to taste her skin.

Focus, Jake.

I clear my throat. "He shot two men. Since the first one was in self-defense, it's negligible. The prosecutor will go after the biggest charge. With Wyatt, Lorne acted in the heat of passion. It wasn't premeditated or coldblooded. If they see it that way, he's looking at manslaughter." I rub the sudden stiffness in her arms. "It's better than first-degree murder. Minimum sentence for manslaughter is ten years."

Her chin trembles, and the auburn crescents of her lashes spread over her cheekbones, hiding the torment in her eyes.

I decide not to mention the 85 Percent Rule, which would require Lorne to serve at least 8.5 years before he can even be considered for parole.

That's the best-case scenario. Since he used a deadly weapon, he could face life in prison. How much has he admitted to the detectives? Do they know he rode out to the pasture with the intent to kill a man?

Levi Tibbs. I now have the name of the motherfucker we let live.

I flex the hand wrapped in gauze, anticipating the eventual scar. All four of us will carry that scar and never forget the blood oath we made. In the meantime, I will plan and wait with godlike patience.

Levi Tibbs sits behind bars on charges of rape and aggravated assault. Turns out, he and his dead accomplice came from Oregon, with mile-long criminal records and outstanding warrants. Apparently, they were on the run when they spotted Conor in town earlier that day and followed her home.

It sickens me that she blames herself. As if she deliberately attracted those men and caused Lorne's arrest. We argued about this yesterday, and I vehemently reminded her that she saved my ass. If she hadn't broken through my fog of rage that night, I'd be in jail right now, facing murder charges.

I brush my nose along the soft skin on her shoulder. "Can I get you anything? More food? A book from your room? Sunblock?"

If she sits out here much longer, her skin will burn.

"My legs aren't broken, Jake." She turns her head toward me and kisses my cheek. "I miss Ketchup."

Her black mare. She was twelve when we got our own horses. I let her name mine Barnabe and thought it was the worst name ever until she announced, "I'll call mine Ketchup, because I'll always be in the lead, shouting, Catch up!"

"What did the doctor say about riding?" I ask.

"I'm on restriction for four weeks." Her sigh brushes my cheek, and she leans back against my chest. "I'll bring her some apples today and hang out with her in the stable."

"She'll like that."

Outside her bond with Ketchup, Conor doesn't have female friendships. Maybe because she grew up with three boys. Or maybe because she didn't have the softer influence of a mother in her life.

I've never seen paint on her nails or cakey goop on her face like the girls wear at school. Her wild mane of red hair doesn't come from a box or a salon. It's all hers, and when it's caught in the wind, she looks like a mystical goddess.

It's so easy to be besotted with her. I don't care if that makes me pussy-whipped. Let the haters burn with jealousy, because the hottest girl alive only has eyes for me.

"You're beautiful." I ghost a kiss against her neck.

"Me?"

"You."

The screen door opens behind us. Footsteps creak the wood decking, and the door slams shut.

"Jake." My dad's irritated tone stiffens my shoulders. "Come here."

I twist my neck to glare at him. "What?"

He stalks forward, dressed in a black suit, white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, white Stetson on his head, and a belt buckle the size of Texas. No tie. I'm not sure he owns one.

His deep-wrinkled scowl fits the occasion. Wyatt Longley's funeral is today, and he's the only one in our household brazen enough to attend.

His polished boots pause at the top stair, and he towers over us looking for all the world like a pissed-off oil baron. "Conor, go inside and put some clothes on."

What the fuck? The shirt hangs past her knees and completely hides the shape of her body.

My hackles bristle, snapping my voice. "Don't talk to her like that."

"It's okay." She grabs the guitar and breakfast dishes. "I need to take a shower."

She slinks by my dad, chin tucked and eyes lowered in a way that fuels my anger. She's always been respectful toward him, but lately, he hasn't done a damn thing to deserve it.

When she steps inside and closes the door behind her, I stand, putting myself at his height.

He was an attractive man once. Maybe he still is, but the years have multiplied the lines on his face and sagged the disapproving scowl that's become his permanent expression.

"What's your problem?" I clench my hands at my sides.

"Watch your tone." His voice shudders the air between us as he leans into it. "I told you to stay away from her. Especially now. Last thing she needs is you knocking her up."

"Jesus, Dad." My eyes bug. "She needs her friends. Her family. She needs all of us."

"We're here for her, but there's going to be some changes around here. You kids are grown, and the house is getting cramped."

My stomach hardens. "What do you mean?"

The house is eight-thousand square feet. The main kitchen and living space separates two massive wings—a Cassidy wing and a Holsten wing—totaling eight bedrooms and twelve bathrooms. It's more space than six people know what to do with.

"What changes?" I ask.

"We'll continue this later." He glances at his watch. "I'm late." Turning toward the door, he glances over his shoulder. "I need you in the field today. Your brother's not keeping up with the chores."

Pinching the brim of his hat, he tips it like he always does and disappears inside the house.

Why is he even going to the funeral? The murder's all over the news, making Lorne out to be a stone-cold killer. Sandbank doesn't get this kind of excitement and can't accommodate the media circus that's flooded in. Thankfully, no one's tried to trespass on our property.

I head inside just as my dad steps out the front door. Making a beeline toward the Cassidy wing, I pass the formal dining room, sitting room, and gaming area. Reclaimed hardwood, dark leather, and chunky, roughly-finished furniture gives the spacious rooms a rustic, masculine feel.

Our dads built this house, but the ten-thousand acres belonged to Conor's mom, Ava O'Conor. She was an only child and barely an adult when her parents died and left her the land. Her best friend, Julep, stayed at her side while she grieved, helped her manage the farm finances and turn it into the cattle operation it is today.

In return, Conor's mom gave Julep half of the business shares and named the ranch after her.

Julep was my mother.

Our fathers didn't know each other before they married Ava and Julep. Their friendship came after, if I can call it that. They inherited the ranch when our mothers died, which makes them more like business partners. And co-parents, I guess, since they raised the four of us together.

I hit the hall to Conor's bedroom, passing her dad's office and bedroom. Both empty. He must've left the house before I woke, because I haven't seen him.

The door to Conor's room hangs open. Since our dads aren't home, I don't hesitate to enter. The sound of water in pipes draws me toward her bathroom door.

I step over her square toe boots and trail fingers along the guitar on her bed, surrounded by an explosion of color on the canvas covered walls. She collects impressionist paintings of horses, and I've indulged her over the years, buying up artwork to add to her room.

At the bathroom door, I touch my forehead to the wood. Then my palm. My breath. Tim McGraw croons Highway Don't Care from within, accompanied by Conor's velvety hum.

Is she already in the shower?

Three days ago, I would've walked in without knocking. But now... Would she hide her body from me? Intimacy between us is understandably on hold, but I don't want to put space between us.

For the first time in my life, I don't know how to proceed with her.

With a heavy exhale, I raise my fist and knock. "Conor?"

The door cracks open, releasing a cloud of steam. The song plays from her phone on the counter. The shower sputters behind her, and she peers up at me, hair still dry and a towel wrapped around her body.

I wait for her to open the door wider. She doesn't.

"What are you doing?" She clutches the towel against her chest. "Your dad..."

"I'm sorry about earlier. He's..." Stressed out? Worried? A crusty, uptight asshole? I refuse to make excuses for him. "He's not here."

She pinches her lips and doesn't open the door.

"Just wanted to check on you." I trace the slender shape of her face and slide my thumb across her bottom lip. "I have to head out to the field."

"Wish I could help." Her mouth moves against my touch, tightening my groin.

"Get some rest. I'll see you at dinner."

"'kay."

Leaving her alone goes against every instinct inside me. I lean down and steal a quick kiss from her lips. Then I force my boots to move, out of her room, out of the house, and straight into the toils of raising cattle.

For the next eight hours, I submerge myself in backbreaking chores, repairing irrigation ditches, moving cattle from pasture to pasture, and tending to haying equipment.

When the sun finally sags behind the ridge, thoughts of seeing Conor rejuvenates fatigued muscles.

Barnabe's arched neck bobs gracefully with his ambling gait as I guide him along the fence line, looking for holes where cattle can escape or predators can enter.

Jarret rides alongside me, listening to my recap of the conversation I had with Dad this morning.

"The house isn't too small." He wipes sweat off his brow with the back of his bandaged hand. "Maybe he's going to put a padlock on her door or hang security cameras or some shit."

"What the fuck for?"

"To keep you from populating the house with Holsten babies."

"That's horse shit." I clench my hands around Barnabe's reins. "It'll be a long damn time before we can even think about sex."

"I know that. You know that. But he's had a rude awakening. He knows why you were in the ravine that night, and Dalton's too distracted with Lorne to keep his daughter out of your bed. Dad knows it's only a matter of time before you sneak off with her again."

"He can't keep us apart." Conviction hardens my voice, sharp and solid.

"As long as you're under his roof, he'll try."

And he'll fail. She needs time, but the moment she doesn't, the very second she's ready to finish what we started, I'll be on her, in her, devouring her little sounds as I sink between her legs.

My shirt clings to my chest with sweat. I lift the Stetson from my head and run a rag over my damp hair as the sound of an approaching horse reaches my ears.

I turn Barnabe toward the noise, eyes on the horizon, expecting one of the ranch hands.

Ketchup bursts over the hill, racing toward me at a full gallop with Conor in the saddle. Unruly locks of red whip around Conor's face, and she hugs in tight, increasing speed. What the fuck is she doing?

"She's not supposed to be in the saddle." Jarret dismounts and steps forward.

"No, she's fucking not." I join him on the ground, muscles tensing to punish her forty ways to Sunday.

Ketchup pulls up beside me, and I grab the bridle near her snorting snout, holding her still.

The moment I meet Conor's red-rimmed eyes, my anger spirals into dread. "What happened?"

"He's taking me away!" Her hoarse words explode inside a sob, and she slides off the horse and into my arms.

"What? Who?" My blood runs cold as I cradle her face, searching for the source of her distress.

"Dad. He...he brought movers this morning, and they packed up his room and my room, and I tried to stop them, and Dad lost his temper, and Oh, God, Jake, he's so mad. We fought, screaming and shouting like you wouldn't believe, and he won't listen. He won't—" A deep, shuddering inhale loosens the tears in her eyes. They streak down her face and slice up my heart. "He wasn't going to let me say good-bye. So I ran. Straight to the stable. To Ketchup. I didn't know what to do."

"Slow down. You're not going anywhere." I pull her tight against me and find Jarret's wide eyes over her head. "Why on earth would he move off the ranch?"

"He's moving us to Chicago, Jake!" She holds me in a death grip, angling her neck back to see my face.

Dalton's from Chicago, but he doesn't have any family left there. Maybe it's a temporary move?

"Just for the summer?" My question rasps from a dry mouth.

"Permanently. He sold his shares of the ranch to your dad."

My insides turn to steel, my throat a clenched fist. "It's your mom's ranch. Your inheritance. He wouldn't sell it."

The rumble of engines sounds in the distance, jacking my pulse.

"He's coming." She twists toward the horizon, every muscle in her body strung taut. "We're leaving—"

"No. Fuck that." With my hands on her face, I crush my mouth to hers, my insides an inferno of desperation.

My arm hooks around her back, my fingers stabbing in her snarled hair, pulling, holding, seeking certainty in the only place I'll find it. She's my home, and I'll never let her go. It's not even in the scope of possibilities.

"Doesn't make sense." Jarret paces around us. "Your dad wouldn't leave Lorne. Not now."

She breaks the kiss, shivering in the humid air. "He said I can't go to school here after what happened and doesn't want me around during Lorne's trial and c-c-conviction." A sobbing hiccup chops her voice. "He's giving up on Lorne. Called him a murderer." She slaps at her tears, gritting her teeth. "How can he say that about his own son?"

My mind spins, analyzing and rejecting every word. But I can't deny Dalton's recent coldness or the tension between him and my dad.

There's going to be some changes around here.

They were planning this. Making arrangements. Dalton Cassidy intends to take my girl from me.

Fear jolts down my spine. I gather the whole of my existence in my arms and hug her tight, protecting what's mine, freezing the moment, and shaking to the depth of my core.

Headlights sweep across the graying sky. Tires crunch across rugged terrain, and three trucks bounce over the hill, charging toward us. I feel her slipping through my fingers and squeeze her harder.

"Jake." Her hands reach, gripping and pulling on my shoulders as she lifts on tiptoes. "No matter what, we stay together. Miles, months, cities, years..." Her breath strangles. "We're bigger than anything that tries to come between us."

A car door opens and shuts. The tread of boots advances.

She's already accepted this. It's in the droop of her posture, the silent fall of tears on her cheeks, and the release of her fingers on my shoulders.

I'm not anywhere close to acceptance. I never will be.

"I don't want any trouble from you boys." Dalton Cassidy pauses ten feet away.

A horde of beefy ranch hands climb out of the other trucks and close in. Dalton brought reinforcements.

"What's going on?" Jarret steps between Conor and the advancing men.

"Conor and I are starting over." Dalton hooks a thumb beneath his belt buckle, his hat gone, revealing a sheen of sweat on his balding head. "I'm sure she told you." He waves a hand toward the truck. "Let's go, Conor."

"Remember, Jake." Huge broken-glass eyes stare up at me. Lashes red as the sunset. Soft, tear-soaked lips press to mine, floods my mouth with salt and anguish. "No matter what."

"No, I don't accept this!" I grip her face, shouting loud enough for the world to hear. "I'm not letting go!"

She grips me right back, holding our mouths together. We exchange breaths, hanging on heartbeats and losing our footing as our life rips apart in a whirlwind of arms.

Four men grab Jarret and me, yelling and pulling, as another one wrenches Conor from my grasp.

"No! Stop!" She thrashes against the unbending arms. "You're hurting them!"

"Conor!" I fight one off, but another one tackles me to the ground, pinning me with a body twice my size. "Let go of her!"

"Get her in the truck." Dalton strides away, following the man restraining Conor.

The sounds of her cries swamp my lungs with red-hot agony. I release the pain with a roar, bucking and kicking at the girth that weighs me down. Beside me, Jarret falls to the dirt beneath two men, wrestling and screaming for Conor.

Arms shove her into Dalton's pickup truck, and her screams reach a fevered pitch. "I love him! You can't do this! I love—"

The doors shut, deadening her cries.

"Oh, God, No! Wait! Conorrrrr!" I claw at the ground as urgency seizes my lungs. There's too much weight. I'm overpowered. Can't breathe. Can't get to her. "Get off me! Let me go!"

Her fists pound the window as the truck lurches into motion, taking her away.

Why is he doing this? She'll be alone, more lost than ever. Her mental state's already in shambles. How will she heal without the support and comfort of home?

She won't.

Agony lances like a thousand blades, gutting me from all sides. Men shift against my back, pressing me down. Jarret twists beneath two others, shouting incoherently.

Tires spin, and the truck speeds away, leaving me face down in the dirt. Flayed apart, spilling devastation in thick streams of tears. Trapped, frantic, shattered to the bone. And livid.

The stink of sweat and fury scorches the air and clouds my vision. I curl my fingers, grabbing fistfuls of violent rage.

When the truck vanishes over the hill, the field falls still. No shouting. No engines. No light. Only my broken whisper, hacking through the thunder in my head.

"I failed her again."

My heart drowns in the carnage.

She's gone.

Starting over started with the back of my dad's hand across my face. The gush of blood from my nose did exactly what it was meant to do. I stopped trying to jump out of the truck. Stopped begging him to turn around. Stopped asking questions.

It was the first time he ever struck me out of anger.

But it wasn't the last.

That was three months ago.

"This is for me only, so I can reach you when I need to." Dad tosses a cheap cell phone on the kitchen counter in our high-rise apartment. "No out-of-town calls."

His subtext rings loud and clear. No calls to Jake and Jarret.

He made sure my phone and laptop didn't make the trip to Chicago. But he doesn't know about the cash I stole from his wallet the week we moved here. Doesn't know about the phone I bought with it. Doesn't know that every number I have for Jake, Jarret, and John Holsten has been disconnected since I left.

Or maybe he does know, and he's just taunting me.

Cruelty has become his coping mechanism. And whiskey. When they both take the reins, I don't recognize my father.

"I need a car." I pocket the phone and cross my arms. "I won't be able to walk in the snow."

School started this week, but that's not why I want transportation.

I'm stranded on a concrete island. The air stinks of exhaust and asphalt. Glass and steel blot out the sky. And the noise... I don't know how city dwellers walk down the street without flinching at the blare of traffic and shouting and sirens.

Maybe Chicago is a nice place, but I've never lived in a big city. The air doesn't smell clean. The food comes in paper boxes. The rhythm of life is too fast and impatient, and the constant din pounds inside my chest, making me feel unhinged and off-kilter.

I ache to go home.

I miss Ketchup.

I need Jake.

It's been three months, and I haven't spoken to anyone in Oklahoma. The unbearable isolation is making a meal of my guts, hollowing me out piece by piece.

With the advancement of technology, 928 miles should've been insignificant. But Jake and Jarret changed their numbers, and they're not on social media. The emails I send go unanswered. Same with my handwritten letters.

I went so far as calling local businesses in Sandbank—the diner, post office, bank, and hardware store—and left my new number with the owners, asking that they pass it along when the Holstens stop in.

And still nothing.

Since my dad is alienating me, the same must be true with John Holsten. He's somehow prevented Jake and Jarret from contacting me. But why?

It still doesn't make sense why Dad left home. He wants to start over? He's too ashamed to show his face in Sandbank? There must be another reason. And what's John's motivation in this? Severing contact with the only family I've ever known is driving me into a black hole with only my self-destructive thoughts to keep me company.

"It'll be months before it snows here." Dad hooks a finger around the bottle of whiskey on the counter. "When it does, you can take public transportation."

He carries the bottle into the sitting room and unscrews the cap. It's not even eight in the morning.

While the cabinets overflow with alcohol, there's little else filling the apartment. Minimalistic furnishings shove against barren walls. A couch, TV, coffee maker, and breakfast bar for two. No dining room. No family dinners. No family.

The two bedrooms are just as empty and plain. He hasn't bothered with warmth or decoration, and he shuts down my suggestions to add a rug, a lamp, anything. Because he doesn't want to be here. He's just as miserable as I am.

I follow him into the sitting room, glaring at his slumped, robe-clad back. "I want to visit Lorne."

He goes still, shoulders stiff, and sets the whiskey on the side table in a calm, controlled movement. Too calm.

I step back, hugging my waist.

"Oklahoma is off limits." His tone cuts like a knife, but there's a trace of pain dulling the edges. "You will not go there. You will not contact anyone at the ranch. And you will not mention your brother again."

He won't even look at me.

A debilitating ache sears my chest. A septic, twisted, uncontrollable ache. I can't breathe through it. My face scrunches up, and my hands ball into fists, clenching to smash his head in.

I don't care if he's turned his back on me. How can he do this to Lorne?

After my brother was arrested, he remained in custody in lieu of bonds totaling three-hundred-thousand dollars, which my dad refused to pay. Dad also refused to attend his hearings, no matter how much I begged.

I wasn't there for Lorne when he needed me.

And there won't be a trial.

During his arraignment, he pleaded guilty to second-degree murder and was sentenced to ten years in Oklahoma's maximum-security state penitentiary.

Ten years.

I don't know how to swallow that. It's permanently stuck in my throat. No matter how hard I cry and cough and vomit, I can't loosen the agony of it. I can't accept it.

Why didn't Lorne fight? Does he think everyone gave up on him? Did Jake and Jarret go to his hearings? He must feel more alone than I do, and that thought hurts so damn much.

"I miss him." My whisper shivers with vulnerability, imploring a reaction, empathy, some sign that my dad's still in there somewhere.

"Write him a letter." Cold. Callous. He lifts the whiskey and drinks from the bottle.

I've sent dozens of emails and letters. Is Lorne even getting them?

I also sent a letter to Levi Tibbs, outlining all the ways I hope he suffers. He took a plea bargain. One that will set him free in seven years. I didn't even get to testify, and I wanted to so badly. Just to be in Oklahoma, to visit my home and my family and Ketchup. And to see Jake again.

Lifting my hand, I stare at the angry pink gash across my palm. In seven years, nothing will stop me from returning to Oklahoma and honoring my oath.

"The man who...h-hurt me will go free before Lorne does." I curl my fingers, squeezing the scar. "That has to make you feel something. Please, Dad. I'm—"

"Enough!" He slices a hand through the air and grips his nape. "Lorne is dead to me, and I don't want to hear another goddamn thing about it." He slouches onto the couch and flicks on the TV. "You're late for school."

"I know you're hurting. If not for Lorne or me, then for the loss of our life. Our home. Mom's home."

"You're walking a dangerous line, little girl." He stabs a finger at the door. "Go. To. School!"

The heartache constricting my chest is so familiar I should be used to it by now. But every day, it grows louder, more formidable, and I'm too bone-weary to ignore it.

"Why are we here?" I sniff back the rising tears. "Why aren't we at home, fighting for him? He's your son and—"

"Get out!"

"Dad, please. I feel so alone." And sad. I don't know how to dig my way out of this infernal emptiness. "Living here is slowly killing me. I need my family."

He bursts from the couch and forcibly grabs a handful of my hair. Wrenching my neck at a painful angle, he uses his grip to haul me toward the door. My legs twist and drag, and my hair rips at the roots, searing pain across my scalp.

"Stop it! You're hurting me!" I clutch his arms and try to wrench free. "Please, Dad. I'm sorry!"

He yanks open the door and tosses me into the hall. My backpack lands at my feet, and the door slams, rattling the walls.

Sharp, acidic loathing hits me hard in so many places. My knees buckle. My lungs gulp for air, and the corridor closes in.

I grab the backpack and bolt for the stairs, desperate to escape the downward spiral. But it chases me like a charging, fire-breathing monster, ramming through me, seething, raging, and clawing at my bones. I sprint faster, push harder, trying to outrun it. I can't let it pull me down.

In the stairwell, I slow my gait and catch my breath.

Pull your shit together.

Tuck it all away.

Bury it deep.

God, if I could just talk to Jake, this wouldn't feel so terrifying.

The urge to text his old number trembles my fingers, but an undelivered message would only twist the knife. Doesn't matter if I can't hear his voice. I know he's thinking about me, and I trust in the love that tethers us. We're strong enough to weather time and distance and everything else this forsaken world throws at us. I just need to be patient. He'll contact me as soon as he's able.

Until then, Dad is all I have, and I don't know how to help him. He didn't drink when we lived on the ranch. Didn't use profanity or raise his hand against me. He worked all the time. Cattle ranching is what he knows. What did he think he'd do here?

Escape seemed to be the only thing on his mind.

Since he sold his shares of the ranch, he doesn't need a job. But he needs something. A hobby, a passion, a thing to latch onto and distract him from drinking.

He needs to be my dad again.

Eight floors down, I rub away the tears and pull in a bracing breath. Then I step onto the crowded downtown street. Pedestrians breeze by me, and my shoulders hike against the ungodly clamor of traffic.

With the bag slung over my back and my eyes on my square toe boots, I make my way toward school.

It's only my third day of eleventh grade, but I've managed to hide my pain. The girls chatter in my ear, and the boys gawk at me just like the ones in Oklahoma. They don't care about me. They're not my friends, and it's just as well.

I'm set on leaving this city, not making a home here. If I have to stay until I graduate, I'll cope. I'll graduate with honors, pre-college credits, and scholarships to the university back home.

The next four blocks lead me to a taxi-congested intersection. As I turn right and separate from the flow of foot traffic, a group of high school guys veer onto my path.

They crowd the sidewalk, surrounding me on all sides. My pulse speeds up.

"Hey, country girl." One of them steps in front of me, walking backward and leering at my legs above the boots.

"Excuse me," I say politely and slide around him.

He grips my wrist, halting me, holding too tight. Fingers constrict like rope against my skin. Greedy eyes press against me. Voices rasp with masculine need. It's crippling. Obliterating.

The sidewalk melts into dirt. Glass buildings blur and warp until all I see is the ravine with its shadows and its brutal men with sick desires. Memories unfurl from the cavernous gallows inside me. Hot breath. Bruising hands. Slithering across my skin, prying between my thighs, and stabbing into me.

"Let go." My voice has no sound, but the shackle on my wrist releases.

The ravine bleeds away, and the noise of the city crashes in.

"You okay?" Blue eyes blink beneath furrowed brows. "You're the new girl. It's Conor, right?"

I stumble back on wobbly legs, bumping into pedestrians. For the first time since I've been in this city, I'm grateful for the overcrowded sidewalk. People dart to and fro in a hellfire hurry to move around one another, but someone would stop if I screamed.

The blue-eyed boy peruses my plaid t-shirt dress, slowing on the buttons between my breasts, lingering on the gathered cinch at my waist, and stopping at the hem above my knees. I burn to run, but I fight the impulse, because dammit, I'm not scared. I'm not.

"I've always wanted to take a ride in the country." He bites down on the lower half of his smile. "Or maybe, take the country for a ride."

His friends laugh.

My spine tingles. "I'm not interested."

"I haven't offered anything." He returns to my eyes and winks. "Yet."

He's just a dumb boy. Cocky, flirty, but harmless.

Are you sure?

"I need to go." I spin on my heel and stride away as my heart slams against the wall of my chest.

I expect them to chase, but they hang back, following at a distance only because we're headed to the same place.

Maybe I overreacted. Or maybe they'll think I'm a bitch and leave me alone. That works since I don't have the right pieces inside me to make friends.

I'm not myself, and I don't know how to find that girl again.

I'm not where I used to be or where I want to be.

I'm lost.

Hollow.

Alone.

I just need my home. My family. Jake.

928 miles.

Two years.

It's not so far, even though it seems like it.

Will Lorne forgive me for not visiting? Will Jarret still love me? Will Jake wait for me?

Pulling out my phone, I cue up a Rascal Flatts song. Ear buds in, I shut out the world and let the chords of What Hurts The Most carry me forward.

It hurts to go to a school so far away from home, but I'm going.

It hurts to endure my dad's drunken temper, but I'm enduring.

It hurts to miss Jake with every breath I take, but I'm doing it.

I'm missing him and still breathing, and that hurts the most.

TWO YEARS LATER...

The hurt is more than I can bear. It penetrates deep into muscle and bone, throbbing long after each strike. I curl tighter into a fetal position on the floor and wrap my arms around my waist, protecting vital organs.

The next kick catches me in the stomach with enough force to knock the wind from my lungs.

I gulp and gulp and finally catch my breath. But the agony persists, pulsing at the base of my spine, relentless and overpowering. I pull my knees to my chin and release an earsplitting cry, loud enough to alert the neighbors.

They never hear me. They're never home. There will be no rescue.

"Stop! Please!" I sob so hard I feel things popping in my eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"Where's the key?" My dad's slurring roar showers me in a mist of spit.

He found out about the motorcycle. I don't know what I expected, but his reaction hurts worse than the time he caught me at the bus stop trying to run away.

Eyes droopy and glazed, he staggers around me and collides with the wall. If he were sober and wearing shoes, I'm not sure I'd survive the beating.

It's my fault, starting with a stupid decision I made two years ago. A reckless jaunt to the ravine. I ruined his life.

"Give me the key!" He careens toward me, rearing back a leg to strike again.

I roll out of his path, and his foot hits air.

He mumbles under his breath and swings around, as if trying to orientate himself. "The key. Now!"

"I have it. Here." I wrestle the key from the pocket of my jeans and hold it out with trembling fingers.

I purchased the motorcycle a week ago, and it would've gone undiscovered if the insurance agent hadn't called to validate ownership.

He balls a hand around the key, his eyes sunken and sick with madness. "You're grounded."

Grounded from what? I have no friends. He confiscated all my electronics three months ago, and every penny I earned waiting tables went toward that motorcycle—the riding lessons, repairs, licensing, insurance. I'm at a total deficit. There's nothing he can take from me.

Pushing into a sitting position, I clamp an arm around my banged-up midsection and focus on what matters.

I just graduated from high school at the top of my class and was offered a full-ride scholarship to University of Illinois. But I turned it down.

I'm going home.

Since Dad forbids me to step foot in Oklahoma, I didn't tell him I enrolled at Oklahoma State University.

I don't know how I'll pay the out-of-state tuition, even with my grants and academic scholarships. Doesn't matter. It's the college I've dreamed of attending since I was a little girl.

It has one of the highest rated veterinarian programs in the country, and it's only an hour drive from Jake and Julep Ranch. Two hours in the other direction, and I'll have Lorne.

That's if they want to see me.

They never called. Never wrote. Never reached out to me in any way. Not once.

Are they missing me? Or forgetting me?

My mind has been a convoluted, spinning mess of delusions and doubts. Most days, I concoct creative, understandable reasons for why they haven't contacted me. Like my messages are intercepted, and my emails must be blocked. John Holsten never liked me. He wouldn't want me distracting his boys from their future on the ranch.

On bad days, I beat myself up with insecurities. What if they read my letters and deliberately ignored them? What if they moved on without me?

I've been in constant turmoil, and I honestly don't know how I made it through the past two years.

But it's finally over.

It's time Dad understands that.

The plan was to wait until tomorrow when I have legal grounds to make my stance. Despite the hell he's put me through, he's still my father, and dammit, I just wish... I wish I had his guidance and support.

With a ragged breath, I rise to my feet and step back until my back bumps the wall. "I'm moving out."

"The fuck you are! You're still my child, and you'll abide by my rules."

He stuffs the key in his pocket, as if that can stop me. I have a spare in my bedroom.

"How the hell would you support yourself?" He scrubs the bald spot on his head, gnashing his teeth. "You got a place to live? Food? Health care? What about college? You want to throw away your education?"

"It's not your concern anymore." Determination hits my blood, and I straighten my spine. "I'm eighteen. A legal adult."

"Not till tomorrow."

He remembered my birthday? The part of me that's still his daughter swells and warms and reaches for him, but I hold myself still, hands at my sides, expression as stoic as possible.

"If you leave here," he says, "you'll never amount to anything. You'll end up on the street or shacking up with some man like a fucking whore because..." He leans in, blasting my face with the hot stink of whiskey. "Let me tell you something, little girl. You don't have what it takes to hack it on your own."

Tears blur my vision, and a clenched smile strains my cheeks. "I can't wait to prove you wrong."

He slaps me hard enough to ring my ears. "Go to your room!"

My body twists backward from the stinging impact, but I remain vertical, righting my balance and racing to my bedroom.

Closing the door behind me, I lean against it and release a soundless gasp. This time, it isn't pain that cinches my throat in barbed wire. It's pity.

Instead of holding me through the hardest years of my life, he dove to the bottom of a bottle. And when that didn't numb his misery, he unleashed it on me. Violently. Irreparably.

Whatever love I still had for him before tonight is gone. He did that. He destroyed us.

But he'll never lay a hand on me again. This is where we end.

This is how I'll remember him.

My heart misses a beat, and another, and my teeth sink into my lip, sawing and tearing at skin. I tremble with ice in my gut, scars on my heart, and slithering doubts in my head.

The moment he passes out, I'm going to walk out that door. My packed bag waits in the corner, small enough to stow on the bike. My clothes, my horse paintings, my guitar—I have to leave it all behind.

Maybe the motorcycle wasn't my best idea, but it was cheaper than a car, more fuel efficient, and didn't require an expensive parking spot at the apartment.

More than that, it gives me something I haven't felt in so long. When I straddle the powerful frame, it's like I'm in the saddle. Hands on the reins. The wind in my hair. It almost feels like home.

Home.

What if the Holstens turn me away? What if John won't let me work there? I don't have money for food or gas or textbooks. If I can't spend the summer on the ranch, I won't have a place to live. I won't have anyone.

My nerves unravel, turning my stomach into a gaping wound of dread. I'm so damn scared I can't stand myself.

It's the same fear that kept my bruises hidden under my clothes. The same fear that stopped me from going to the cops. Getting my dad thrown in jail wouldn't have sent me back to Oklahoma. It would've ripped another person from my life.

I'm already motherless.

Brotherless.

I'm terrified to be fatherless.

Yet in the end, I still lost him.

I square my shoulders. Fear can twist me up all it wants, but it won't stop me.

Kneeling beside the packed bag, I check the contents for the hundredth time. Summer clothes, toothbrush, bottled water, snacks, and... My fingers bump against the small gift box.

A flutter swirls in my chest, energizing me with hope and love.

I wrapped the box in newspaper last year, anticipating the day I would give it to Jake. It's just a bracelet. A two-inch leather cuff with a silver horseshoe charm that looks like a C. For Conor. I spent weeks in my Welding and Metal Fabrication class, designing it, melting and reshaping the metal, and stitching the leather.

I'm finally going to see him open it. Feel the warmth of those beautiful brown eyes on my face. Smell the sun on his skin. Taste the hunger on his lips. And hear the gravelly rumble in his voice. God, I've missed his sounds—the breathy groans, the belly-deep laughter, and the southern drawl when he sings, that seductive twang that makes me shiver so good.

Living without him has been a torment worse than death. My pulse hammers with urgency to go, to leave now, but the footsteps and banging in the front room suspends me in purgatory.

I tuck into the corner of my room with my guitar and quietly strum. After a few numbing songs, I settle on Need You Now by Lady Antebellum. The yearning, lonely melody tries to bring me down, but I won't let it. I'm too resolved. Damn near bursting with excitement. I have the power to change my life, and an hour later, that's exactly what I do.

Hair plaited into two braids, long-sleeved flannel over a t-shirt and jeans, square toes on my feet, bag slung over my shoulder, motorcycle helmet under an arm, and steel in my spine—I leave my bedroom.

I swipe a hundred dollars from the wallet in the kitchen.

I walk past my snoring, sprawled-on-the-couch, pathetic excuse of a father.

I slip out of the apartment and go home.

Sandbank

Population 415

As the welcome sign blurs by, I mentally subtract my family of three from the population. Then I add back one for my return. How many others have come and gone in the past two years? Births and deaths and...

Oh, forget all that.

Rising up on the speeding bike, I thrust an arm into the whipping wind and let out a squealing "Whoooo-hoo!" at the top of my lungs. A heady mix of relief and thrilling elation powers through me. God, it's such an indescribable feeling to finally be home.

The sun is so much brighter here, the air fresher, more nourishing. I taste the warmth of life, hear the rolling peace of the land, and the views... Green pastures, red clay, and endless blue sky. The beauty explodes with color and life.

Bypassing Main Street, I hop onto a gravel road and take the most direct route to the ranch. Since I didn't leave Chicago until after two in the morning, I ended up crashing for a few hours in a seedy motel outside St. Louis.

I also swung by a public library and used a computer to send Jake and Jarret an email. If, by some miracle, they still check those accounts, they'll know I'm arriving around dinnertime.

A trickle of sweat itches my nape. I'm a filthy fucking mess, but nothing can be done about that. Despite the pit stops, thirteen hours on a motorcycle has taken its toll. My back aches from hunching over. The bruises on my abdomen protest every pock in the road. My legs throb from squeezing the vibrating steel frame, and the helmet feels like a thousand-pound oven on my head.

But holy sweet lord in heaven, I'm home!

By the time I zip beneath the stone archway of Julep Ranch, I've lost the ability to breathe.

Multiple cars and trucks sit in the lot between the house and the main stable. Some familiar. Some not. How many new ranch hands work here? Will they know who I am or what happened in the ravine?

Don't think about that.

Craning my neck, I don't see Ketchup in the surrounding meadows. She's probably in the mare barn. Jake will know.

I search the lot for his beat-up old blue pickup, and the instant I spot it, my heart shoots to my throat.

He's here.

I'm here.

Is this really happening?

I park behind his truck. The helmet comes off, and the sweat... Oh God, I wipe it from my face. Keeping my eyes on the house, I shake out my braids, finger comb my hair, and grab the gift box with his bracelet. Is that all I need? What am I missing? Christ, why I am so nervous?

I run to the front porch, palms slick and insides buzzing with a swarm of bees.

The heavy interior door hangs open, letting in the afternoon air.

"Hello?" I press my face to the screen on the storm door and pound on the metal frame. "Jake? Jarret?"

Inside, the masculine furniture, rustic decor, everything looks the same, except...darker. Colder. Barren. Where is everyone?

I knock again, raising my voice. "Jake!"

I'm shaking so badly I'm lightheaded. Please, don't pass out.

Why am I just standing here? I've never knocked on this door. This is my home, and I'm making myself feel unwelcome for no damn reason.

Hand on the latch, I swing open the screen and walk in like I've done my entire life. "Is anyone here? Jake?"

Is that music? I tilt my head, moving through a fog of nervous energy as I follow the sound. Clutching the gift box, I enter the Holsten wing and fuss with my hair. My shirt. My bra. Shit, I can't stop trembling.

Midway down the hall, the melody grows louder, coming from behind the door to Jake's room. Is he in there? What song is that?

Then I hear it. Jake's sexy-as-hell voice singing Beautiful War in perfect pitch with Kings Of Leon. I shiver and press a hand over the banging beat of my heart.

My gait speeds up, my pulse pounding harder, stronger, wild and giddy. I'm running by the time I reach his door, my clammy hand fumbling with the knob. Slipping. Turning. Pushing open. Tripping in.

I freeze.

He's not alone.

Not alone in his bed.

Not alone and not with me.

Not alone with fingers stroking bare skin. Sheets tangling around joined bodies. Feminine blonde curls fanning his pillow.

He holds her with arms I ache to feel around me. Hips pressing between her thighs. Sara Gilly's thighs. The girl who pined for him through high school.

The gift box falls from my hand. Two heads turn in my direction. Staring eyes. Parted lips.

I avert my gaze, unseeing, every heartbeat careening toward expiration. I can't watch or hear or breathe. I don't want to witness my demise. I don't want to feel it.

Go.

Run.

Fight.

Do something.

Say something.

Paralysis seizes my limbs. Air evacuates my lungs. Rigor mortis sets in.

This is what death feels like. The shattering, unstoppable separation between life and the bleeding remains of the soul. There's no countermeasure. No resuscitation. I've taken my last breath as Jake Holsten's girl.

Movement shifts in my periphery. Blonde hair sways as she pulls on clothes. Then whispering. Soft, shared words between lovers. I can't hear them because that fucking song.

It's not a beautiful war.

It's disgusting and cruel.

Make it stop.

I spin toward the sound and smack the phone off the dresser. It hits the hardwoods, killing the music. But my hands keep going, swinging and slapping and grabbing until everything crashes to the floor. Belts, cologne, books, hats. The last to go is a shoe box.

It lands at my feet, and the lid falls off, spilling its contents.

Letters.

Hundreds of letters written in metallic brown ink with gold flecks.

I remember the day I bought that shimmery marker in Chicago. It was a terrible, lonely day, and that marker was everything. Because it matched the color of his eyes.

Stillness suffuses the room. Blood roars in my ears, pulses in my neck, and throbs painfully in my abdomen.

Sara yanks up a zipper, breaking the trance.

My lungs convulse into sudden, agonizing wheezes, billowing my chest and shortening my breaths. My limbs shake heavily, uncontrollably, and spasms contract the muscles and arteries around my heart, squeezing out the light.

I fight the surge of tears, because dammit, I refuse to breakdown in front of him. "You knew I was coming."

It takes great effort to meet his eyes, and when I do, it's like staring at a stranger.

He perches on the edge of the bed and holds the sheet around his waist, looking back at me with the hard eyes of a grown man. He won't be nineteen until next month, but he appears older, the stubble on his face thicker and darker, his jaw more chiseled, like a square block of stone. But it's the expression on his gorgeous face that makes him unrecognizable. It's empty, cold, dead... Everything I feel.

"Conor." Sara approaches, fully dressed. "I didn't know."

Didn't know I was coming? Does it matter?

I won't look at her face. I don't want to see the pity there. There's enough of it in her voice to curl my stomach.

"I'm gonna go." She slips around me and starts to close the door behind her.

I catch the edge and push it open. I won't be far behind her.

Give him a chance to explain.

"Why did—?" My voice strangles. Start with something easy. "Why did all the phones get disconnected?"

"That was Dad. I don't know why." Low and deep, smooth and languid, his voice rolls through me like a drug.

"You had my number." I quiver with the despair of an addict and toe the letters with my boot. "Why didn't you call me? Or write back? Or...or...I don't know, maybe pretend I still existed?"

"I had to let you go."

"Let me go," I echo hollowly. "Why?"

"It was easier."

"Easier than what? Shooting me a message and telling me to fuck off?"

"Yeah."

I burn beneath waves of abject pain, my tongue wrapped in slimy, poisonous truths. "You got my email and knew I was coming today. You wanted me to find you with her."

Muscles ripple along his locked jaw, and his gorgeous brown eyes pin me with frosty silence.

A crack runs through the childhood bridge that connects us. Suspension cables snap. Beams twist and tear away. Piers crumble. The link between us collapses, leaving a yawning void as deep and vast and dark as an ocean.

I feel myself falling in. Breaking beneath the heavy, jagged shards. Gulping for air at the bottom of oblivion.

"Is it because I'm ruined?" I battle the instinct to hug myself, to protect the vulnerability.

"What?" His eyes narrow dangerously.

"The night in the ravine... I'm used. Dirty. Worthless."

"No. Jesus, Conor." He stands, clutching the sheet to his groin and scans the floor. "That's not it at all."

"Then what is it?" I grab his jeans and toss them into the hall. "Was Sara a virgin? Now that she's not, will you be done with her, too?"

"Dammit, Conor. No! I mean, yes. No, that's not... Fuck!" Holding the sheet around his waist, he yanks at the far corner where it stubbornly clings to the mattress. "You don't get it."

"I get that you threw me away. Because it was easier." Easier than loving a used-up girl.

He uncurls his hand and stares at the scar on his palm, his expression stark. I press my thumb against my own scar. Levi Tibbs has served two years of his seven-year sentence. The blood oath hasn't changed. We both know it.

I drop my arm. "I'll see you in five years."

He goes still, lips flat, eyes hard. That's how I leave him.

With every step toward the front door, the dam inside me bows and splinters beneath the rattling, guttural groan of pressure. Head down, arms locked around a chest full of pain, I walk faster, harder, holding it in.

When I reach the foyer, Jarret's waiting, hands in his front pockets, blocking the front door.

A quick once-over is all I offer. He looks the same, as devastatingly handsome as his brother. Good for him.

"I take it you got my emails and letters, too." I don't miss the guilty fall of his face as I push past.

He follows me out. I pick up my pace, focused on the motorcycle and getting the fuck away from the cheaters and the hurters.

His footsteps slow for a moment. Then they catch up, but I don't look back. A few feet from the bike, I scan the pastures, searching for a glimpse of my black beauty. I need to see her, feel her coat beneath my hand, and nuzzle her snout. Just for a minute. Then I'll go.

"Where's Ketchup?" I glance over my shoulder and flinch.

It's not Jarret behind me. He returned to the porch.

An arm's length away, Jake towers over me, barefoot and shirtless in jeans that hang low and unbuttoned on his trim hips. A foot taller than my short frame, he's so much wider and more defined than I remember. The sculpted bricks of his chest twitch beneath sloping shoulders and narrow into a V-shaped ladder of corrugated abs.

He looks harder to the touch, but I'll never know. I'll never touch him again.

"Ketchup... She..." His scowl delivers the answer before the words pass his lips. "We lost her last winter. It was EIA. A virus—"

"Equine Infectious Anemia Virus." I know what the fuck it is, and my hand flies to my mouth.

It hurts. Fucking goddammit, it hurts so damn much I bite down on my tongue, tasting blood.

Don't cry. Don't you dare unleash that shit here.

I whirl away, and the sharp movement engages bruised abdominal muscles. The agony steals my breath and staggers my steps.

He stays on me. "Are you limping?"

I snatch the helmet, and when he smacks it out of my hand, I jerk back in an explosion of swinging arms.

"Don't touch me!" I spin toward the bike and grapple for the helmet as he breathes down my fucking back. "Get the fuck away from me!"

"Hey, hey, take it easy." He grips me from behind and hooks an arm around my waist.

The vise of his hold presses against injuries, resurrecting last night's beating in a barrage of blinding pain. With it comes flashbacks from the ravine—the weight on my back, the vicious hands, the breaths, the agony.

A scream wrenches from my throat, and I double over with a surge of nausea. My knees buckle, and his arm tightens, digging into the soreness with excruciating torture.

I flail and shriek until he spins me around. His eyes narrow on my hands, where they flatten against the contusions beneath my shirt.

Jarret runs to his side, his expression tight with concern. "What the hell happened to you?"

My letters never mentioned the man who used to be my father. I never wanted to burden them or my brother with my problems.

Jake glares at me with a look I recognize. A malicious look born in darkness, in the grisly tomb of the ravine, two years ago today. "Lift your shirt."

"You can kiss my go to hell."

"Lift it, or I'll do it for you."

My blood runs cold. He used to represent protection and security, but that was before he hurt me with betrayal. Nothing's stopping him from hurting me with fists, and as his hands flex and his chest expands with seething anger, I'm scared.

My breath hitches as I direct my stare on the bike and yank up the shirt, baring a canvas of ruptured capillaries and yellow and purple bruises. Old ones. Fresh ones. The worst of it leaks beneath the skin, oozing from the decaying soul of a dead daughter.

I keep my gaze averted and lower the shirt.

"Who?" His murderous whisper defies reason.

Has he forgotten that he doesn't care? That he let me go and stuck his dick in Sara Gilly?

He doesn't deserve an answer, but I've been carrying this secret by myself for so long. I can finally unload it.

"Dalton Cassidy is a drunk who beats on his daughter." Avoiding his eyes, I grab the helmet, shove it on, and straddle the bike. "It started the day he left here and ended last night."

"Fucking fuck!" Jarret turns away, pacing through the lawn with fingers slicing through his hair.

The depths of Jake's eyes catch fire. "Your dad—"

"Not my dad anymore."

His rigid posture vibrates with the promise of brutality. "What did he—?"

"It's over." I put the key in the ignition.

"That's why you came home."

"No, Jake." I fire up the engine, drowning out my whisper. "You were."

I punch the gas and burn rubber out of the lot. Off the property. Down the gravel road. As I speed away from the land that belonged to my mother, the floodgates open.

Tears drown my vision. Tremors shake my fingers against the handlebars. All the ugly inside me crawls from my throat and hits the air in a wreckage of sound.

When Lorne was hauled away, I lost a vital part of myself. When I was separated from the ranch, I became half a person. When I left Dad face down on the couch, more pieces of me tore loose. But I still had something left. I still had Jake.

Now I have no one, nothing, and nowhere to go. I'm completely carved out.

A few miles from the ranch, the vicious shaking in my body grows so unmanageable I pull off on a dirt path and park in a grove of trees.

Killing the engine, I slide off the bike and curl up on the ground, where things get abandoned, where trash is tossed, forgotten, and never collected.

There, I contemplate dying. Ending it all. I could hang myself, all alone, swinging by a rope around my neck. Wouldn't that be symbolic? A tragedy that began and ended on a birthday with a passionately knotted rope.

Then I think about being found that way. Being remembered as the girl who killed herself because she loved a boy. Because the boy didn't love her back. Boo hoo. So sad. How fucking pathetic.

I'm not that girl.

Nor am I the girl he wants.

I want to be her.

Sara Gilly.

I want to wear her skin and feel his touch.

I want to be her breath and fill his lungs.

I want to embody every part of her he wants.

Lying in the dirt on my side, I tuck my knees to my mouth and yearn for all the things I'm not.

I'm like that song by Little Big Town. Girl Crush. God, the lyrics have it exactly right. I think about it, crying as I try to sing it, warbling the words I remember, scraping every note from the corroded, dried-up bottom of my soul, and hating myself more.

I can never be Sara Gilly. But I am a person, and the pain that consumes me is more than I can withstand.

Everything rises to the surface. Everything I am. Everything I feel. Every hurt, weakness, and break inside me drains from the darkest depths of my being. The night in the ravine, the abuse in Chicago, the pain in Jake's room—I let it all out, sobbing, trembling, screaming until my throat shreds, until a mess of snot and sweat covers my skin, until I'm utterly depleted.

I cry until all that remains is a loveless, empty, unfeeling core of nothingness. I become that hardened center and shed the tender, tear-soaked wrapper. It falls off like tattered clothes and litters the ground. Then I step away from the debris.

I leave the bruises, the soggy flesh, and the puddle of susceptible emotions.

I leave the girl who loved a boy with her whole heart.

I abandon her there on the side of the road. Let her rot in post mortem.

Feeling lighter, calmer, I embrace the void of nothing at all and walk away.

I leave Sandbank.

I stand on the front lawn long after Conor rides away, arrested by the lingering echo of her beauty, her strength, and her pain. She's always been gorgeous, but fucking hell, the woman she's become is so stunning, so fiercely potent and bewitching there isn't a man on the planet who could resist her.

That scares the ever-loving hell out of me.

How can I protect her when I can barely protect her from myself?

She was supposed to be safe in Chicago. I held onto that belief for two grueling goddamn years. But her dad didn't give her refuge. He gave her bruises. Soul-deep bruises. The kind only a father can inflict.

My chest constricts, and helpless rage heats my blood.

After Conor was taken from me, I learned a great deal about Dalton Cassidy. He didn't want to leave Oklahoma. Didn't want to sell the ranch. Whoever's threatening his family forced his hand. Whatever's keeping him away from Sandbank is bigger and more powerful than the amateur hitmen in the ravine.

Conor and Lorne were supposed to die that night, and if they return to the ranch, another attempt will be made on their lives.

Most of my information comes from Lorne during my visits to the penitentiary. I can't refute his claims. Dalton gave up his home, his job, and his happiness. He made sure his son went to prison. He moved Conor across the country. He did all this to keep them alive.

His enemies and their motivations are so intricately and deeply buried I've only scratched the surface. Piecing together what Lorne feeds me, along with the shady shit I've uncovered in the ranch's business records, I have so many suspicions and suspects and theories. But nothing concrete. Not yet.

Lorne's intel trickles from his dad, and it's erratic and heavily filtered. Dalton barely talks to him. I'm certain Lorne doesn't know about the drinking or the abuse. Of course, Conor didn't mention it in her messages. She'd rather suffer quietly than worry us.

And now she believes she's truly alone.

Gravel crunches beneath the angry tread of boots behind me. I square my shoulders, brace for what's coming, and turn to face my brother.

His first strike hits hard and swift, directly across my mouth. I stumble back, welcoming the spurt of blood. Relishing the pain. I deserve it.

We read her email this morning and knew she was coming home. But we didn't know why. The past few hours were a race against the clock, orchestrating a mix-up in cattle records that detained Dad at the stockyards in Oklahoma City until tomorrow.

Someone wants Conor dead, and I added my dad to the list of suspects the moment he started drilling in the south pasture. Natural gas? Oil? He's tight-lipped about it. Not to mention all his shady new business partners. He's running a side business off the books. It's sketchy as fuck, and Conor and Lorne are tied in somehow. It's just a gut feeling. One I've yet to prove.

But that's not why Jarret's fixing to beat me into a bloody pulp.

Planting a girl in my bed was my idea. He warned me if I went through with it, he would rearrange my face.

Conor's always been like a sister to him, and I see that protective love blazing in his eyes as he rears back an arm.

I block the punch and deliver one of my own, slamming into his solar plexus with enough strength to remind him I would never fuck Sara Gilly.

He staggers, crashes against the ground, and springs to his feet, glaring with unwarranted accusations.

I didn't sexually or intimately touch Sara. I didn't kiss her. Didn't remove my boxers. I didn't even get wood.

I'm still a virgin, because I love Conor Cassidy.

My brother damn well knows that. But Conor doesn't, and that's what this is about. Jarret wanted to guard her without hurting her. He wanted her to stay far away without giving her a reason. He wanted the impossible.

There was nothing, absolutely nothing, that would've kept her from returning home. Not her father. Not the threat against her life. Not the trails of sin and corruption running beneath the ranch.

I did the only thing I could to protect her.

I broke her heart, because I love her.

Another jaw-crushing punch knocks me backward, shooting pain through my skull. He swings again and again, pummeling my face and stomach. He hits me for hurting Conor. For trusting her dad to look after her. For letting her messages go unanswered. For making her believe she's unwanted.

I don't raise a hand to block his blows. The night air shudders with our combined pain, and I embrace it. I let him beat the shit out of me.

I'll bleed for her, because I love her.

Since the day Lorne pleaded guilty to murder, her brother's been adamant about keeping her away from the ranch. His imperative became my imperative, his fear my fear.

Severing communication with her for two years eviscerated me. Driving her away from the ranch today was worse. Did I make a terrible mistake? I'm still not sure.

Graduating high school and gaining twenty pounds of muscle have given me a facade of maturity I don't possess. I don't have enough years under my belt to carve a clear path through this. I'm operating on raw, protective, animalistic instinct.

The right choice and the hardest choice are the same. Isn't that what they say?

All I know is I'd rather Conor live without me than not live at all. But I didn't come to that realization overnight.

Dad disconnected our phones the day she moved to Chicago. That bought me time to talk to Lorne, investigate Dalton's reasons for leaving, and figure out what the fuck to do about the shit I learned.

Someone doesn't want Conor and Lorne in Sandbank, and they'll resort to murder to bring their purpose to fruition.

I could've gone to the authorities. Except the county sheriff and his deputies spend a fuckton of time behind closed doors with my Dad. They're all on my suspect list.

I could've left home. I could've moved anywhere in the country and convinced Conor to join me. But without understanding the threat, I would've spent the rest of my life in constant fear, watching her back and putting myself between her and whoever intends to cause her harm.

I can't run away and leave this unsolved. I can't let her enemies go unpunished.

When I determine who wants her gone, I'll take them out. And when her rapist goes free, I'll honor the blood oath.

I'll kill for her, because I love her.

Jarret paces before me, panting and flexing his bloody fists. Rage etches his face, his hunger for justice unquenched. I'm the only one he can take it out on.

I watch him warily, imploring with my eyes. What was I supposed to do?

He answers with hollow strikes. No solutions. He has nothing to offer but torment.

Two years ago, Jarret and I sat down with Lorne in prison, and the three of us made the decision together. Dry up all communication with Conor. No replies to emails. No text messages for her to wake up to. No phone calls to help her fall asleep. Shut her out of Oklahoma. Don't give her a reason to return. No matter what.

Conor deserves to know the truth about what's happening, and a very selfish, desperate part of me aches to chase her down right now and dump it all on her.

Dalton Cassidy swears on his life she's not in danger as long as she stays away from me, my family, and this ranch. He turned out to be a weak piece of shit father, but I believe, deep in the barrel of my heart, he wants her to live.

She has a rigorous eight-year journey ahead of her to become a practicing veterinarian. If I divulge the truth to her, she'll abandon her schooling, return to the ranch, and risk her life in an attempt to bring down the forces against her.

I can't let her do that.

I'll make sure she realizes her dream, because I love her.

I'll hunt down her enemies. I'll protect her from afar. I'll let her believe I don't love her.

Because I love her.

Jarret steps back, chest heaving and hands resting on his hips. He searches my eyes, silently asking if I understand, if I feel his turmoil, if we're on the same page.

I nod. "Are we done talking about this?"

"Yeah, we're done."

I move to walk past him, and he clutches my shoulder.

After a hesitant moment of silence, he releases a ragged breath and pulls me into a one-armed hug. "We'll see her again."

I think his words are for him not me, but I grip his scarred palm and squeeze it against mine. "Five years."

Five years until her rapist goes free.

Five years to eliminate her enemies and make it safe for her return.

If there's anything left of me after that, anything redeemable or worth loving, I'll focus on restoring her faith and mending her heart. But I'm not stupid. When she discovers my manipulations and deceit, she'll never forgive me.

Jarret heads to the equipment shed, presumably to retrieve Ketchup from where we hid her.

That was another decision I didn't take lightly.

If Conor knew her beloved mare was alive and healthy, she would've delayed her departure. She would've been compelled to visit her horse.

Every second she spent on the property was a risk, so I reduced that risk. I eliminated the last tie she had to this place. She won't return for me or Jarret or Ketchup.

I want to gut myself for hurting her so thoroughly. But I had to. I had to give her the closure she needs to stay alive.

Dragging my bleeding, busted-up body into the house, I redirect my thoughts to the gift box she dropped in my room. My strides move faster, my breaths rushing as I reach my room and grab the box.

I tear at the wrapping on my way to the bathroom. The paper falls to the floor as I absently turn on the shower and open the box with shaking fingers.

A wide, masculine wrist cuff sits on a bed of tissue paper. Sewed into brown leather is a silver horseshoe, rotated on its side to resemble her initial. I take in the handcrafted detail and meticulous metalwork before I read the note.

I'm not an artisan.

Just a girl who misses her cowboy

with every stitch and solder,

every hour and mile,

every inhale and exhale.

I made this with all that I am

for the one I'll never stop loving.

C

Stabbing pain cleaves through me as I press the note to my nose, inhaling deeply, desperate to scent her in the ink. I do the same with the cuff, holding the leather to my face, clinging to the textures, and choking on the flames in my throat.

She gave me a bracelet on her birthday. A precious, invaluable piece of heaven.

And I gave her torment, heartbreak, and hell.

I made her believe I let her go.

God, if I only could.

Nothing will stop me from watching over her, but I can't have her.

I'll protect her with my life, but I must forget her.

Because she no longer belongs to me. I sent her away. I made her a free agent.

She's free to move on.

Free to date.

Free to fuck other men.

Free to love again.

I drop to my knees beside the toilet and puke my guts.

Exhausted, numb, and penniless, I find a dumpy motel near the OSU campus in Stillwater, Oklahoma. In lieu of my empty wallet, I peel the Help Wanted sign off the door and approach the thirty-something attendant at the front desk.

The lift of his eyes begins the skin-crawling greeting I've come to expect from men between the ages of sixteen and death. The head to toe perusal, fluttering nostrils, heavy breaths—whatever happens in the male brain that triggers these responses doesn't seem to care that it's rude and uncomfortable.

I wait for him to finish the creepy ritual before saying, "I need a room."

"How many hours?" He licks his lips.

"The rest of the summer."

He asks for a credit card, and I give him the Help Wanted sign. The conversation that follows would make Susan B. Anthony roll in her grave.

He needs a handyman and thinks that job requires a penis. I grew up on a ranch and can do anything with my hands. When I phrase it that way, his gaze latches onto body parts I will not be using, but whatever. He gives me the job and a room.

I don't have the same confidence when it comes to visiting my brother. Reconstructing myself into an impenetrable, unfeeling robot takes constant effort. I'm a work in progress, raw and untested, and Lorne has the power to disassemble me.

I expect the same reception from him that Jake and Jarret gave me. He received my messages and chose not to respond. I'm not ready to experience his rejection in person.

So I put it off and bury myself in distractions. I apply for college loans. Acquaint myself with the campus. Buy a prepaid phone. And fix everything that needs fixing around the motel.

It takes me a month to work up the courage to drive to Oklahoma State Penitentiary. Then I sit in the parking lot for an hour, reminding myself why I came.

He's my brother.

I love him.

I have to know if he loves me back.

Razor wire fences, armed towers, drab white paint, tiny windows—this is where all the executions for the state are implemented. I block it all out as I enter the visitor door.

When I give my name at the desk, the guard turns to the computer.

He's going to tell me I'm not on the visitor list.

I filled out the visitor application two years ago, but Lorne has the right to refuse me. I know he doesn't want to see me.

"Right this way, Miss Cassidy." The guard leads me to a bay of elevators.

Stunned, I move through the prison, pause for the security check, and follow the signs and commands from the guards.

Since Lorne's unit has non-contact visitation only, I'm escorted into a small narrow room. Plastic chairs sit in a row, each in a separate booth. I lower into the one I'm directed to and wait.

A moment later, he appears on the other side of the glass partition in a periwinkle blue jumpsuit.

He's thinner. Older. Hard green eyes. Black hair that crops close to his skull. He carries himself with a severe edge of intimidation. Still handsome, but unsmiling, in a deadly way. And not a hint of surprise on his clean-shaved face. I'm sure they gave him my name.

He steps into the booth, and I harden my spine, steeling myself for a brush-off.

Safety glass prevents him from touching me. Conversation requires the use of a telephone. I don't reach for the receiver.

He lowers into the chair, his unwavering stare never leaving mine. An eternal moment passes, the silence hovering like a timekeeper.

Is he thinking about the ravine? That's the last time he saw me. Naked. Violated. My body used in ways a brother should've never been forced to witness.

If I hadn't sneaked off with Jake that night, if I hadn't been such a rebellious little slut, Lorne wouldn't be sitting on the other side of that glass. God, how he must hate me.

He picks up the phone.

I don't move. It's too scary. Too painful.

He flattens a hand against the glass partition.

I stare at the scar on his palm, at the fingers that used to hold mine when I cried. I don't trust what he's offering. I can't reach for it.

He waits.

Then he mouths, "I love you."

I close my eyes and block out the rising burn in my throat. I block out the partitions and the guards' squeaky shoes and the ten years my brother will spend behind that glass in that stupid blue jumpsuit. I block it all out and open my eyes. Because I'm happy to see him.

He didn't turn me away.

With a steady inhale, I lift the receiver and bring it to my ear.

"Conor," he breathes, and his hand makes a winding slide down the glass, as if tracing my outline.

"Lorne."

"God, you..." His gaze roams my face, softening with each pass. "You're so beautiful. You look just like Mom."

I don't remember her, but I used to have pictures. I've seen the resemblance.

"You're not answering your phone." Lines appear on his brow. "Do you have a new number?"

"You called me? When?"

"Every day for the past week."

My hand clenches around the phone, my voice low. "You haven't tried to reach me in two years."

"I know." A muscle bounces in his jaw. "You were supposed to stay in Chicago."

I clamp my molars together, vibrating with things I refuse to feel.

"I know why you didn't stay." His gaze lowers to my ribs. Then my stomach. He stares so hard it's as if he can see the faded bruises beneath my shirt.

I suck in a breath. "Jake told you?"

He nods, curling fingers into a fist on the counter.

"He visits you?" I ask.

Another nod. "Conor, I'm so fucking sorry."

"Sorry for which part?"

"For Dad. If I'd known—"

"You're sorry for Dalton?" I tilt my head, swallowing against the sharp pain in my throat. "What about for ignoring me? For not calling? For not taking time out of your busy schedule to ask how I'm doing?"

"I couldn't, Conor." He averts his eyes and twists a finger around the phone cord. "I can't keep in touch with you because it reminds me that I'm in here and you're out there and I can't protect you. I can't hear the sadness in your voice and maintain the air of confidence I need in here to survive."

He's talking with his tongue out of his shoe. He's always been a terrible liar, and I know all his tells—the looking away, the fidgeting, the rambling on with too many words.

"You want me to leave," I say quietly. "You don't want me here."

"You're right. I want you to leave Oklahoma. Start over. Go to school in Illinois where you qualify for in-state tuition and—"

I lower the phone from my ear, and a hollow thump echoes in my chest.

He knows Oklahoma State University has always been my dream. Why does it matter to him where I go?

Because he doesn't want me near him.

With numb fingers, I move to put the phone away.

"Wait," he mouths, surging from the chair.

He presses a hand against the glass then holds it up, extending his pointer finger. One second. His eyes widen with urgent demand.

I return the phone to my ear and meet his gaze.

"Chicago Mercy Hospital contacted me last week." His palm flattens against the glass, his tone dropping to a cautious hush. "Dad's landlord found him."

"Found him?" Something cold and hard forms in my stomach.

"Dad's dead, Conor." His throat bobs. "There was so much alcohol in his system it shut down brain function and other things, like his gag reflex. He vomited..."

"He choked to death." I stare at the floor.

"Yeah." Silence whispers between us. Then his voice crackles through the phone. "Say something. Tell me what you're feeling."

"I feel nothing."

Returning the phone to the cradle, I walk away.

ONE YEAR LATER...

I push through the days and nights in a blur of sleepless dedication. With twice as many credit hours as the average student, my life revolves around schoolwork. I throw myself into studying, maintaining a perfect GPA, and proving my self-worth.

Being rejected by every person I ever loved started a vicious cycle of self-hatred. Until I realized the best revenge is to put all my efforts into me instead of dwelling on them.

Dalton Cassidy's funeral came and went. I didn't attend. There's an inheritance, but I left it up to Lorne to handle the legalities from prison. Maybe someday, I can use the money and my future salary to buy the entire ranch. Right now, I just need to focus on succeeding.

I'm running full speed toward my future.

The all-work-no-play mindset works great for expediting my college career, but it's detrimental to other aspects of my life.

Like new relationships. Or lack thereof.

I've had no contact with Jake or Jarret. No visits with Lorne. No friendships or boyfriends or lovers. I live in a college dorm and share a room with a quiet girl I never talk to. When guys approach me, I morph into a stiff, voiceless idiot. I've retreated so deeply into my work I don't know how to interact with people.

Yet here I am, at the biggest field party in four states, subjecting my lungs to the smoke, beer, and hormonal stench of hundreds of college kids.

The secluded field on the outskirts of town is where OSU students go to watch boobs bounce on a dirt dance floor, drink more than their stomachs can hold, stumble around in the dark, pick fights with cowboys, and puke on other people's boots.

But that's not why I've been coming to this field party every Saturday night for the past six months.

I'm driven by an unshakable, deeply-rooted, screwed-up fascination with sex.

Three years ago, my body was used in unthinkable ways, but that wasn't sex. It was brutality. I've never had real sex. Not the kind that involves mutual participation and trust. Not the skin-heating, orgasm-inducing, elusive kind I hungered for with Jake Holsten.

Jake.

That's where I'm stuck.

Sex is so heavily knotted around my memories of him it's become a trigger-happy panic attack waiting to happen. My conflicted feelings for him, his betrayal, the ravine... I keep that shit locked down. Until someone grips my wrist, crowds my back, or simply catches me unprepared. Then it all heaves from my hyperventilating lungs.

I can tackle the day-to-day monotony of schoolwork without feeling anything. But the moment I'm with a guy, my body turns into a field of land mines. One wrong touch, and boom.

I'm not looking for a boyfriend or attachments. I just want to unstick the celibate part of my routine, without resurrecting all the things that have gone to hell in my life.

Kick It In The Sticks by Brantley Gilbert thumps deep and loud in my chest as I press through the throng of smoke-soaked flannels and cowboy hats. I have no idea who throws these parties or if the land owner even knows about them, but they happen every weekend, all year long, even when it snows.

There's no snow tonight, but it's cold enough for coats and gloves. A roaring bonfire emits a blanket of heat and embellishes the wilderness ambiance.

The linchpin of these parties, however, is the pickup truck. Not the trucks hauling in kegs of beer with a dozen under-aged drinkers hanging out of the cab. I mean, those are clearly important. But the truck everyone gravitates to is the one with the massive sound system of speakers and electronics stacked in the bed. An obscenely long extension cord snakes from the truck to some unseen power source near the barn.

The barn.

That's where I'm headed.

The washed-out, abandoned outbuilding seems to exist only so that OSU students have a place to fuck in private. The lack of lighting obscures the interior in blackness, and the blaring music penetrates the thin walls, making it impossible to talk over the noise.

There's a tantalizing sort of mystery in that. Without sight and voice, the senses narrow to the caress of hands on skin, the taste of lips, the warmth of breath, and the languid circulation of lust sliding through veins.

I want that. I ache to be consumed by the attentive, tactile sensation of a body against mine.

Last month, I actually made it through the doorway of the barn with a guy. But the moment he pressed my chest against the wall and put his weight on my back, my slumbering demons raised their ugly heads. The meltdown that followed trapped me in a vortex of fucked-up memories, and the poor guy couldn't run away fast enough.

The danger with intimacy lies in my triggers. A hand on my wrist, a chest against my back, the smell of whiskey—these are the trip wires I've identified. I know there are others.

I maneuver through the congestion of body heat, sidestepping wandering hands. The drinking and dancing is in full force. Arms in the air. Plastic cups foaming over and spilling. Hungry eyes shifting in my direction, tracking my movements.

A crook of my lips would be the only invitation they need. Any one of these guys would follow me to the barn. But he must be the right one. Someone who can navigate around my triggers. A man who can quiet my panic attacks and bring me back from the darkness. Or join me there.

Keeping my arms tucked prevents grabby hands from setting me off. But as I move among them, they still reach. I dodge fingers, avoid eye contact, and step into the path of a grinning cowboy.

He says something, but the deafening music swallows his voice. His gaze dips, following the protocol to check out everything below my face. Then he smiles to the full extent of his jaws.

No thanks.

I walk past him, bumping into writhing bodies. The flow of the crowd spins me around, surrounding me on all sides with the signs of male interest—raised eyebrows, dilated pupils, licking lips, and lingering looks that say, I want to put my hands all over you.

Then I see him.

Twenty feet away, he stands in the doorway of the barn, tall and confident and...

Jake?

He has Jake's towering height, the broad width of his chest, and the same disarming presence. Is he staring at me?

Shadows hide his face beneath the low rim of a baseball cap. A black biker jacket and fingerless gloves ward off the cold. Skinny jeans outline his muscled thighs, and... Canvas shoes?

No, not Jake. He wouldn't be caught dead in those clothes. Not to mention the hair peeking out beneath the sides of the cap. It's too long, too black, and too curly. Definitely not Jake.

That's good. Seeing him here would really put a damper on my night. But I like that this guy looks like Jake. The familiarity in his build ignites a thrill low in my belly. I also like that he's not grabbing and leering and all up in my personal space.

He remains rooted to the spot, watching me. At least, I think he's watching me?

I step closer, and he doesn't turn away.

Lift your face to the firelight. Come on, I want to see your eyes.

I put my hand up, offering a wave of greeting, without waving.

His arm rises, mimicking my gesture.

Oh God, he's definitely looking at me. Looking and waiting.

My heart buzzes a hypnotic rhythm in my chest, and my nipples tighten. The field dims, and my mind slips into a fugue state, where there's no music. No rowdy laughter. It's just me and this man and the possibility of sex.

He backs into the inky depths of the barn, beckoning me without lifting a hand.

My square toe boots kick up dust in my hurry toward the entrance. Will he grab me the second I step inside?

I hold my gloved hands low and close to my body, protecting my wrists as I slip through the crack in the door.

Darkness.

It closes in around me, shuddering with hunger and luring me deeper into its fold.

No amount of blinking adjusts my eyes to the blackness, and the reverberation of music hammers so loudly I can't hear myself breathe. If I scream, no one will catch the sound. If a panic attack rises, no one will know. The thought empowers me.

I blindly feel my way through the murk, toeing my boots across the dirt floor. My shoulder brushes a back. My hand grazes a leg.

The darkness bends and undulates with people at various heights and positions. Rocking against the walls, kneeling on the ground, sprawling, sitting, straddling—the unviewable landscape heightens my senses. Faceless, nameless sex thickens the air and presses against my skin, intensifying the temptation. The anticipation.

Where is he?

When I reach the rear wall, I lean my back against it, remove my gloves, and tuck my hands behind me. Uncertainty careens my pulse against my jugular, and my teeth saw the inside of my cheek.

He doesn't make me suffer long.

The blast of music drowns out his footsteps, but I feel him. His heat. The power in his body. The persuasion in it.

I should be afraid. Petrified. Adrenaline courses through my nervous system. Tremors hijack my limbs. But it's not fear. It's relief. Like a release valve is turning inside me, letting off the steam of pressurized energy.

Warm fingers brush my jaw, and every muscle in my body tenses. His gloved palm rests against my throat, the leather stiff and hard like his coat. I touch the sleeve, stroking the shape to feel the muscle beneath.

Strong forearms, imposing height, patient hands... Without my sight, he could almost be Jake.

I don't want that.

Except I do.

I haven't seen Jake in over a year. Haven't touched him in three years. All I have is memories, and the sharpest ones aren't tender.

The caress along my neck pulls me back to the stranger. He's probably ugly as sin with an oversized nose and a face covered in pimples. I don't care what he looks like, but suspicion lifts my hand.

When my fingers connect with smooth skin and a sculpted jawline, I imagine Jake's mouth, his brown eyes, and the alluring smile that brightens every gorgeous feature.

Stop it.

I slide my touch to the man's cheek, and he catches my fingers. Not my wrists. Just the tips of my nails, like he knows exactly where to grip me.

He's probably seen me at this party before. Probably witnessed what happens when someone grabs my arm in the crowd.

Lowering my hands, he guides them to his narrow hips and adds pressure. A silent command to hold on.

The heat of his breath signals his nearness. When the rim of the baseball cap bumps my brow, he rotates it backward and cups my face.

Is he trying to see me in the dark? Is he speaking or smiling or glaring? The booming music pulses through us, drowning out the rush of my breaths and whatever sounds might be passing his lips.

How strange to engage a man without eye contact or conversation, but it's better this way. It's intimate, without making it personal.

His exhale feathers my face, and velvety lips find my skin. Soft and warm, they kiss a path along my jaw, my cheek, dipping down to taste my neck. My pulse careens out of control, and I sway beneath a head rush of euphoria.

He pushes the coat off my shoulders, and his mouth continues its seductive hunt along my collarbone, nudging aside the neckline of my shirt to lick my skin.

My nails bite into his hips, slipping beneath his waistband, and he releases an intoxicating huff. Then he works his way back up, his lips opening against my throat. His breath rasps out as the ardent flicker of his tongue teases my flesh.

I shiver all over and pull him closer. The hard length of him pushes against my stomach, and a tingling burn ignites deep inside. He presses against me again. And again. Then his mouth seals over mine, devouring my gasp.

I wrestle with the next breath, because holy fuck, it's been so long since I've been kissed.

His tongue sweeps past my lips, and I flounder against him, groping at his waistband in the dark. He tastes like cigarettes, cloves, and other non-Jake things. Same dominating control, though. He invades my mouth with possessive flicks, piloting my movements and swallowing my moans.

God, he's good. I've only ever kissed one other man, but this one... This one powers his way through me, demanding I feel his kiss in the curl of my toes, the waver in my knees, and the tight, hard throb between my legs. By the time he releases me, I'm swaying unsteadily and panting with unquenched desire.

His hands rove downward, sliding off my coat and letting it drop to the ground. His touch continues, rubbing and exploring over my clothes as he lowers to a crouch. Then he removes my boots. Jeans. Panties.

The absence of light shrouds my nudity, but I feel chillingly exposed. It's just the cold air nipping at my skin. And maybe my battling nerves.

With his hips out of reach, I grasp at his neck. His hair is so short on the back of his head it feels like stubble beneath the rim of the cap. I find the loose curls that fell free and try to picture his hair style. Shaved underneath and long on top? The curls are so thick and coarse, so different from Jake's soft, stick-straight hair.

He rests his hands on the backs of my legs and caresses upward, leaving a trail of goosebumps and fire. Pressing closer, his nose grazes my bare pussy. Closer still, and he buries his face, drawing in a slow, deep breath. Smelling me. Then he licks.

My mind shuts off, and I just...feel. His mouth, his fingers, the diabolical swirl of his tongue inside me... My God, I shake so badly I can barely remain upright.

His breaths come harder, faster, setting the feverish pace of mine. The leather of his fingerless gloves abrades my inner thighs as he thrusts long digits inside me, and thrusts, and thrusts, sucking and kissing with those sinful lips.

I ache to come, and that overbearing necessity stretches and tightens my nerves to the point of frustration. He continues to lick, and I continue to reach for that blissful edge.

He eats the fuck out of my pussy for an eternity, but the orgasm slips away.

It's not him. I just... I can't get there.

He's not Jake.

Rising to his feet, he places a foil wrapper in my hand. I bend my fingers around it. A condom.

I bet he assumes this is a regular thing for me. If he only knew I've never held a condom, let alone rolled one on a dick.

"You want me to do this?" I shout, fully aware he can't hear me over the raucous music.

He leans in, pushing his chest against mine, and bites my earlobe. That's when I feel just how fast and labored his breathing has become. Sweet Jesus, he's worked up, wildly turned on, and damn if that doesn't burst my skin into flames.

His hands move between us, releasing his fly and shoving down his jeans. Then he grips my hand, the one holding the condom, and guides it to his cock.

A thundering ache sparks in my chest. My throat seals up, and my mouth goes dry.

I touch him, the broad, very smooth tip of him. I follow the flared ridge, the silky length, and pause at the patch of coarse hair. It feels like a dick. A hard, twitchy, fully engorged cock. What now?

He plucks the wrapper from my hand, tears it open with his teeth, and notches it on the end of his length. Sliding his fingers around mine, he uses our combined grip to roll it on.

Wow, that's hot. And reassuring. It's as if he's trying to make me feel safe, like he's telling me he'll take care of me.

This is how sex is supposed to be. Respectful. Healthy. Willing.

He presses his lips against my cheek, and his mouth moves, saying words that are slapped away by the pounding ruckus.

His hands grip my thighs, lifting, spreading, as he pins my back against the wall. Then he's on me, his body shaking and hard, his hips stretching my legs wider, and his breaths panting against my neck.

I wrap my arms around his back, my nerve endings screaming and squirming and alive. I'm alive. And ready. So fucking ready.

His fingers squeeze my thigh, and he drives against me, rocking, grinding, seeking entry with uncontrolled, frantic thrusts. Then he finds it, my wet needy hole, and impales me in one hard, powerful thrust.

My spine bows from the force of it, and I swear I hear a "Fuck!" roar from his lips.

He pulls out slowly and lunges again. Over and over, he doesn't hold back. His teeth find my shoulder. My hands scratch the back of his leather jacket, cleaving to him as he stretches me, fills me, and uses me in the best way possible.

My thighs clamp around his driving hips. My hard nipples scrape against my bra. I want him deeper. Need him faster. I buck my hips, and he bucks his, his movements fitful, slowing with erratic jerks. Then he buries himself to the root and stops.

His body sags against me, and his relieved breaths chop at my ear.

He came.

It's over.

He lowers my feet to the dirt, quickly puts himself back together, and gathers my clothes. As he dresses me, I feel things, too many things, and I have neither the desire nor the ability to analyze them.

After he zips and straightens my clothes, he kisses my neck, my cheek, then my mouth. That last touch is brief, just a brush of lips, but there's something in it. Something strained. I don't want to analyze that, either.

He hands me my boots and steps back. His presence, his hard heat, all of him retreats into the darkness.

"Wait!" I shove on the boots, and my eyes shift to the door as it cracks open and closes.

I race through the barn, tripping over clothes and shoes and colliding with half-dressed bodies. It takes too long to reach the exit, and when I burst into the open air, the overwhelming blast of music disorientates me.

I rub my eyes and search the crowd, the field, the bonfire. Where did he go? I spin in a circle, scanning the perimeter, looking for a baseball cap in the sea of Stetsons.

He's gone.

Dammit, I just wanted a name. A face. A smile.

A connection.

But he walked away, threw the match over his shoulder, and burnt that bridge.

What did I expect? I fucked a stranger in the dark at a field party. People do it all the time.

But I'm not people. I'm not normal.

I leave the party and head back to town on the motorcycle. With my ear buds in and the music cranked up, I drown myself in the lyrics of Poison & Wine by The Civil Wars.

It's such a remorseful song, but I can't help it. I'm feeling things, overwhelming things that I can't hold in.

Maybe the sex awoke the parts of my psyche I buried on my sixteenth birthday. Maybe the stranger's dismissal roused the shit I abandoned in Chicago. Maybe it has nothing to do with Dalton and the ravine and everything to do with the girl I left on the side of the road a year ago.

That girl misses Jake. I miss him. I mourn his absence more and more every day, and I despise myself for it. I hate that he has such an unbreakable hold on me. A hold that makes my stomach cramp over what I did tonight.

I cheated on him.

It doesn't make a lick of sense. He's probably out there fucking all the Sara Gilly's in the world, and it's his right to do so. He let me go.

But I didn't let him go. I don't know how to do that, and goddammit, it hurts. I feel that pain like the strike of Dalton's hand across my face.

A burn rises through my sinuses, but I refuse to cry. Instead, I focus on the icy wind as it beats at my coat, penetrating the fabric and shivering through my bones.

The motorcycle sucks in the winter, but I'm not getting rid of it. I just need a new jacket. A motorcycle jacket, like the one the faceless man wore tonight.

Wouldn't the good folks of Sandbank shit themselves if I rolled up looking like a biker chick?

I'm definitely getting that jacket.

As I motor into Stillwater and pass a tattoo parlor, another rebellious idea pops into my head. I make a swift U-turn, park in front of the shop, and walk in.

"Can I help you?" A middle-aged man with a goatee looks up from a catalog at the front desk.

When he starts the head-to-toe perusal, I snap my fingers.

"I want a tattoo. Lots of them." I hold out my arms. "Full sleeves."

"Okay." He laughs, meeting my eyes. "That'll take time. Like months. Maybe longer."

"I'm working on my doctorate." I point in the direction of the campus. "I have years."

THREE YEARS LATER...

The call comes from the prosecuting attorney. I should've expected it. Hell, I contact the attorney several times a year to stay apprised of Levi Tibbs' release date. But as I end the call and stare at my phone, the hallway implodes. My vision blurs, and memory awaits me in the darkness.

Rope around my wrists, a gag against my tongue, cruel hands, crushing weight, can't move, burning, forcing, agony...

Something bumps into me, and I whirl around, arms flailing.

"Hey!" A college girl holds up her hands. "Watch it."

Shit. "Sorry." I wipe the sheen of sweat from my face. "I'm sorry."

I step out of the flow of traffic in the campus corridor and lean against the wall. Pocketing the phone, I think about the reason for the attorney's call.

Levi Tibbs will go free in two weeks. He was sentenced to seven years, but he's only serving six.

Six years for brutalizing a sixteen-year-old girl.

My breath leaves me. I'm not that girl.

You'll never amount to anything.

I said I could and I would, and I'm doing it. I moved on, earned a bachelor's degree in animal science, and I'm flying through veterinary college. If I keep up this pace, I'll be a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine in two years. That's faster than anyone expected.

You'll end up on the street or shacking up with some man like a fucking whore.

I'm focused. Dedicated to my work. I don't have time for distractions from my past.

Straightening my spine, I lift my hand, palm up. I lament the welted scar every fucking day. Jake and Jarret probably laugh at theirs. Lorne is locked up. Nothing he can do about his.

I made the blood oath under duress. Shouldn't that negate its authenticity?

What if I do nothing about Levi Tibbs' release? Would he come after me? Would he force his evil on other sixteen-year-old girls?

My stomach hardens, and I clench my hand, fisting the scar.

It's summer break. Classes don't restart for two months. I could leave school for a few weeks. How long does it take to kill a man?

I glance down the hall, taking in the dearth of students. Only reason I'm here today is to visit my favorite professor. So I focus on that.

I make my way to his classroom and find the door shut. His summer class should've ended by now. Maybe he's meeting with a student?

Silently turning the handle, I peek in.

Professor York stands in the back of the room with a pretty brunette. He leans over her, his mouth too close to hers to be appropriate as he speaks quietly. Then his hand lowers and touches the back of her skirt. His fingers ruck the material, gathering it, inching it higher until his hand slips beneath.

I stumble back and turn away.

He's not supposed to be with her. He's in a fucking relationship. Why is he doing this?

Men cheat. That's what they do.

My hands lose feeling. Listlessness spreads up my arms and deadens my chest. Everything inside me desensitizes, disconnects, and goes dormant.

I walk home in a numb fog.

I climb the front porch to the modest house. Insert the key. Pass through the rooms. Down the hallway. Sit on the bed in the master.

Still numb.

I want to feel something. Something profound. Intense. Dissolute. I want to feel pain that I can control.

Sliding the laptop from my bag, I cue up one of my go-to videos. It's a clip from a foreign film. A rape scene with a woman on her stomach, her hands bound with rope and arms stretched over her head. A man jerks his hips and groans on top of her, his fingers around her neck as he fucks her in the ass.

The actress screams in another language, but I don't pay attention to that. I absorb her tears, the round shape of her gaping mouth, the horrified expression scrunching her face. As her body tenses in pain, I cock my head, memorizing the way her fingers absently scrape against the rope.

Then I stop the video and restart it from the beginning. She's already tied up, but her face is slack. She doesn't understand, doesn't know what's coming. That moment of ignorant innocence captivates me so deeply I can't look away.

When the man crawls onto her back and forces his dick in her ass, I freeze it. Restart it. Just like that, she's innocent and whole again. Then he prowls over her, sodomizes her, and she breaks. I press freeze. Restart.

Freeze.

Restart.

Stop the pain.

Restart it.

Stop it.

Start it.

I crave the power in controlling her agony. It's like an addiction taking hold of me. I can't let it go. I need more. God knows I've scoured the web for darker, grittier videos. This one's my favorite.

Stretching out on the bed, I watch the clip over and over. Each time I replay it, I grow needier, hungrier. My panties are wet, and I haven't even touched myself. But I will. I'll rub one out before—

A gasp sounds behind me. "What are you watching?"

My heart stops, and I slam the lid on the laptop. Fucking shit.

Tempering my breaths, I shift toward the doorway and meet the pale eyes of Professor Miles York.

"Are you watching a woman get raped?" He approaches the bed, running a hand over his neatly combed black hair. "Is that a snuff film?"

"Just a movie. With actors." I return the laptop to my bag. "You're home early."

"No, I'm not." He squints at me. "Let me see the video."

"What for?" I rise from the bed and stride to the closet. "It was just something I stumbled on."

"You don't just stumble onto something like that." He closes in behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. "If you want me to tie you up and..."

Heavy, suffocating heat bears down on my back. The confinement peels away his voice, the room, the air. I reach up, clawing to escape, and my fingers find purchase in hangers and shelves.

The weight vanishes, and I pivot, backing into the small closet and tangling in the hanging clothes.

"Shit, I'm sorry." He steps back, hands up and expression creased with worry. "I wasn't thinking."

"It's fine." I straighten my camisole and bend to pick up the mess while I try to slow my breathing. "I'm just having a bad day."

I can't blame him for the misstep. After six months of living together, he doesn't know about my past. I never answer his prodding questions, yet he's learned how to steer around my triggers. Mostly.

"Are you okay?" He grips my bare shoulders and slides his hands down my arms, circling his thumbs along the swirls of colorful tattoos.

I nod, watching him trace the inked murals of sunsets and horses. It took the tattoo artist a year to transform my arms into the impressionist paintings I collected as a child.

I never went back to the field party after that night. Never sought out sex again.

My science professor sought me out. Initially, Miles was enamored by my academic records. Then he met me, and his interest evolved into something entirely different.

He pursued me for a year before I had sex with him. By then, he was no longer my professor and well, he was really persistent. He convinced me to move into his house six months ago, and here we are, all cozy and domestic-like.

And monogamous. Or so I thought.

"Who was the brunette in your classroom?"

"The brunette?" His eyebrows gather. "There's probably twenty brunettes in my—"

"Don't fuck with me, Miles." Turning back to the closet, I pull a travel bag from the top shelf. "I stopped by after your class today."

His footsteps pace through the room behind me. Then pause.

"Kendra Forde." He sighs her name.

I lean against the doorframe as he perches on the bed and loosens his tie.

He looks like Clark Kent in that suit. The buttoned-up collar, slightly wavy black hair, pale blue eyes, and mild-manner demeanor, he has the whole tall, dark, and handsome nerd thing going on.

Since he spends most of his time in a classroom, he doesn't have much in the way of muscle. Not even close to Jake's sturdy build. But he keeps himself fit.

"She's been after me for months." He slouches forward, elbows on his knees. "I told her I'm not interested, Conor."

Every vagina on campus wants to ride Miles York. With his irresistible charm, brainy good-looks, and authoritative voice behind the podium, why wouldn't they?

"So what you're saying is..." I cross my arms. "You turned her down by putting your hand under her skirt?"

A muscle twitches in his jaw, and he lifts his gaze to mine, pinning me with a hard stare. "It was a weak moment. And wrong. I realized the lapse in judgment immediately and sent her away."

My mind swims as I open the travel bag and begin to pack. I want to berate him for his lapse in judgment, but who am I to cast stones? I'm made entirely of damaged pieces, stitched together with irreparable flaws.

What kind of person can't have her wrists touched? I'm so much more fucked up than a simple lapse in judgment.

"What are you doing?" Miles jumps from the bed and grabs the bag from my grip.

I snatch it back. "I'm leaving."

"Jesus, fuck." He rakes a hand through his perfect hair, messing it up. "Kendra stopped by only minutes ago. Not enough time for anything to happen. Stop this!" His voice rises, eyes flinty. "You're not leaving."

"I'm going back home." I stuff clothes into the bag. "Just for a couple of weeks."

To murder Levi Tibbs.

I know I'm taking advantage of the situation. I need a reason to be mad at Miles so I don't have to lie to him about why I'm leaving. I should feel bad about the distraught way he watches me pack, but feelings are tricky. If I give them an inch, they swallow me whole.

"I wouldn't cheat on you, Conor." He follows me through the room, pulling at his collar. "I mean, look at you. You're the hottest damn woman I've ever laid eyes on. Do you see the way men stare at you? Like they're waiting for you to turn your head, to give them the tiniest hint of interest?"

I zip up the bag and face him. "What are you saying?"

"I'm lucky." He steps into my space and rests his hands on my hips, his mouth hovering. "I'm so fucking lucky to be the one you want. I wouldn't throw that away."

Except the one I want did throw me away.

And now I'm going home to honor the pact I made with him. I'll have to see him, talk to him, and be reminded of the life I can't have.

"I love you," Miles breathes against my mouth.

He says it every day, and I never say it back.

He doesn't demand anything from me. Doesn't try to fix me. Aside from the weak moment with Kendra Forde, Miles is a steady, reliable, pain-free improvement in my life.

He's a great reason for me to stay away from Jake Holsten.

"I should only be gone for a week or two." I step back and sling the bag over my shoulder.

With a dejected nod, he stuffs his hands in his pockets. "You're going to the ranch?"

Not exactly.

"Sandbank." I head to the front of the house, slowing my gait to let him catch up.

He knows my parents are dead and the family I grew up with still owns the ranch. But he doesn't know about the ravine. Or the boyfriend who kicked me to the curb. Or the brother in prison who doesn't want to see me. Or the dad who hit me. He doesn't know my ugliest pieces.

It's only an hour drive, but his over-protectiveness compels him to say, "Call me as soon as you arrive. And don't speed. I hate the thought of you straddling that two-wheeled hearse on the interstate."

"If it's too fast, you're too old."

At age thirty, he's eight years older than me. I never gave much thought to the age difference until now.

He leans in for a kiss, and I let him take it. But the moment his mouth parts to deepen the connection, I pull back.

"I'll text you." I grab the motorcycle jacket and helmet and step onto the porch.

As I cross the driveway to the bike, I glance over my shoulder.

He looks at me like he's thinking about the future, maybe wondering if I'll return or if he wants me to.

I turn away, thinking about the past, wondering if Jake knows about Levi Tibbs or if he even cares.

He won't get an email from me this time, and I won't be showing up at the ranch. But word travels fast in Sandbank.

He'll find out soon enough that I'm back in town.

Every head in the bar turns in my direction, their eyes judging me up and down and inside out. I know what they see.

The front page of the Sandbank newspaper.

The ruined girl from Julep Ranch.

The lost cause with the dead dad and the brother in prison.

After poor little Conor Cassidy fell between the cracks, it makes sense that she would ride a dangerous motorcycle, desecrate her skin with tattoos, and sell her soul to the devil. She still wears those scratched-up square toe boots, so that must mean she's clinging to an irretrievable life. Such a shame. The Lord Jesus can't even save her from the tragedy she's become.

I see the pity in their eyes. And the distrust. How dare I bring my atrocities into their town?

Holding my head high, I weave around the tables at the Big Sugar.

Tossed peanut shells scatter the floor and crunch beneath my boots. Country music plays from an old jukebox in the corner. As the only bar in Sandbank, it's stacked deep with folks winding down after a hard day with drinks and friends and maybe a line dance or two on the dance floor.

No dancing or drinking for me. I'm probably the only twenty-two-year-old in Oklahoma who has never tasted alcohol.

I'm here to get a read on the current state of affairs, eavesdrop on gossip, and maybe give them something scandalous to whisper about. And I admit, a big part of me is dying for an update on Jake Holsten.

He's not here. I've already scanned every face in the place. But as I make my way through the bar, I hear his name.

"You know what I need? Another dose of vitamin Jake."

I don't recognize the voice, but as I turn, I know who she is, as well as the three women she shares a high-top table with. We all went to school together.

A few feet away, they swirl their colorful cocktails and avoid my stare. They're aware I'm standing here, and they whisper loud enough to make damn sure I don't miss a word.

"The first time Jake fucked me, I couldn't sit for three days."

"He ever take you doggy? Swear to God, I came seventeen times when he bent me over the tailgate of his truck."

Giggling laughter. "He fucks like he's fighting a war. All angry and savage. It's so damn hot."

Gross and Ewww and I seriously think I'm going to vomit.

But in a twisted way, their conversation brings me relief. I never let myself imagine Jake married. Knowing he's a playboy is easier to swallow than the idea of a wife and kids.

It still hurts to digest. Every cutting word scrapes through my innards like broken glass.

They continue to giggle and whisper about all the kinky, godlike ways Jake performs in the sack. They're baiting me, and by the time I close the distance, I'm ready to bite.

I step between two of their stools and prop a boot on a foot rail.

"Conor Cassidy!" Fake smiles all around. "It's been ages. How are you?"

"Fine, thank you." I lean against the table, resting my tattooed arms on the surface. "Listen, I know I've been gone awhile and a lot of shit has gone down. I've encountered my share of cruelty at the hands of men, but what I'm realizing is... Women are as mean as cat meat. Instead of standing together against the cheaters and the players and the scumbag abusers, they turn on one another. They're heartless. Downright vicious to each other. Maybe because we're competitive? Is that what this is? A competition?"

Jaws drop, and eyes widen. One of them takes a sip of her drink, squirming in the awkwardness.

It's no wonder I have no friends.

"Let me just say this." I lower my voice. "Y'all know Jake and I grew up together and were fixing to get married. You also know I was attacked while he was forced to watch. Then I was carted across the country like a dirty secret." I blow out a breath. "Maybe you don't know I returned two years later. Jake had already moved on. Completely washed his hands of me. He didn't want me then, and he doesn't want me now. It's over. So y'all can retract your claws. I'm not here to steal your cowboy. Truth is I don't even want to see him."

One of the girls clears her voice and points an acrylic nail at something behind me.

Oh no. I straighten from the table, blank my expression, and turn.

Jake towers over me, so close and threatening the sheer intensity of his presence eclipses everything around him. I step back, but there's nowhere to go except up and over the table, and that would be embarrassing.

The short sleeves of his black t-shirt expose the tanned definition in his arms. Frayed jeans hug low on his hips and cling to the strength in his thighs. Stubble darkens his chiseled jaw, and the line of his perfect lips promises pain.

"What are you doing?" he asks in his deep, rumbling voice.

I'm doing the exact thing I despise. I'm openly and shamelessly checking him out.

Lifting my gaze up, up, up, I tilt my head back to meet his fathomless brown eyes. "I'm just shooting the shit with your buckle bunnies."

His nostrils flare.

"Shannon here is ready for another ride on your tailgate." I give a low whistle of disbelief as my stomach curls in on itself. "Seventeen orgasms? Impressive. You've come a long way from your days of premature ejaculation."

Coughs and gasps sound from the women behind me.

Jake blinks and angles his head to the side, tilting his hat. Studying me. "You're jealous."

"Nope."

"You're grinding your teeth and locking your knees."

Shit. I relax the offending joints and break away from his assertive eye contact.

That's when I see it. The wide leather cuff with the horseshoe charm on his wrist. Why is he wearing that? Am I the butt of some kind of sick joke?

"I have a boyfriend." I raise my chin. "Even if I didn't, jealousy requires interest. I can assure you I have zero interest in this." I gesture between him and his bed partners. "To be honest, it makes me puke a little in my mouth. And not in the way you've been puking in theirs."

He doesn't look at them. In fact, he hasn't moved his eyes from me since I turned around.

"I'm here on business." I hold my palm up in the sliver of space between us and wait for him to glance at the scar. "If you want to talk, I'm staying at the Dew Drop Inn."

I inch a boot forward, indicating my desire to leave, but he doesn't move.

Him and that goddamn leather bracelet.

Does he wear it when he fucks them? Does the horseshoe stroke quivering skin while his hand thrusts between their legs?

"Let me by." My face tingles, and a white-hot current of awareness arcs through my body.

It's his scent. It's everywhere. The salt of his skin, the mint on his breath, the dark, predatory bite of his essence. I taste it on my tongue and feel it in my blood. I tremble through and through, drugged by his rugged beauty. He's too close, too compelling, too damn Jake.

It's been four years since I've seen him, and those years have hardened his edges, deepened his scowl, and darkened his eyes. But he's still the man I remember. Rough and burly from the Stetson on his head to the mud on his boots.

That beat-up hat has more stories to tell than the so-called cowboys at OSU. He didn't buy those jeans with holes. He earned every rip, catching his legs on barbed wire fencing. And the crud on his boots? I know every trail that dirt came from and how it got there.

Jake Holsten is the real deal, and my body recognizes every strapping inch of him. My heart threatens to combust from the potency of his nearness, and if I stand here much longer, I won't survive.

"Move." I anchor my hands on my hips.

He flexes. Not his muscles. He flexes his damn aura and stares me down like he's aiming to hogtie and brand me.

I don't look away, but I should. My eyes are more than windows to my soul. They're telling him exactly what's happening south of the border. He knows he affects me, every achy part of me, and fuck if that doesn't put a sly smile on his face.

Glowing with that smirk, he steps aside and tips his hat at me. "Catch you later, girl."

Fighting the urge to run like hell, I measure my strides to the door and step into the night air.

A fat black cowboy truck sits beside my motorcycle, and reclining in the passenger seat is the other half of the Holsten twins.

Jarret watches me approach, leaning toward the dash to get a real good look. I expect him to jump out and intercept me.

He doesn't. As I strap on the helmet, he sits in the truck with the windows rolled down and says nothing. The few feet that separates us might as well be 928 miles.

I'm just as guilty for putting that distance there. Nothing's stopping me from asking him how he's doing.

Except fear.

Fear of rejection.

I fire up the bike and head back to the motel. Going after Levi Tibbs on my own would be naive and reckless. But I'm certain I won't be doing it alone.

Jake might not give a fuck about the pact, but he made it clear in the bar he's not done fucking with me.

He'll make sure I don't leave town until I'm chewed up and spat out.

I park the truck beside Conor's motorcycle at the motel and kill the engine. My pulse roars in my ears as I scan the single-story row of rooms and hone in on the only illuminated window.

There she is.

Curtains block my view of her, but shadowy movement flickers behind them. Is she pacing? Anxious? Or does she prevent herself from feeling things, even when she's alone?

She thinks her emotions are incognito, but she doesn't fool me. I see through the standoffish exterior, beneath the wounds and fractures, and deep inside the nucleus of her soul.

I know her blueprint. The intricate, complex design of her. My beautiful girl is still in there, kicking and spitting to break free, and I'm going to help her do that.

My methods may not be conventional, but I know her better than anyone. I know exactly how to reach her, and I'm highly motivated.

I'm fucking starving without her.

"She looks the same." Jarret taps his fingers on the console between us. "Even prettier, if that's possible."

Pretty doesn't even come close. There's a distinctive something about Conor that no other woman has. Her physical beauty is indisputable and transcendent, but it's more than that. The multi-layered facets of her nature, the intelligence in her green eyes, the charismatic, outspoken attitude—she's a deep well of intrigue and allurement. A dangerously seductive woman. And she doesn't even know it.

"She gave me the cold shoulder when she came out of the bar," Jarret says. "I guess I deserve that, but she seemed especially withdrawn." His voice hardens. "What did you say to her?"

"She ran into some of my mistakes."

"Ah. Did you take care of it?"

"They won't antagonize her again."

Before I left the Big Sugar, I made sure every leaky mouth in the joint understood that Conor Cassidy's here to stay. With me.

It'll take more time and infallible finesse to make Conor understand that.

I return my attention to her motel room and consider what I'm about to do. This is the fulcrum on which our past and future come together in a dance of spinning, fighting, and forgiving.

Forgiveness is the biggest hurdle, but it's not the only one. I need to deal with the boyfriend, her PTSD, her completion of veterinary school, and all the shit poisoning the ranch and our families.

I spent the last four years uncovering trails of deceit that stretch miles. The oil and gas drilling, the corruption in the cattle operation, the blackmail, and the bodies buried in the ravine—there's so much she doesn't know.

I'm prepared to tell her everything.

But not here.

I have two more threats to worry about. One will be released from prison in two weeks. The other one skipped town.

Her return to Sandbank is a risk, but my patience has run out. Her schooling's almost complete, and I have a damn good handle on the danger against her. There isn't a chance in hell I'm letting her go this time.

"Remember that time we locked her in the tack room?" Jarret glances at me, rubbing his jaw. "When the coyotes got past the fencing and killed all our calves?"

"I remember." I narrow my eyes.

"She banged on that door for hours while we helped Dad clean up the slaughter. She was only what? Six? Seven? We didn't want her to see the carnage or know what happened. But God, I can still hear her crying to get out. She didn't understand why we locked her up. Didn't know we were just trying to protect her." He thumbs his ear, and his face tightens. "Sometimes I think we shouldn't have made that decision for her."

"Don't do that." I glare at him. "We have a plan. You were right there with me when we agreed on every detail."

"I know. I am with you. But she's not going to understand."

"She will. Not right away, but she's smart. She'll come around."

I've watched my brother kill men without a hint of hesitation or remorse. When it comes to Conor, however, he's a soft and squishy teddy bear. It's maddening.

"Let's go." I slide out of the truck and meet Jarret at the door to her room.

He knocks, and a second later, she emerges in the doorway, head cocked and red hair tumbling in sexy tangles to her hips.

Expressionless, she shifts her gaze between us, studying, probing, trying to read our intentions. "Did you hear about Levi Tibbs?"

"Yes." I hook a thumb beneath my belt and wait for the invitation inside.

She glances at the bracelet she gave me and quickly looks away. A breath in. Out. Again. Then she steps aside and lets us pass.

"Are you going to honor the pact?" She shuts the door and leans against it. "Or are you chickening out?"

"I've waited six years to finish this." I exchange a look with my brother. "We both have. The three of us are going back to the ranch to talk about—"

"No. Absolutely not." She squares her shoulders. "We'll talk now."

"Do you think it's wise"—I lower my voice—"to discuss murder plans here? The walls are thin, and the room's too small."

I motion at the cramped space, lack of seating, and amount of room Jarret and I take up. I don't expect her to accept my bullshit reasoning, but it's worth a try before I change tactics and do this the hard way.

"There's no privacy at the ranch." She juts her chin. "Your dad—"

"He doesn't live there."

"What? Why not?"

"He got tangled up with a woman. Ran off with her a few months ago. We haven't heard from him."

The woman is the same age as me, and that's not the only detail I'm leaving out. John Holsten cut and ran because I gave him no choice.

"What about the ranch?" Her brow creases. "He left the business?"

"Yes. Jarret and I own and run the cattle operation now."

"Did you buy it from him?"

We blackmailed him for it.

She takes in my unresponsive expression, and her lips press together, trapping all the questions she wants to ask. She deeply cares about the ranch, even though she won't let herself believe that.

As a case in point, vivid impressions of horses and landscapes completely and permanently color her arms from shoulders to wrists. Her ink represents the terrain of her childhood. It's what matters most to her.

"Those are your paintings." I nod at her tattoos. "The ones you collected when we were kids."

"Yeah."

"It's beautiful."

And I mean it. The vibrant colors and uniqueness of the artwork exemplify her spirit and add a sexy, rebellious edge to her natural beauty. She's the ultimate jeans and t-shirt girl. So the motorcycle, tattoos, and brazen glare—all of it suits her.

"Thank you." Her glare narrows suspiciously.

She doesn't trust a word that comes out of my mouth. I bet her mind's whirling to reconcile the cheating asshole she encountered in my bedroom four years ago with the one standing before her now.

I'm the same man who loves her. It's the circumstances that have changed.

"Pack up your things." I widen my stance. "You're staying at the ranch."

"Hm." She straightens from the door and laces her arms beneath her perfect tits. "Is this another set up? Will I find a lover in your bed? Or am I supposed to be the one you're knocking boots with when some other poor lovesick girl shows up?"

I love the way her wicked mind works, but she's completely off the mark.

"Don't give me that look." Her fists clench, and her cheeks twitch, eager for a fight. "I'm not going."

She's so damn feisty she could start an argument in an empty house. I'm all about wrestling and getting rowdy with her, but we're not doing it here.

I give Jarret a nod.

Then I lunge.

My chest collides with hers. My hand covers her gasp, and I pin her against the door, restraining her with my weight.

Her huge green eyes go impossibly wide, and her vocal chords vibrate against my palm. Clawing and pulling at my arms, she's nowhere near strong enough to move me.

A glance over my shoulder confirms Jarret is gathering her things. I return to her and adjust my hand over her mouth, ensuring she has plenty of breathing room.

"I know you have triggers." I center my face in front of hers. "So I won't bind your wrists." Not yet. "Think about that while you're scratching the hell out of my arms."

Her chest heaves, stretching her nostrils as she squints at me furiously. She's wondering how I know about her triggers. Or maybe she's silently arguing that if I released her, she wouldn't have to draw blood.

I'm not releasing her. Not ever.

Every shift and grind of her body feeds my hunger. I've gone too long without touching her, and the feel of her struggling and restrained beneath me awakens cravings. Dark cravings I reserve only for her.

She drives a fist into my ribs, and I bite down on my smile. She punches me again, and my dick jerks. Pissed off and worked up, with her eyes glaring and her arms swinging, she's never been more insanely gorgeous.

It's unreal being this close to her, smelling her and feeling the shape of her curves. My smile breaks free, and boy, does that make her hit harder. Which makes me harder.

Christ, I'm a sick son of a bitch.

"Jake." Jarret grabs her keyring from the nightstand. "Focus."

Right. I need to transfer her to the truck without touching her wrists, crowding her back, or drawing attention. To do that, I have to manipulate her.

A cruel lie expedited her departure from the ranch four years ago. The truth will bring her back home.

"Conor."

She slaps and thrashes and scores my skin, wearing herself out.

"I lied." My announcement makes her flinch.

Her eyes find mine, and she goes still, her nails digging into my arms.

"I lied about Ketchup." With a hand over her mouth, I use the other to brush the hair from her face. "She's alive, and I'm taking you to see her."

Her expression twists against my fingers, devastation clashing with hope and hardening into pained fury.

"I'm sorry." I pour every ounce of my regret into my eyes.

I regret the anguish I caused her, but I'm not sorry for the decisions I made. If I had to do it all again, I wouldn't change a thing. I lost six years with her, but now we have a future. She's alive because I broke her heart, and she's going to stay alive while I put it back together.

"Are you going to scream?" I relax my fingers on her lips.

She shakes her head.

"Are you going to come with me without making a scene?" I lower my hand, freeing her voice.

"Why?"

It's a loaded question. Why did I lie about Ketchup? Why does she have to come with me? Why am I sending her so many mixed signals?

"I have answers. Follow my lead, and you'll get them." I step back and hold out my hand.

She stares at my scarred palm and wraps her arms around her waist. "I won't survive this."

"You already have."

Her gaze darts through the room, her shoulders tight and tendons standing out in her neck. I assume Jarret packed everything.

When her focus returns to me, it's a slow, reluctant climb along my face before meeting my eyes.

"I'll go." She reaches back and grabs the door handle. "But I'm not holding your fucking hand."

"After you." I motion toward the door.

In the dark parking lot, I open the door of the truck for her and shut her inside.

Jarret approaches and slides her phone into my hand. "Good luck."

With a pat on my back, he heads to the motel office with her travel bag. After he checks her out of the room, he'll ride her motorcycle back to the ranch.

Step one finished. Ninety-nine thousand more to go.

As I pocket her phone and climb behind the wheel, the weight of the day catches up with me. Cattle herding, bookkeeping, trailing Conor since she arrived in town—all of it seeps into my weary muscles. It feels like bedtime, the stars bright against the velvet black sky, but it's only nine o'clock. It's going to be a long night.

Pulling onto the street, I drive in silence until I hit the first dirt road.

"Do you still play guitar?" I know the answer, but I need her to talk through it.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Don't have time for it."

"When was the last time you played?"

"Chicago."

"You miss it."

She stares out the passenger side window, her voice a vault of hollow sound. "I don't let myself miss it."

I let that settle into the space between us. Then I push forward. "You never let yourself accept what happened in the ravine or with your dad in Chicago."

"Stop looking for shit that isn't there." Her hand twitches on her thigh. "I'm not broken."

"Didn't say you were."

"Then I don't need to be fixed."

"Didn't say that, either."

"What are you saying?" She cuts her eyes at me.

"Tell me what happened on your sixteenth birthday."

I researched Prolonged Exposure therapy. The more she talks about her trauma, the less her memories will upset her.

"I was attacked." Her voice is wooden. "We all were."

"What happened to you, Conor?" I flex my fingers on the steering wheel. "Be specific."

"You were there." She turns back to the window. "No sense in rehashing it. It's in the past."

"No, it's right here, in your triggers, in every aspect of your life. It's haunting you relentlessly, because you refuse to stop for five fucking seconds and talk about it." I take a calming breath and even my tone. "If you don't confront it, you won't defeat it."

"I'm getting by just fine," she says quietly.

"That's right. You're getting by." I turn onto the next dirt road and slow the truck to a crawl. "The mind does a good job at protecting you from things you can't handle. Sometimes, it's too good. It represses memories and feelings, makes you believe you moved on. But those walls you've built to hold everything back? They'll weaken. A hand on your wrist, a sip of alcohol, something will bring them down and let everything loose in one huge devastating flood."

She clenches her jaw, silent but listening.

"There's a good chance you won't be in a controlled environment when it happens." I pause, searching my mind for scenarios. "You'll be in a classroom or in a bar with no one around to hold you through the aftermath."

Her mouth opens, forming a half-stunned, half-smiling O of disbelief. She stares at me with overly bright eyes then collapses over her lap in an outburst of laughter.

"Oh God, Jake." She continues to laugh, but it's mocking and forced. It's not her laugh. "How much time did you spend online?"

I grind my teeth. I spent six years researching all the ways I can help her.

She shakes her head, still laughing. "What phrases did you search on? How to repair a ruined girl?"

I punch the brake so hard the inertia sends her careening against the shoulder belt. Her head whips forward, and she releases a choked oomph.

Her hands flatten on her thighs, and she straightens in the seat. Then she slowly turns her neck and scowls the sexiest scowl I've ever seen. "You're such an asshole."

I lurch through the space between us, put my mouth an inch from hers, and inhale her fuming breaths. "You have no idea how badly I want to kiss the insolence off your face."

Her chest hitches, and her gaze lowers to my lips.

There's no build up. Or maybe it's been building for years, but my need for her is ravenous. It roams, feral and restless, through my body, prowling under my skin, throbbing at the base of my spine, and tightening my balls. I need her, I need her, I need her...

She places a finger on my chest and pushes. "No thanks."

I snap out of the hungry trance and return to my side of the seat.

Fucking fuck, what am I doing? I can't kiss her. Not until I deal with the boyfriend. There's an order of operations for a reason. A carefully considered plan.

Focus on the plan.

Letting my foot off the brake, I roll the truck forward. The ranch sits on the other side of that hill, just a few minutes away. The moment we arrive, she'll be distracted by Ketchup.

I need to wrap this up. "In two weeks, Levi Tibbs will go free. We're going to kill him, quietly and efficiently, and bury the body in the ravine."

Silence.

"Any questions?" I ask.

"How do you know my triggers?" She rests a hand on her wrist, stroking it. "Why do you even care? Last time I saw you, you couldn't wait to get rid of me. Now you're... I don't know what this is, but it feels like the coercions of a madman. Stringing me along with lies about my horse? What the fuck are you doing?"

"For each answer I give you, you'll have a dozen more questions."

"No, I—"

"I promise you, Conor. Everything you don't know is connected to other things you don't know. There are so many..." Secrets. I rub a hand down my face. "I could unload it all on you right now. Full disclosure. But if I did that, I'd lose my leverage."

"Leverage for what?"

Here we go.

"Your obedience." I hold up a hand when she starts to interrupt. "I'm going to peel away your walls, piece by piece, using my methods. For every session you submit to, I'll answer more questions."

"You're going to hold back information so you can dole it out like little rewards? That's fucked up, Jake."

"No, I'm going to trade answers for your participation. Answers in exchange for progress. If I divulged everything now, you wouldn't agree to work through the grieving process."

"Grieving process? I'm not—"

"You need to grieve the night in the ravine."

She stiffens. "No, I don't."

"You were raped. Sodomized. Abused—"

"Stop!"

"You need to grieve your relationship with your family. The damage your dad did to you. His death. Your brother's incarceration—"

"I can't. I don't need this."

"You need to grieve our relationship."

She needs to be enraged about it. She needs to loop back, reflect, and let herself be sad. I can't move forward with her until she acknowledges the things I've done.

"I'm not broken," she whispers.

"You don't need me to fix you. You need me to sit with you in the sadness."

To be on the brink of something so momentous and consequential demands diligence. Impatience is my enemy. Insatiable desire is my weakness.

As I watch Conor nuzzle Ketchup's nose, every molecule in my body screams at me to go to her, to touch her, to kiss, lick, bite, and devour her, and to shove myself so deeply inside her she won't be able to push me away.

I can't believe she's here.

She's home, and it's finally safe for her to be here.

We haven't gone to the house yet, but she moves around the stable like she never left. Checking Ketchup for scrapes and bumps and mucking out the stall, Conor throws herself into old tasks with a smile that lights up her whole face.

She hasn't smiled like that in years. I know, because I've been watching her. Clocking her every movement and following her around campus like a creeper. When I couldn't be there, I hired a private investigator to tail her.

I did what I did to protect her, all while trying to forget her.

She touches her brow to the soft part of Ketchup's muzzle. "Does anyone ride her?"

"I do." I push off the wall and prowl toward her. "Get her saddled. We're taking her out."

"Tonight?" A wide grin, and she spins around, kissing Ketchup's snout. "Do you want to go for a ride? Yes, you do, don't you?" She pivots toward the next stall and smiles at my stallion, her voice laced with affection. "How about you, Barnabe? You wanna go for a run?"

"He's not going." I grab a saddle pad from the tack room behind her.

She glances at Ketchup and narrows her eyes at me. "I'm not riding double."

"You're not riding alone. You haven't been in the saddle in six years." I hold out the pad. "It's dark. The terrain's changed. One misstep and you'll be ass-end-over-tea-kettle. We're riding double or not at all."

"Fine." She sniffs and snatches the pad. "But I have to sit—"

"Behind me. I know."

As she saddles, cinches, and bridles the mare with practiced movements, her gaze turns inward. So many unanswered questions in that logical head of hers. Soon, they'll start chipping away at her mask of indifference.

When Ketchup is ready, I swing into the saddle and hold out my hand. She grips it, and I sling her up behind me.

Riding double isn't ideal for a guy my size. But Ketchup is strong and sturdy, and Conor weighs little more than a feather. We've done this countless times.

She wiggles back to the edge of the saddle, her hands hovering out at the sides like an uncomfortable newbie. But her unease has nothing to do with the horse. She doesn't want to touch me.

"Grip my waist." I urge Ketchup into a fast trot, forcing her to grab on.

Her handhold twitches with reluctance, each finger a deliberate, barely-there point of contact. Fuck if I don't want to strip her down to her skin and remind her just how intimate the bond between us used to be.

We exit the stable and cross the field at a lazy pace. The full moon illuminates the landscape, embracing us in a pale glow.

The house sits off to the side, a couple of windows shining with light. Jarret and I live alone in that huge fucking estate, and I hate it. I miss the family dinners, the arguing and laughter, and the strum of guitars. Mostly, I miss Conor and Lorne.

"Where is everyone?" she asks.

I glance back and follow her line of sight to the bunkhouse in the distance. When she lived here, the long building served as a permanent home for the ranch hands. Now, it stands like a tombstone in the dark.

"Jarret and I fired everyone." I breathe in, carefully choosing my words. "We replaced the employees with people we trust, and no one's permitted to live on site."

Because we don't trust anyone enough to allow them to live here.

"What? Why would you do that?" She gasps. "What about Andy Longley?"

I know what she's thinking. How could we fire the father of the man Lorne murdered? Truth is we did Andy Longley a favor. What we should've done was dump him tits up in the ravine like all the others.

"Remember what I said about the answers I give?"

Her fingers press against my waistband. "For each answer, there will be more questions."

"Yes and following a single line of questioning will pull you in too deep, too fast. We'll keep it at the surface for now."

"Because you want leverage." Irritation clips her voice.

"Ask a new question."

"Why did you lie about Ketchup?"

I tilt my head back until the moon emerges from behind the rim of my hat, rhythmically rocking in sync with Ketchup's gait. "I cut all ties that connected you to the ranch. Removed every reason for you to come back until it was safe."

"Safe? Safe for whom? And what the hell does anyone need to be safe from?" At my silence, she blows out a breath. "More questions, I know. But you can't just trickle bits and pieces. You're not telling me anything."

"I'll tell you." I guide Ketchup toward the small grove of trees at the edge of the east pasture. "But you have to do something for me." At the tree line, I pull us to a stop. "Hop off."

She dismounts, and I follow her down.

"What are we doing?" She looks around, probing the darkness.

"You know what that is?" I gesture at the trail leading into the grove. "It's the road to adventure."

"Oh, no." She crosses her arms. "You know I can't go in there."

The ground cover crawls with poison ivy. The plant doesn't affect me, but one touch of a leaf against Conor's skin and she swells up with an itchy painful rash. She's so sensitive to the sap she's been hospitalized on several occasions.

"If you do what I say, I promise you won't come in contact with it." I clasp my hands behind my back. "Remove your boots and jeans."

"You're out of your damn mind." She fixes me with an incredulous stare, her eyes glowing in moonlight.

"You want answers. I want your boots and jeans."

A battle of wills heaves between us. I don't look away. She doesn't move.

I'll win this, because she's curious by nature. She doesn't just desire the knowledge I'm keeping from her. She's dying to find out what I intend to do in that grove.

So I wait her out, and it doesn't take long.

"For the record, you're a cock-sucking pig. But you know what?" She yanks off a boot, mumbling to herself. "I lost all my give-a-fucks." The other boot follows. "They're all gone, wherever give-a-fucks go."

If she didn't give a fuck, she wouldn't be tearing at her zipper like she has a burr in her pants.

"It's nothing you haven't seen before, anyway." She shoves down the jeans and kicks them away. "Probably set your filthy eyes on every pair of panties in town."

She's wrong about that, but I haven't exactly lived a life of celibacy, either.

She straightens, fists her hands on her hips, and hurls a livid glare in my direction.

The thin tank top meets the top of her thighs, the cotton as white as the crotch of panties peeking beneath the hem. As much as I want to absorb every glorious inch of her, I rein in my eagerness and turn my back.

"Climb on." I squat low and tap my shoulder.

"You want to..." Her voice rises an octave. "Give me a piggyback ride?"

"That, or I'll carry you like a baby. Your choice."

"For the love of Pete."

She paces behind me, back and forth, back and forth, and stops.

Her hand touches me first, a soft pressure on my shoulder, and my pulse races. Then her other hand, her legs, her chest. The dainty length of her wraps around my back, and I pin my lips to contain my ragged breaths.

My legs straighten. My hands grip her thighs. My boots step onto the path. But my thoughts are elsewhere, careening off the tracks and into a vivid dream where I'm burying my face in her pussy, pinching her nipples, tying down her arms, and fucking her until the cows come home.

By the time I reach my destination, I'm so fucking hard it hurts to walk.

"We're here." I back up to a stump surrounded by poison ivy. "Put your feet down."

"You promised!" She clenches her thighs around my waist, her arms clinging to my shoulders.

"Keep your feet at the center of the stump and hold onto the branch above you. Do you see it?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"I already told you, and I'll tell you more if you obey."

She shifts around on my back, stalling, hesitating. Then she lowers her legs. When she's finally in position on the stump, I step back and take her in.

Starry sprinkles of moonlight filter through the canopy, delineating the alluring shape of her.

Fingers curled around the branch overhead, she balances on the stub of wood. Tank top, underwear, and bare legs, she glows white against the shadowy backdrop. With her unruly red hair, tattooed arms, and defiant glare, she looks like a bloodthirsty angel.

Everything inside me tenses with anticipation.

"Wipe that look off your face, Jake Holsten." She shifts her weight. "I'm not having sex with you."

Not yet. "You're standing on a stump, enclosed by poison ivy because it's the only way I can think to restrain you."

"I changed my mind." Her throat bobs, and her legs grow restless. "I'm not comfortable with this. Take me back to Ketchup."

"Hear me out." I step around her, stamping down errant saplings of poison ivy. "Tonight, we're reestablishing the roles we once had and setting a foundation for trust. My approach to your therapy doesn't exactly conform to the social constructs of sex and mental health. But every step I take will be carried out with complete honesty, control, and care."

And love.

I love her so goddamn much, but she's not ready for that truth. That's why we're here.

Earlier today, I placed the stump on uneven ground. Little movements cause it to wobble. Not enough to topple over, but it fucks with her balance and forces her to hold onto the overhead branch. That keeps her hands out of my way.

"I can't restrain you by conventional means." I pause in front of her and meet her eyes. "No rope. Nothing touching your wrists. That in itself is problematic. And before you give me hell for wanting to truss you up, think back to the night of your birthday. Before the bad stuff happened. What did I do to your wrists?"

"You tied them." A choked whisper.

"Did it make you uncomfortable? Did you hate it? Did you tell me to stop?"

Her jaw flexes. "You know I didn't."

"We're going to get you back to that, Conor. Back to that place where you can trust again. Whether it's with me or with someone else. Understand?"

She blinks and looks away.

Undeterred, I position my stance at an angle beside her. "Tell me your triggers."

"Poison ivy, ex-boyfriends, and..." She wobbles the base beneath her. "Stumps. Balancing on a stump is definitely a trigger."

I rear back a hand and swat her on the butt.

She swallows a gasp and feigns nonchalance.

"We've already established the wrist trigger." I sharpen my voice. "What else?"

"I hate this game."

"It's not a game." I smack her ass again, adding enough force to tip her balance.

She grapples at the branch, stopping herself from stumbling. I would never let her fall, but she doesn't trust me.

"Stop fucking hitting me." She glowers at me.

I let my hand fly, igniting a sting in my palm as it connects with her gorgeous backside. "Your triggers."

"You're a stubborn jackass."

"And patient. I can do this all night." My hand burns to spank her repeatedly, every day, until my marks are permanently branded on her flesh.

She closes her eyes, breathes in slowly and releases it. "The scent of whiskey."

She has her dad to thank for that.

"And?" I go still, my stomach twisting through the wait.

"Nothing heavy against my back." She swallows, her lashes blocking my view of her eyes. "No sex face down or from behind. No anal."

The only way she knows about those positions is if she's tried them, and I can't let myself think about that.

I touch her lower back, wait for her flinch, and gently caress her over the cotton tank top. "Anything else?"

She glances at me and shakes her head. "Those are the ones I know."

"Thank you." I run my hand over her back and give her direct eye contact. "Four years ago, I drove you away from here because your life was in danger."

The muscles along her spine go taut.

I keep my fingers against her, rubbing the tension in her backbone. "Two men were hired to kill you and Lorne in the ravine."

"I thought they saw me in town and followed me home?"

"Levi Tibbs lied. Someone paid him to go to the ravine that night and take you out. When the attempt failed, others were contracted to finish the job, if you returned to the ranch."

"Who hired them? How do you...?" A tremble ripples through her, and her fingers start to slip from the branch. "How do you know this? Did Dalton know? Is that why we moved?"

"Put your hands on my shoulders." I step in front of her and grip her hips. When she lowers her arms, I say, "I have proof. I know who did the hiring. I know why they did it, and I've dealt with all of them but one."

"You dealt with them? Did you turn them over to the police? Why wasn't I notified?" Her eyes widen. "What do you mean but one? There's someone out there who wants to kill me? Why would anyone want me dead?"

"You're safe here. He won't come anywhere near the ranch. That's all you need to know right now."

"That's bullshit, Jake. This is too important for your mind games. We're talking about my life. If you don't tell me, I'll find the answers on my own."

"Jarret is with me on this, and Sheriff Fletcher has his own agenda. You'll stay the fuck away from him."

"I can't believe this. What you're telling me... It's insane. Are you even listening to yourself?"

"We need to talk about Miles York."

She sucks in a breath. "How do you know that name?"

"I know more than his name. I know the professor has a long history of fucking his students. I know he's living with you while sticking his dick in another co-ed on a regular basis."

Her lips part, and her eyes glass over. I don't think it's shock. She's too sharp to be oblivious to the infidelity. For whatever reason, she's chosen to ignore what's right in front of her.

"Do you have evidence?" she asks, without a waver in her voice.

"I hired a PI to keep tabs on anyone who might be following you." I remove my phone from my pocket and pull up the photo gallery. "For reasons I won't explain tonight, you were safe as long as you weren't here. But I couldn't take that risk."

She reaches for the phone.

I pull it back, holding it away. "I need you to understand I wasn't keeping tabs on you. You were free to date or fuck whomever you wanted. This was about your safety, and since I didn't know Miles York, I didn't trust him. So I had him tailed."

"Give me the phone, Jake."

I hand it over and watch her blank expression as she swipes through the photos. They leave nothing to the imagination and show numerous settings—in a car, in an alley behind a restaurant, and through the bedroom window while the professor fucked Kendra Forde in Conor's bed.

When she reaches the end, she gives the phone back. Rather than gripping my shoulders for balance, she returns her hands to the branch and averts her eyes.

"You knew." I study her emotionless expression. "At the very least, you suspected. I think you stayed in the relationship because Levi Tibbs' release was approaching, and you knew you would come home and have to face me. It's easier to guard your heart and push me away when you have the boyfriend excuse."

"You're so full of yourself."

"You forget I know you, Conor. I'm not wrong about this."

"I'm ready to go back."

Go back to the house? Or go back to school? I don't ask, because we're not finished.

I swap my phone out with hers in my pocket and scroll through her contact list.

"What are you doing?" She reaches for it, teetering on the stump and quickly returning her grip to the branch.

Pausing on Miles, I press Call and put it on speaker. He picks up on the second ring.

"Conor?"

I hold up the phone to her face and hike an eyebrow.

She tucks her lips between her teeth and returns an arched brow of her own.

"Conor?" Miles says. "Are you there?" A pause. "Hello?"

End it, I mouth.

Fuck you, she mouths back.

I hang up the call and power off the phone. "You want to stay with this guy?"

"Take me back." She delivers a look forged in fire. "In two seconds, I'm going to step off this stump and walk through poison ivy."

She'll do it. Or at least try.

I give her my back. Then I give her a ride to the horse.

She resorts to silent treatment, carrying it all the way to the stable, through the tasks of putting away Ketchup, and during the walk to the house.

I let her have her silence, because there's reflection in it. Soul-searching introspection. Progress. I gave her a lot to contemplate, and like I told her, I don't need to fix her. I just need to be there while she works through the grieving process.

Tomorrow, there will be more to grieve when the sun shines a spotlight on the south pasture. The well pads, access roads, and total annihilation left behind from oil and gas drilling rigs—it'll crush her.

I dread the look in her eyes, the one that will ask, Why didn't you stop this from happening?

I did stop it, but not before it left deep, devastating scars on her mother's land.

Gutted and rebuilt from floor to ceiling, the Cassidy wing is no more. As I roam through the new master bedroom, turning in a circle and taking it all in, my lungs release a thousand pounds of tension.

Every trace of Dalton is gone, his room replaced with a suite three times the size. There are no painful reminders of the father I lost. Nothing to taint the rugged sophistication and grandeur of the space.

"You did this?" I glance at the imposing shadow at my side.

"A couple of years ago." Jake rests his fingertips in his front pockets, his dark brown eyes fixed on me. "The wing sat empty for four years. Dad didn't say shit when I started tearing down walls."

"Wow."

The wow factor is the vast openness of it. The bedrooms that belonged to Lorne and me became part of the new suite, the walls removed between the rooms to maximize the square footage.

A buttery leather couch and stacked-stone fireplace sit where my bed used to be. The en-suite bathroom was completely renovated and enlarged, taking up part of Lorne's old room. A massive bed fit for an overbearing cattle rancher dominates everything around it.

Heavy furniture, stone accents, rawhide finishes, and a rustic cast iron chandelier—it's a man cave on a triple dose of steroids. Unpolished yet elegant, it's sexy and virile and oh so Jake.

The ambiance embodies his roughhewn sex appeal, the very air infused with his intoxicating scent of leather and testosterone. But the intricately painted mural on the far wall makes me question who exactly he designed this room for.

Black horses gallop across a rural landscape streaked with every color of the Oklahoma sunset. It's a swirly, light-filled illustration in an impressionist style. Like the paintings I used to collect.

Like the tattoos on my arms.

I step toward it and caress a hand along the brush strokes. "Why did you add this?"

"I missed you."

I glance back and find him staring at me. Our eyes connect, and he draws his bottom lip between his teeth. The subtle movement is so disarming my body inflames with tingly hot flashes.

"Thank you for this." He holds out his arm and cups a hand around the leather cuff, staring at it with possessiveness and affection.

"I don't understand you." I pace along a bay of windows. "You lied to me about Ketchup. Fucked Sara Gilly before you broke up with me. And you're thanking me for a stupid bracelet?"

He flinches, and the cords in his neck go taut. "I didn't fuck her. Didn't so much as kiss her."

I whirl on him, hating the flutter in my chest. "You're lying like a no-legged dog. I saw you. You were...were...buck ass naked!"

"I never removed my boxers. You saw what you wanted to see."

"I didn't want to see any of it." My mind swims, and my heart pounds. "I don't believe you, and I sure as hell don't trust you. So you can stand there, looking all"—gorgeous, seductive, irresistibly fuckable—"aggravating, chewing on your lip and wearing that bracelet. I'm not buying whatever it is you're selling."

A crooked grin pulls at his mouth. "I'll let you get settled in. Jarret put your bag in the closet." He turns to leave.

"Wait." I glance at the king-sized mattress draped in linens the color of his eyes. "I'm not sleeping in your bed."

He pauses in the doorway and rests a forearm on the frame, facing me. "I'll sleep in Jarret's wing tonight. It's remodeled with two master suites now." He lowers his arm and straightens. "This was your wing, and this is where you'll stay."

I look back at his bed and imagine wrapping myself up in his manly cowboy scent. I want that so badly I shiver.

Because I'm a dumb, pathetic girl who will never ever, ever, ever get over Jake Holsten.

"And Conor?"

"What?" I find his gaze across the room.

"You're the first woman who's ever been in this room."

He strides away, leaving me discombobulated, disgustingly pleased, and irritated as hell.

I take a shower in his ginormous bathroom, blow dry my hair, and put on a clean camisole and cotton shorts. The huge bed beckons, but my mind's in such a tizzy there's no way I can sleep.

Am I off base for distrusting every little thing he does and says? Well, I can't trust him. That's for damn sure. But I can't ignore my gut, either. Deep down, I know he can help me.

I've felt more in the last few hours than I have in four years. Through our shared childhood and that innate part of him that knows me so well, he has the ability to force me to come to terms with the past. He can give me closure.

If anything, he gave me the incentive I needed to end things with Miles York.

He still has my phone, otherwise, I'd call Miles right now.

I wouldn't cheat on you, Conor.

I'm so fucking lucky to be the one you want. I wouldn't throw that away.

"Ugh!" I sit on the edge of the bed and drop my head in my hands. "That spineless, two-timing dickhead!"

God, those photos... He fucked Kendra Forde in ways he never fucked me. Because I wouldn't let him. I gave him boring, missionary sex. Of course, he strayed. No man wants to be with a skittish, unadventurous nutjob.

I should've broken it off with him when he was on the phone. I wanted to, but not in front of Jake. No matter what happens in the next two weeks, I need to walk away with my dignity.

Standing from the bed, I wander to the dresser and lift one of the Stetsons. Faded from the sun and frayed by the wind, this hat has spent more time with Jake than I have.

I bring the underside to my nose and breathe in the essence of his hard work. If what he told me is true, he's been running all over hell's half acre for the past few years. Operating a cattle ranch, dealing with hitmen, renovating a wing of the estate, and stalking me?

How much of it is true? The threats against my life, the charade with Sara Gilly, his missing father—what does it all mean? And where is John Holsten anyway? He wouldn't walk away from Julep Ranch. Especially not because of a woman. If any of Jake's claims are legit, his dad is elbows-deep in that shit.

I need answers.

Returning the hat to the dresser, I stare at it for a second, reluctant to let go.

Fuck it. I wriggle it onto my head, shove bare feet into my square toe boots, and clop out of the room in search for Jake.

I find him on the back porch, reclined in a chair across from his brother.

Jarret holds a harmonica to his lips and peers at me from beneath the rim of his hat. Then he closes his eyes and returns to his bluegrass melody.

Jake doesn't move a muscle to acknowledge my presence, but his gaze is on me. Sharp and invasive, it burrows and plunders.

His elbow sits on the arm rest, his fingers loosely curled beneath his rigid jaw. Jarret continues to hum on the harmonica, the notes cutting. Too angry for bluegrass.

Were they arguing? They're definitely brooding.

"Is your dad the one you haven't dealt with?"

My question cuts off the song, and Jarret lowers the instrument.

"Does he want me dead?" I glance from one to the other, searching their similar features.

They exchange a look, and something passes between them.

Then Jake shifts his scowling eyes to mine. "He did, yes."

"Why?" My voice cracks, and a stabbing pain slices through my insides. "What would he have gained from it?"

"That's enough for tonight."

"No, it's not enough. You know shit about my life, and you won't tell me. That makes you untrustworthy and manipulative, and it...it..." I put my hands on my hips, bending over him, seething. "It really pisses me off."

"Your therapy is more important than your anger with me."

The rumbling calmness in his timbre further enrages me. He sits there all cavalier and unruffled, and I'm shaking to my core with desperation. I need to know what he's not telling me.

"Look, I'll do whatever." My arms flop to my sides. "I'll go through your therapy sessions without a single complaint. I promise. Just answer my questions."

"I'm not negotiating with you, Conor." He reaches behind his chair and lifts a guitar.

Lorne's acoustic.

An effusion of nostalgia crashes through me. Memories and emotions, so many deep, warm, powerful feelings that have been out of reach for so long. I didn't even know they still existed.

My hand moves before my brain can process, my fingers curling around the frets and pressing against the strings.

My God, I miss my guitar. I miss playing it with Lorne.

I miss my brother.

Jake releases the instrument, and I pull it close.

"I know you visit him." I lower into the chair beside Jarret, eyes on the instrument. "I did, too. Once. He didn't want to see me. Told me to leave Oklahoma."

I dare a glance at Jake. His mouth forms a relaxed line, saying nothing, but his eyes blaze with answers.

If my life was truly in danger... "Lorne wanted me to leave for my own protection?"

Jake remains silent and watchful. Beside me, Jarret reaches over and rests a hand on my knee.

I stare at his touch in a daze and try to piece together what I know. "When I was in Chicago, all three of you gave me the cold shoulder."

"We didn't know about your dad," Jarret whispers quietly, his voice tinged with pain.

"But you knew something was going on here. Instead of telling me, you alienated me. Sheltered me. Made decisions about my life."

Jarret glares at Jake, his hand clenching on my knee. "Yeah, that's exactly what we did."

"I spent six years wondering. Beating myself up. Because the three people who matter most to me in the world abandoned me, and I didn't know why."

"What would you have done?" Jake leans forward, elbows on his knees. "What if I called you when you were in Chicago? If I told you shady shit was going on back home and someone wanted you and Lorne dead? What would you have done?"

"I would've come home. I would've found a way to get here, to help you." To be with you.

"And you would've been murdered." He motions between him and Jarret. "We were stupid seventeen-year-old kids. No chance in hell we would've kept you safe here. Christ, it took us years to figure out the who's and why's of the situation." He breathes in and out. "We kept you alive by keeping you away."

"You could've called me and not told me anything. I just needed to know I wasn't alone."

"Fuck, I hate this. I hated it then, and I hate it now." He gnashes his teeth. "If we were in communication, we would've made plans. Plans to see each other. Not only that, do you really believe I could've talked to you every day and kept secrets from you?"

"No."

He's right. We knew each other too well back then. I would've heard the restraint in his voice.

With a squeeze, Jarret removes his hand, sits back in the chair, and blows a shaking, soulful melody on his harmonica.

I guess the conversation's over.

Stunned and overwhelmed, I close my eyes and concentrate on the southern rock vibrato. He's playing the warm-up song we wrote together as kids.

After a few beats, my hands move, trying out the strings on Lorne's guitar. Plucking here. Tuning there. Eventually, I drift into the rhythm, my fingers inching over the frets like they never stopped.

The song ends, and I slide into another, and another. I stick to mostly outlaw country—Cash, Jennings, Wilson—searching my roots and strolling down memory lane.

Beside me, Jarret follows my lead just like old times. Lips gliding along the mouthpiece, hands cupped, and head lowered, he wails through the harmonies.

The music does what it's supposed to do. It transports me to another time, another life, lifting my spirits and freeing my heart to simply sit back and enjoy the moment.

We play until the mosquitoes stop biting and my fingers lose feeling, and through it all, I share lingering glances with Jake.

His hat sits low on his brow, his expression a little broody, a little dreamy. It's hard to get a read on what's churning in the dark intensity of those eyes.

When I close the song, I tilt my chin. "What?"

"I always loved seeing you wear my things." His gaze lifts to the Stetson on my head.

"Oh." I forgot about that.

"Play Coe." He kicks a boot up on the coffee table between us, his hands folded on his abs.

"What song?"

"You pick."

"Hmm." I consider for a moment.

If he wants David Allan Coe, I'll give him the king of cowboy porn.

As I strum the opening chords of Don't Bite The Dick, he and Jarret burst out laughing.

"Come on, now." My fingers move faster, my mouth loosening into a smile. "You boys used to love this one."

Once upon a time, I hummed the entire song while giving Jake head.

I feel like that girl again as I belt out the raunchy lyrics with a nasally twang in my voice.

The guys join in, singing and laughing through the words, and I let myself laugh, too.

I'm finally home.

The doorbell rings at seven o'clock the next morning.

I crawl out of the silky, lonely torment of Jake's bed and shuffle through the room. He and Jarret have probably been in the pasture since before dawn, which leaves me to answer the door in a sleepy-eyed stupor.

Down the hall, around the corner, I enter the foyer and slam to a stop.

Miles stands on the front porch, squinting through the screen.

Okay, I know I left him hanging after that silent call last night, but what the ever-loving fuck?

He straightens when he sees me approach. "Conor, what's going on?"

"I should ask you the same thing." I pause at the door and narrow my eyes. "Why are you here?"

"Your text message?" His head tips to the side. "Aren't you going to let me in?"

"What text mess...?" I suck in a sharp breath.

Jake has my phone.

Boy, do I have a bone to pick with him.

"Wow, so you drove all the way here?" I run a hand over my sleep-tangled hair and step onto the porch. "You must've left before six?"

"You told me to come as soon as possible." He purses his lips, his eyes squinting with suspicion. "You said it was urgent."

Since I never told Miles what ranch I grew up on, I assume the text included this address.

In Jake's infinite wisdom to meddle in my life, it would've been nice to give me a goddamn head's up about this.

On the bright side, his arrogant, domineering ass is off herding cattle. That means I'll be able to handle this situation without him hovering in my pocket like a stage five clinger.

"You grew up here?" Miles looks around, mouth parted and eyebrows creeping toward his perfectly combed hair. "Your family must've been loaded."

Maybe? I never looked into the inheritance Dalton left when he died. Half of it belongs to Lorne, and since I let my brother deal with the paperwork, my inquiries would have to go through him.

The deep porch wraps around the front of the estate, providing multiple seating areas. I could invite Miles to sit, have a little talk, and drag a confession out of him.

I look him in the eyes and wait for the resentment, outrage, or whatever I'm supposed to be experiencing. I feel sadness, I guess. I liked him, but I didn't love him.

And I have no interest in dragging this out.

"I know you're sleeping with Kendra Forde."

"What?" His face pales. "We talked about this. I didn't—"

"Don't piss on my leg and tell me it's raining! You fucked her in our bed, Miles." I shake my head. "I'll move my things out in a couple of weeks. You need to go."

I turn to open the door.

He grabs my elbow. "I can explain."

"Let go." I glare at his grip. Then his hard eyes.

"You're ten kinds of fucked in the head, Conor." He releases my arm.

A razor-sharp burn hits my throat, and I grab for the door, opening it.

He slaps it shut and holds a hand against it. My scalp tingles, and icy dread drips down my spine. His breathing sounds too fast, his body too tense.

"She actually enjoys sex." He leans in, his expression cruel. "And multiple positions."

"I want you to leave." Needles prick the backs of my eyes as I yank on the door, unable to budge his hand. "Move. Right now!"

"You need help." He clucks his tongue, his mouth twisting into a snarl. "Gorgeous girl like you... It's a shame you can't—"

He flies backward, off the porch and across the front lawn, with the back of his shirt caught in Jake's fist. A second later, that fist blurs into swift, punishing arcs that land across Miles' face over and over.

Jake lives by a code of etiquette that embodies southern manners, such as inviting in visitors, ma'aming and siring, and tipping his hat at the ladies. But his good ol' boy upbringing also means he will fuck someone up if he thinks one of his own is threatened or harmed.

As he lays into Miles with the fury of a thousand fists, I don't scream or interfere. He knows when to stop, and Miles isn't worth putting myself in the path of Jake's swings.

Miles doesn't get a single punch in before Jake pulls away from his sprawled, bleeding body.

"Who the hell are you?" Miles staggers to his feet, his hand flying to his dripping nose and eyes on me. "Conor? What the fuck?"

"I told you to leave." I step off the porch and pause beside Jake. "You don't want me to say it again."

His eyes flick to Jake, and he brushes off his grass-stained shirt. "You'll be hearing from my lawyer."

"Get your lawyer, Professor." I perch my hands on my hips and tilt my head. "And I'll circulate photos of you fucking your undergrad student."

His behavior isn't illegal, but it's a transgression of professional ethics and forbidden by the university. It would wreck his career.

Jake angles the screen of his phone toward Miles, likely showing him the evidence.

His blood-rimmed nostrils widen, his gaze silently pleading with mine.

"Someone will come this week to collect her things." Jake pockets the phone. "If you vandalize her possessions or fuck with her or her education, then me and you are gonna mix." He tips his hat, his voice calm and deep. "Best be on your way."

I return to the porch as Miles stalks to his car and drives out of the lot. Jake remains on the lawn until the car vanishes over the hill. Then he turns toward me.

His brown eyes roam my face and lower along my body. The perusal isn't disrespectful like that of other men. The dip of his gaze is one of concerned examination, but it makes my stomach do its own dip all the same. A giddy, tingly dip that spreads to my thighs and twitches my toes.

I cross my arms. "How long were you eavesdropping?"

"Long enough to know..." He prowls toward me. "If brains were leather, Miles York wouldn't have enough to saddle a June bug."

"He has a Ph.D. in Animal Science."

"He's a fucking idiot."

Climbing onto the porch, he draws close. Close enough for his scent to tangle with my breaths. He smells like sun-soaked fields, well-oiled leather, and hard work. The kind of work that hones muscle and sharpens reflexes. I want to press up against all that untamed masculinity and roll around in it.

No, I don't.

"I'm mad at you." I step back. "You shouldn't have messaged him. That was my call, not yours."

"You had that call last night and didn't take it." He stays with me, his eyes twin flames of intention.

"Stop interfering in my life." I continue edging backward as the heat from his gaze scorches my body.

Whiskers shadow his jaw, his skin bronzed from the sun. He's a mountain of a man, all shoulders and chest and powerful legs. And those jeans fit so low and provocatively around his hips I can see his religion.

He has the strength, endurance, and ferocity of a stallion, and I'm the mare within smelling range.

I retreat another step, bumping into a chair. "What are you doing?"

"I'll give you a few seconds to be single." He bends his knees, putting his face in mine. "But don't get used to it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're about to be taken." His expression smolders with red-blooded hunger.

"No—"

"You're mine."

"No," I say louder and push him back. "I'm not yours. You let me go!"

"I did." The corners of his mouth twitch downward, but there's no apology in it as he advances.

Fuck him.

I shove him again. "The day I went to Chicago, do you remember what I said? No matter what, we stay together." Another shove, and another, over and over until my hands grow furious, slapping, balling into fists, and pounding. "We were supposed to stay together. We were better than this!"

Silent and unresponsive, he lets me pummel him.

That just makes me angrier. "You ignored me for two years." The side of my fist hits his chest. "I needed you. I was alone and scared and my dad..." Tears burn my eyes, and tremors shake my hands, weakening my strikes. "I just needed to hear your voice."

"Miles, months, cities, years... That's what you said." He touches a knuckle under my chin, lifting it. "We're bigger than anything that tries to come between us."

"You threw me away."

"I kept you safe." His hand curls around my neck and drags me closer.

"You lied to me. You manipulated my life and my feelings." I grip his shoulders, intending to push him. But my fingers dig in. And pull. "You deliberately hurt me, and I've been holding that pain for so long." I clutch my chest. "Right here. Right where I used to hold you."

"I'm sorry." He works his throat and softens the grip on my neck. "I'm sorry for hurting you, but I'm not sorry for protecting you."

He ducks his head and ghosts his lips over mine.

That tiny touch sparks electrifying awareness through my body. I feel him everywhere—the warmth of his breaths, his arousing scent, the scratch of his stubble, and that lickable, velvety, persuasive mouth.

"If his lips are moving, he's lying." I flatten my hands on his chest and push hard enough to separate us by several feet.

"You want the truth, Conor?" He steps forward, his eyes sharp as steel. "I love you." Another step. "I always have." He grabs my hips and yanks me to him. "I will never stop loving you. Doesn't get more honest than that."

My hands fall to his biceps, my insides twisted into a hundred knots of deceit. I can't trust him. "It's too late."

"No." He clutches the back of my head. "Tomorrow is too late."

He captures my mouth in a kiss that ignores logic and reasoning. With a hand in my hair and the other on my hip, he bends me into his heat and sets fire to my world.

Lips gliding and mouths opening, our tongues touch, flatten together, and go wild. I jerk my hands to his shoulders, his neck, pushing him away, wrenching him closer, and rising on tip toes to deepen the kiss.

We move together angrily, frantically, not in exploration, but in remembrance. I spent the best years of my life kissing the fuck out of this man. I know his techniques, proficiencies, and turn-ons, and he knows mine.

Rolling in the meadow, tangling in my bed, sneaking off into the barn—we consume and devour in a frenzy of shared experiences. I cling to his mouth, his body, in the magic of our connection, wanting more, needing him closer, deeper, harder.

His groan vibrates through me, and his hands fall to my butt, yanking me hard against him. My fingers rove his neck and face. His hardness seeks my heat, and we grind into the friction.

Kissing, panting, and fusing, we're a stolen moment. A desperate embrace. A beating heart with two mouths and four arms.

We kiss for an eternity, but not long enough. When we come up for air, our arms squeeze tighter, our feet planted on the porch.

Breathing heavily, he touches his brow to mine, his mouth slightly open at the edge of my vision. I slide a hand free and touch his pouty bottom lip.

"That was better than I remember." He kisses my finger. "Don't know how that's possible."

"Yeah." I drop my palm to his chest.

Push.

I need to process this.

Just push him back.

He's going to talk about what we just did, and I can't trust his words.

I add pressure to my hand, but he's already stepping back. It's a reluctant retreat, his arms slowly lowering from my body, his boots scraping in slow motion.

Pausing just out of reach, he pulls leather work gloves from his back pocket and slides them on, head down and eyes on his task.

Dust clings to his jeans, and sweat dots his t-shirt. He's already put in more work this morning than most men do in an entire day.

The rim of his hat rises, revealing the warmth of his eyes. "Wanna help me buck hay?"

That's the last thing I expected out of his mouth. Stacking bales in the field is physically demanding, mindless work that involves chaps and hay hooks.

Do I want to sit in the house and get lost in my flustered thoughts? Or dive into buckets of sweat and sunshine?

"Yeah." I flex my hands. "I'd like that."

"Get dressed." He smacks me hard on the butt and saunters off the porch. "I'll meet you at the stable."

I haven't taken my eyes off Conor from the moment she mounted Ketchup and followed me to the south pasture. In her silence, I don't know how she's processing the breakup with Miles, our kiss, or the view she's currently taking in.

Her eyes drift over the eroded land, infestation of noxious weeds, and high mounds of dirt and debris shoved to the side. It'll take years to remove the industrial waste and return the land to its natural habitat.

"Your father did this?"

"Yes, ma'am," I say quietly, unable to stifle the bitterness in my voice. "Turns out, this land is rich in oil and natural gas."

She shifts in the saddle, and her luminous green eyes assess mine. "And your dad thought to profit from that."

He thought to pay off insidious debts with it.

"This is related to..." Her eyebrows gather. "It has to do with why he wanted me dead? Everything that's happened is connected to this, isn't it?"

"Yes." I inch Barnabe closer to her until our legs brush. "I'll fill in those blanks, but not today."

She sucks in an impatient breath and swats a wayward strand of hair from her face. "If my mother saw this..."

"I know."

Ava O'Conor died when we were babies, but we've heard the stories about her public protests against big oil and its corruption on the land.

"The rigs are gone." She scans the destroyed field and chews her lip. "You and Jarret stopped the drilling and blasting?"

"Not soon enough. We're still trying to clean up the mess."

"But you stopped it. And now that you own the ranch, you won't let this happen again?"

"As long as I'm alive, I'll fight it, Conor."

"Good." She breathes deeply and adjusts the Stetson—my Stetson—on her head. "How many bales do you need to buck today?"

"About nine more hour's worth, with your help."

"Let's get to it, then."

As she turns the horse and canters away, I marvel at her remarkable beauty and resilience.

She's a vision of windblown red hair, picturesque tattoos, and rugged denim. By the end of the day, those jeans will be ripped and caked with dust. There will be dirt under her nails, more scars on her hands, and not a lick of complaining from her sweet lips.

The resentment I expected from her about the drilling didn't come. Maybe I've given her too many other things to be upset about, but I get the sense that she trusts me on this one thing. She knows this land means as much to me as it does to her.

She leans into the breeze as she rides across the field. Hair whipping behind her, she twists her neck to shout back at me, "Catch up!"

I swear I see a glimmering smile before she kicks Ketchup into a gallop.

With a grin that bares my teeth, I do what I've done my entire life.

I chase her.

That night, I sit beside Conor and Jarret on the back-porch steps. We showered, ate dinner, and finished the daily chores. Sore muscles, stiff joints, leaden exhaustion—I earned every ache alongside my girl, and despite the sweltering humidity, I'm blissfully content.

Only two things could've made this day better. Bringing Lorne home and killing my father.

Conor reclines between Jarret and me, arms braced behind her and face tilted toward the stars. Beneath her serene expression, the long day weighs heavily on her eyelids.

I examine the delicate lines of her profile, marking each long, low sigh from her lips. "You're tired."

"Just a freckle." She holds up a finger and thumb an inch apart and winks. "Is overworking me part of my therapy?"

She has no idea.

"Speaking of freckles..." I circle a finger in front of her flawless face. "Where did yours run off to?"

"Haven't been in the sun much and..." She shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe I grew out of them?"

"All of them?" I direct my eyes to her tank top, to the vicinity of her right nipple and my favorite freckle.

"Not all of them." She looks away, and the corner of her mouth crooks up.

My groin tightens, and my breaths deepen. What I wouldn't give to see that freckle tonight, to hold it in my hand and sink my teeth into it.

"I was thinking..." She stares out at the dark field and absently picks the dirt from her nails. "I'd like to visit Lorne."

"I talked to him today." Jarret bends his legs on the stairs and drapes his arms over his knees.

"You did?" Her voice rises in pitch. "Does he know about Levi Tibbs?"

"He stays abreast of everything." I draw her eyes back to me. "Half the time, he's the one keeping us informed."

"I told him you're here." Jarret bumps his shoulder against hers. "He wants to see you, Conor. Very much."

"Hard to believe that." She pinches her lip, her expression troubled. "Last time I saw him—"

"His reasons were the same as ours." I tug her fingers from her mouth and hold onto them. "He was protecting you."

"And now?" She slips her hand from mine. "Your dad's out there, wherever, and I'm supposed to blindly trust that I'm safe if I don't leave the ranch. Except the last time I was here, you chased me away to allegedly keep me safe. It doesn't make sense, and I need it to make sense."

I share a look with my brother. "I'll answer one question tonight."

"In exchange for...?"

"Let me worry about that." I tuck her hair behind her ear, clearing my view of her stunning face. "What's the one thing you want to know more than anything else?"

Her lashes lower. Her brows pull in, and she makes a soft Hmmm sound in her throat.

Then she flicks her eyes to me. "How did you lose your virginity?"

My heart jolts, pounding a roar in my ears. Of all the questions she should be asking—about her safety, the ranch, our dads' involvement—she asks about me. A personal detail like that wouldn't concern her unless she's thinking about us.

She's thinking about our kiss.

I study her as she studies me. The silent stare off makes my dick swell and my throat go dry. Christ, I want to fuck her, roughly and recklessly, until she screams my name and begs for mercy.

But more than that, I want her to start living.

"It's...uh, really hot out here." Jarret hooks a finger under the neck of his shirt and tugs.

"How hot?" Her eyes light with mirth, locked on mine, as she initiates a game the four of us used to play.

Jarret taps his fingers on his leg. "I'm sweatier than a pregnant nun on a Saturday."

"Sweatier than two mice fucking in a wool sock." I grin.

"Sweatier than a cowboy writing a love note." Conor arches a brow.

We continue for a few more rounds, drifting into easy laughter before falling silent.

"It is hot." I climb to my feet and offer her my hand. "I'll answer your question inside." In my bedroom.

She grips my fingers long enough to stand, follows me into the house, and through the sitting room.

"Conor?" Jarret pauses in the main hall between the two wings and waits for her to face him. "It's really good to have you home."

She goes still, expressionless. Then her mouth parts. Her fingers touch her throat, and she walks to him.

She reaches him with her arms open, and he scoops her up in a tight hug, his eyes squeezed shut.

When he lowers her feet to the floor, his gaze finds mine over her shoulder. The relief on his face spreads a loosening warmth through my chest.

He needed that...that reassurance from her. It's not forgiveness exactly, but it's progress.

"Night." She steps away from him and strides past me, heading to my bedroom.

I trail behind her, shamelessly staring at her ass in those cotton sleep shorts. Waves of natural red hair hang to her tiny waist. She's tiny everywhere, from her bare feet and slender legs to the cute biceps of her inked arms. She's so delicate she looks ethereal, but there's plenty of muscle on that petite frame. I felt it flexing and bunching this morning when I had her pinned against me.

She enters the bedroom and perches on the foot of the mattress.

"Well?" She glances around the room and squints. "I don't see any stumps to stand on. What's the form of payment for tonight's emotional blackmail?"

Straight to the point and full of piss and vinegar. This should be fun.

I stand in front of her and clasp my hands behind my back. "I'm sleeping in here going forward. With you. That's the deal."

"No." She scans my face, and her head gives a slight shake. "No way."

"Clothes on. No sex...until you're ready."

"Until I'm ready?" She surges from the bed, hands fisted at her sides. "I didn't return home for buckin' or bakin', Jake Holsten. If you're looking for someone to keep your sheets warm, check the Big Sugar. There's a table of cheap boots waiting for their seventeen orgasms."

"Sit down." The bark in my voice makes her jump. I lower my tone, but it's no less stern. "Sit. Down."

She does, glaring and balling her fists on her lap.

I bend over her, with my hands on the mattress, bracketing her hips. "I'm going to sleep in here with you and stay at your side, because that's what you need and that's what I want."

"I need to be alone." Her gaze lowers to my chest and skitters away.

"You've been alone for six years." I grip her chin and force her to look at me. "No more."

She yanks free of my grasp, and her eyes dart around the room, looking at everything but me. She wants to flee, but she won't. She's too damn tenacious.

"You better not give me a half-ass answer." She pushes against my chest until I move. Then she tosses me a world of contempt in her eyes. "If you're sleeping in here, I want to hear every detail about your first time. Who and how and where. No filtering."

She doesn't just want to torment herself. She intends to use that information to resent me, hate me, and push me away. Because I'm affecting her, exposing vulnerable parts of her she doesn't want to acknowledge or examine. Self-preservation demands she put up walls to keep me out.

And I'm prepared to kick them all down.

"She was nineteen." I sit on the bed beside her. "I was twenty."

"Twenty?" Her mouth falls open, closes, and opens again. "That can't be right. I saw you with Sara Gilly, and you... Well, you sure looked like you knew what you were doing. And what about all your pole ponies at the bar? The things those women said..." She rakes a hand through her hair, eyes wide. "You're telling me you were a twenty-year-old virgin? How is that even possible?"

"If you let me talk, I'll explain it."

Her teeth click together, and she narrows her eyes as if to say, Get on with it.

I pull a knee onto the bed between us, turning sideways, so I can monitor her breathing and expressions.

"I lost my virginity at a field party." I wet my lips. "In a barn. It was dark and godawful loud. The rowdy crowd and music..."

She claps a hand over her mouth, and a sheen of moisture shines in her eyes.

"I stripped her from the waist down and ate her pussy." Blood rushes to my cock. Christ, I can still taste her shivering desire, her sweet innocence. "Then I fucked her against the wall."

"No." She chokes and leaps from the bed. "It wasn't you."

"We were surrounded by rutting college kids, blinded by total darkness, and I think the noise permanently damaged my eardrums. But she was all I felt, and I took her hard. Lasted an embarrassingly short couple of seconds. She was so tight and wet, and I was inexperienced and overexcited. To this day, I still regret that she didn't come."

"It couldn't have been you." Her knees wobble, and she rubs her arms, blinking rapidly. As if out of compulsion, she reaches toward me and touches my hair, the stubble on my face, and my lips. Then she yanks her arm back. "You're lying. The man I was with had black curls and—"

"I wore a wig under the baseball cap. Waxed my face to remove the stubble." I hold up my hand. "Fingerless gloves hid the scar. Your scent saturated the leather for months."

I inhale slowly, reliving the memory. I slept with those gloves long after her smell wore off.

"They're in the nightstand." I gesture behind me.

Her chest hitches, and her feet move, circling the bed. She yanks open the drawer and strokes a hand over the contents.

"They're just gloves." Her gaze snaps to mine. "He didn't taste like you."

"I bummed a cigarette at the party to mask my breath."

She backs away from the bed, vigorously shaking her head. "I would've known it was you." Turning, she paces through the room. "How could I have not known? God, you must think I'm the biggest idiot."

"You're the smartest, sexiest—"

"Stop!" She presses her fingers against her temples and closes her eyes. "You stood in the doorway of that barn. You stood there, staring at me like you knew." Her lashes lift, her features cast in teary accusation. "You knew why I was there."

"Yeah." My fists clench and unclench. "I hate that you pursued other men, that you were lonely enough to fill that void with a stranger. But I put you in that position. That's on me." A swallow sticks in my throat. "I wore that fucking disguise and followed you there every Saturday night to keep you safe from drunk assholes and other threats you weren't aware of. I followed you knowing I couldn't interfere in your plans, knowing I would have to stand by while you were with another man."

"But you did interfere."

"I saw an opportunity that night. You rejected every guy who made a pass at you, yet you had this look in your eyes, like you weren't leaving until you got what you came for." I hold her gaze. "I gave you what you needed."

A scowl darkens her face. "How very noble of you."

"Don't misunderstand me. It was one-hundred-percent selfish. I wanted you so deeply and intensely I couldn't and wouldn't fuck another woman. My virginity belonged to you and no one else."

Her arms draw close to her body, and she stares at the floor, her voice flat. "So you unloaded the burden of your virginity and walked away."

"It was the only piece of myself I had left to give. You deserved so much more." Bitter regret curls my stomach. "One of the hardest things I've ever done was let you walk out of that barn without me."

She lifts her head, eyes streaked with pain. "You were still in the barn? I thought..." Her chin trembles. "I looked everywhere for you outside, because I wanted..." She rubs her face. "I don't know what I wanted. It was the first time I gave myself to someone, and I was feeling raw and off-balance."

I was her first.

Relief hits me so hard I have to clamp my jaw closed to contain it. I watched her closely for years, but I couldn't monitor who slipped in and out of her dorm room at night.

"I guess, I just..." She wipes her palms on her shorts. "I needed it to mean something. I didn't want to be forgettable."

"You couldn't be forgettable if you tried."

I tried. I fucked every trollop in town and I couldn't forget her. I fought and killed until the ravine bled red, and I couldn't forget her.

Conor Cassidy is utterly and completely unforgettable.

I rise from the bed and step into her space. "I didn't leave you that night. I stayed with you while you walked to your bike. I followed you to the tattoo shop then back to your dorm room. I sat in the parking lot outside your window until the sun came up."

"Why?" Her voice cracks. "Why didn't you tell me it was you?"

"It would have led to a conversation we couldn't have. I was in the middle of a shitstorm with our families and the ranch. I didn't know who I could trust or how it tied to you. What I did know was there were half a dozen men waiting to kill you if you returned to Sandbank." I ghost a finger along her hairline, lightly stroking the soft auburn strands. "I couldn't give you a reason to come home. I couldn't be that reason."

She pulls away. "Tell me about the shitstorm with our families."

"I will. I need you to trust me."

"That's a tall order from a chronic liar." She crosses her arms over her chest, putting a barrier between us. "While you were letting me go in the name of protection, how many women have you been with?"

Three year's worth.

"A lot."

She winces and turns away, but I don't miss the stricken look on her face or the way her shoulders hug her ears. Anything I say at this point will sound cliché and counterfeit, but I can't leave this unsettled.

"I've done things, Conor. Unforgivable things." Coercion. Assault. Murder. "Had I let myself hope for a future with you, I would've done more things. Greedy, jealous things. Like sabotage your chances with Miles York."

Watching her relationship with him sprout and bloom changed me on a molecular level. I became an unrecognizable thing. Sullen, hostile, and viciously angry. I fucked women like I hated them. I did hate them, simply because they weren't Conor. When those encounters didn't sate me, I picked fights. I killed people. Bad people. The self-destructive pattern lasted three years.

One more murder, and I'll be finished with it for good.

"I suppose I should thank you." She shifts back to me and straightens her spine. "Despite how things ended with Miles, I'm grateful you let me move on. Of course, you put an investigator on him and continued to stalk me like a mental patient, but that's beside the point." She rests her hands on her hips and stares at her feet. "And I can't be mad at you for not living like a monk. We're not together. You're a free man. Where you put your dick is your business."

I press my lips together, chomping at the bit to tell her all the reasons why she's wrong.

"I'm going to bed." She climbs onto the far side of the mattress.

"We're not finished."

She tucks herself under the quilt and faces the edge with her back to me.

That's it? No crying or raging or pounding her little fists on my chest? She needs to do all those things, not bottle it up.

Fuck, I don't know what to do. I can't force her emotions.

Tossing my hat on the dresser, I drag a hand through my hair and approach the opposite side of the bed. She doesn't move a muscle.

Boots, belt, jeans, shirt—it all needs to come off. To spare her from more discomfort, I turn off the lamp and strip in the dark.

After the conversation we just had, I probably shouldn't crawl into bed with her wearing only my briefs, even though my cock thinks it's a fantastic idea. Just thinking about sleeping beside her makes me hard. We've never done this. Our relationship was always restricted by rules. Rules that were enforced by two fathers who lived in the same house.

So much has changed since then.

"I'm just going to talk. You don't have to say anything." I slide under the covers, keeping a couple of feet between us, and lie on my back. "I cleaned up the shitstorm and made it safer for you to be here than anywhere else. That means I'm not just letting myself hope for a future with you. I'm pursuing it with single-minded focus. And I will do things, jealous things, to sabotage your chances with any other man."

The curves of her silhouette don't twitch.

Impatience urges me to close the distance, but I can't crowd her back without setting her off. Everything inside me tenses to demand, take, control, and overrun.

She doesn't need any of that right now.

I know she's thinking about our conversation, and she knows I'm right here, at her side, when she's ready. So I force myself to stay put, relax into the mattress, and embrace the silence.

Minutes pass. I watch the clock count through them, unable to sleep.

Forty minutes into my misery, her breathing changes, grows fitful, and her shoulders start to shake.

I lift on an elbow and reach for her, but she's already turning, rising on hands and knees. Her hair tangles around her face as she scrambles toward me, huffing and wheezing.

No, she's sobbing.

"Conor." My pulse races, and my throat seals shut as I pull her against my chest. "I'm here. Right here."

She climbs up my body, circles her arms around my shoulders, and buries her face in my neck. The tears come instantly and brutally, drenching us. Saving us.

Her legs fall around mine, and her fingers bite my skin. I settle her against me, one hand stroking her hair and the other rubbing her back, as I absorb her breathless sobs.

There are no words. None are needed. She cries and trembles, using my presence to let go and lean, while she mourns the heart I broke.

I hold her soft strength tightly against me and mourn with her.

I hold her with every breath in my body.

I hold her through the sadness.

As much as I cried last night, I don't need a mirror to know my eyes are red and puffy. I blink them open and stare down at the hard surface of my pillow. Since I've only ever slept beside one man, it takes me a moment to process the view.

Miles looked nothing like the body sprawled out beneath me.

Ridges and grooves ripple along a tanned torso that narrows into trim hips. Sadly, the tangle of sheets hides everything below Jake's waist, but good lord, he's built. Every brick and crevice is made for a long, strenuous day on the range, yet he's still in bed, with an arm hooked around me, in a room saturated with sunshine.

I kept him up late last night, and now I'm keeping him from work.

With my cheek on his shoulder and my thighs clamped around his leg, I snuggle closer to his side, reluctant to give him up.

"How do you feel?" His deep, sleepy voice whispers across my skin like a caress.

"Terrible." Sandpaper scratches my eyes, and a throb ricochets in my skull. The rest of me, however, tells a different story. "And good."

"Explain that."

"Don't you need to work?"

"Nah."

I shift against the hard warmth of his body, and he groans. His hand lowers to the region of his groin, adjusting. I start to pull my leg from the V of his, but he stops me with a grip on my thigh.

"Don't worry about my morning problem." He returns his arm around me. "Explain what you're feeling."

Angling my neck, I find his deep, brown eyes and fall right in. "I cried a lot, so..."

"You need to do more of that."

"I feel like I've been hit over the head with a tractor."

"You look like an angel." He runs his fingers through my hair in hypnotic strokes, tingling the roots. "Tell me about the good part."

"Who's doing your job?"

He exhales a puff of breath. "Two new hires started today. I'm taking off for the next two weeks."

"What?" I sit up. "Why?"

He captures my hand and traces his thumb along my scar. "We have a pact to carry out, therapy sessions to focus on, and..." Using his grip, he yanks me across his chest. "I have six years to make up with you."

I flatten my hands on his washboard stomach and pull my legs beneath me, straddling his hips. The ridge of his very swollen, very large morning wood twitches against my butt.

"I could spend the next two weeks doing nothing but reacquainting myself with your freckle." His gaze lowers.

I track his line of sight to my nipples, which stand at attention beneath my thin, bra-less camisole.

"I need to see that freckle, Conor." His voice scratches, and he clutches my hips, pressing me down against him.

He doesn't grind, but his body stiffens and contracts as if he's fighting one hell of an internal battle.

It's a battle I understand. Jake epitomizes every woman's ideal of physical male beauty. From his bed-ruffled brown hair and seductive eyes to his chiseled jawline and brutally fit physique, he has a devastating effect on the ovaries.

I'm so undeniably attracted to him I can't make my body move from its suggestive position on his pelvis. But just because I appreciate his sex appeal, it doesn't mean I'm considering a future or anything else with him.

I had all night to think about the past, to let myself bleed for the years I lost with him. There are some difficult things to accept, and I suspect my tears have only just begun. I do feel lighter, though, as if some of my Jake-related hurts have been cleansed.

"Catharsis," I whisper.

His gaze jumps to mine. "What?"

"That's what I'm feeling. I haven't cried like that since..." A sharp burn stings my sinuses.

"Since?"

"The day I found you with Sara Gilly. When I rode away, I purged enough tears for a lifetime. Then I left that ruined wreck of a girl on the side of the road."

Pain creases his face, his voice a cracked rasp. "It doesn't work that way. Grief is a process. It's anger and sadness and acceptance over time." His strong throat rises and falls with a swallow. "It's okay to hit me, Conor. Punch me, yell at me, do whatever you need, for however long—"

I press a finger against his lips. "The breakdown last night helped. Crying in the company of your silence was...unexpectedly effective. Better than doing it alone." Sliding my touch downward, I trace the scruffy shadow on his jaw. "But I still have a lot of resentment. Even more after last night."

"Tell me." He strokes my thigh, urging me on.

"The night in the barn wasn't fate exactly, but it fulfilled something important. Something that was stolen from us when we were sixteen. It was meant to be, you know?" I lick dry lips. "Had I known it was you that night, had I known you were giving me your virginity..."

I drop my hand to his chest, my insides constricting with heartache.

"Keep going." He covers my fingers with his.

"I resent you for not telling me. I resent the years that came after. My relationship with Miles. Your...whatever with whoever has a vagina. That wasn't meant to be." I pull my hand from his and curl it into a fist against my midsection. "I can't stop picturing you with those women, and I'm sick to my soul with jealousy. I don't know how to get over that. You were mine, dammit."

"I still am." Conviction burns in his eyes.

I look away, focus on his lips, and think about all the women who have tasted him. And it hurts.

"Conor. Give me your eyes."

I stare at the sculpted perfection of his torso and think about all the acrylic nails that have passionately scored his skin. And it hurts.

"Conor." The command in his voice compels my gaze to his. "I love you."

He watches me with a deafening look, his hands resting on my thighs, our bodies an impulse apart. My heart pumps so loudly I'm certain he hears it.

We're not going to have sex, but he can sure tempt the hell out of me with his unshakable attention. Lying there on his back, all stretched out between my thighs, he seems content with just looking at me. He always does that. Always stares at me like I'm the only view in the world.

It moves something inside me, a fluttery pull through my gut, revealing a turn-on I wasn't aware of before. His assertive, uninterrupted attention on me makes my skin hum and my pulse race. It arouses me.

I don't trust him, but I feel things for him. I feel this moment, the wonder in it.

Slowly, the knot around my heart loosens, and my breathing becomes arrhythmic.

His eyes seek mine, and his hand reaches for me. I catch it and redirect it to the shoulder strap of my camisole.

He stops breathing.

I don't think about what I'm doing as I use his fingers to slide the strap to my upper arm and let it fall. Then I release his hand and give him leave to roam.

His touch on my chest is tentative, so achingly slow and cautious as the pads of his fingers reveal a hairbreadth of skin at a time. Such a contrast to the hand squeezing my thigh.

We watch each other through the unhurried descent of my top. As the elastic edge meets my nipple, we both look down.

He unchokes his held breath when he sees the freckle. His mouth parts. His nostrils flare, and his smoldering gaze scorches my exposed breast, melting me there and everywhere.

He sits up, his voice gravel and smoke. "Lift up on your knees."

With a shiver, I obey, straddling his lap. The position puts my chest level with his face. His nearness is unbearable, inviting a needy ache to gather and throb between my legs.

He teases my top down with prolonged tenderness, his fingers featherlight, reverent, as they brush over the swells of my breasts. By the time the camisole slouches around my waist, I'm trembling, panting, and wet. Soaked through to my cotton shorts.

Covering my chest with his hands, he caresses and cups and molds my flesh. Every touch pulses a wave of heat to my pussy. I wobble on my knees and grip his shoulders.

He feels so warm I slide my palms down his chest, tracing the shape and texture of him while he does the same with me.

The room echoes back the whispers of our movements. The stroke of hands, shortening breaths, shifting legs, rustling sheets, vibrating moans—the sounds of two souls stitching back together.

It's a moment of alarming realization. The instant I lowered the strap of my top, I opened the door. Everything will change after this, and given the predatory look in his eyes, he knows.

"Jake." I move my hands back to his shoulders. "I didn't intend to—"

"Just a few more seconds." His arms wrap around me, bringing my chest to his lips.

Then he kisses me there. Mouth open, breaths panting, he sucks and nuzzles the vicinity of my freckle until my back bows and his whiskers burn my skin.

I stab my fingers in his thick tousled hair, holding on, pulling him closer, and pushing him away. Reason battles need, distrust rivals hope, and confusion wins.

"We can't do this." It's a protest on my lips and an invitation in my head.

"I don't deserve you." Anguish crashes across his expression. "After all the pain I caused you—"

"You were protecting me." I don't know why I'm arguing. He did hurt me. But I can't bear that look on his face. "I want to forgive you."

He stares at me with eyes so full of hope. Then he twists his fingers in my hair and wrenches my mouth to his.

The moment his tongue rubs against mine, my skin burns red-hot, an answering fever to the aggression in his grip and the hunger in his kiss. Our breaths coalesce in loud, shaky gasps, singeing the air that dares confine us.

"God, Jake." I pant against his sinful lips. "You've always been such a good kisser. But now..." I let him catch and lick my tongue, moaning into his mouth. "All your practicing over the years has paid off."

He leans back and flashes me a wolfish smile. It's a smile that will stick with me, bandaged over the bruises on my heart, even if I spend the rest of the day scolding myself for giving it to him.

He drops a kiss on each of my breasts and flattens his grin into a line of seriousness. "We have a three-hour car ride ahead of us."

"Three-hour...?" Comprehension zips through me. "We're going to see Lorne?"

"Yes, ma'am." He slams a hand against my butt. "Go take a shower."

I swallow a gulp and shudder with delicious tingles. "Stop doing that."

He spanks me again, harder. "If you're not in that shower in ten seconds, I'm joining you."

I go, off the bed and across the room, yanking my top up to cover my chest.

"Conor."

I twist my neck and find him sitting on the edge of the bed.

Lips swollen and hair mussed, he gives me the full force of his eyes. "You're the only woman I've ever kissed."

That afternoon, Jake and I sit across the table from a man I barely recognize.

The last time I saw my brother was four years ago, and since then, he's been moved to a unit that allows contact visitations on the weekends.

No glass partitions. No telephone receivers. Still no touching, except for a brief hello and goodbye hug.

I've been tongue-tied since the moment I walked into the visiting room and spotted him.

He and Jake fall into the easy camaraderie that's always existed between them. Meanwhile, I can't stop staring at the hardened, gruff-voiced man before me.

He sounds like he smokes two packs a day, and he looks like he spends all his time punching a heavy bag. Or other inmates. It's not that he's overly muscular. He just seems really strong. The mean kind of strong.

His sunken cheeks accentuate the blade-sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones. Dark circles underline his dark green eyes, and an undercurrent of violence hovers around him. His demeanor threatens anyone who dares a peek in his direction.

What has this place done to him?

"Conor?" His head cocks, eyes narrowed.

"Hm?"

"I asked you a question."

Jake shifts beside me and rests an arm along the back of my chair. "Of course, I'm taking care of her."

"He's helping me through some things." I tap my fingers on the table, wondering how much Lorne knows about Jake's attempt at psychotherapy.

Lorne glances at my nervous twitching and meets my eyes. "When did you get the ink?"

Relieved by his question, I update him on the tattoo sessions, my schooling, and Miles York. "I played your guitar."

"Yeah." His cheek bounces with an almost smile. "Jarret told me. Wish I could hear you play."

He asks about my classes, and I dive into the details of my lab work. The more I talk, the more I relax. He interrupts with the kind of inquiries and responses I expect from Lorne, and I start to feel like I'm chatting with my brother and not some convicted murderer.

I've never labeled him as such, even though that's exactly why he's here.

He murdered a man.

In less than two weeks, I intend to do the same thing.

Except the man he killed was innocent.

"Do you regret it?" My whisper creeps across the table and shivers along the dull concrete walls.

"No." He sets his forearms on the surface and leans forward. "Your life is worth more than a hundred years served in here. Ten years is nothing."

"My life? What does that have to do with—?"

"Tell her." Lorne glares at Jake. "Soon. She needs to understand my position on this."

"I will." Jake rests a hand on my thigh.

"I need to understand all of it." I push his arm away and tick a furious glare between them. "The three of you have been plotting and scheming and riding roughshod over my life, and I'm done with it."

"We're trying to help you." The heat in Lorne's eyes is fiercer than my own.

"I don't need help."

"You have PTSD, Conor."

I know he's right and bury the thought. "Help me by telling me the truth. You guys say you're protecting me, but I don't know why I need protection in the first place."

I glance around the room, knowing we can't discuss this here. Conversations are monitored and recorded.

"Convince him to tell me." I thrust a thumb at Jake. "Did you know he's holding information for ransom?"

"What's the progress on that?" Lorne asks Jake.

"She'll know everything within the next two weeks." Jake looks at me sidelong. "If she behaves."

"You can both kiss my ass." I huff out a breath, exasperated. "I'm not standing on any more stumps. I'd rather hang my saddle on the fence and throw dirt at it."

"I don't envy you." Lorne grins at Jake, and that smile sucks the irritation right out of me.

The back-road curve of his mouth brightens his eyes, returning the brother I remember, the happy boy who teased me as much as he protected me.

"I miss that smile." My hand itches to reach for him, but touching isn't allowed. "I miss you."

He has four years left to serve. If he keeps his nose clean in here, he might get paroled in two years.

"I miss you more than you know." His smile vanishes beneath darkening eyes and a furrowed brow. He lowers his stare to the scar on his palm and presses a thumb against it. "I wish I could be there when you honor our pact."

"Me, too," I say.

Jake grips my hand under the table, and I let him.

Lorne looks up, his expression soft. "I wish I could be a part of your healing process. Someday, I hope you forgive me for keeping you away."

My heart squeezes. "Can we talk on the phone? Can I call you?"

"I'd love that."

We catch up on little things until our hour is over. Then we end the visitation with the quick hug-and-release contact we're allowed.

Jake collects his hat and belt from the security desk and walks me to his truck.

Thirty minutes into the drive home, he hasn't spoken much, but I feel him watching me in that way he does. Monitoring, assessing, trying to read my thoughts.

"You should keep your eyes on the road." I swipe through my playlist, looking for a new song.

When he returned my phone this morning, he informed me he called Miles and arranged to have my belongings packed up. I don't own much—just a laptop and clothes—so there should only be a few boxes. Since I don't have a place to live at the moment, I didn't argue when he said the boxes would be shipped to the ranch.

"I need to find an apartment." I continue to scroll through my music selection, dismissing all the cheery songs.

"It's only an hour drive between the ranch and school." He glances at me. "When we were kids, that was our plan. You were going to stay with me at the ranch and drive to school every day."

"I'm not moving in."

"You already have."

"You're delusional." I keep my gaze on the phone, protecting myself from the enchantment of his gorgeous brown eyes.

"I know I haven't earned your trust or forgiveness, but I will."

I pretend to ignore him.

His hand clenches on the steering wheel, and he punches the gas pedal, jerking me back against the seat. "Stop fucking with your phone and look at me."

My search for a song ends as Not Ready To Make Nice by Dixie Chicks crosses my screen. I press play and throw him an arched eyebrow.

As he listens to the lyrics, a black cloud shifts across his face. The cords in his neck stretch. His lips pull back, and his hand snaps through the space between us. "Give me the phone."

I angle it out of his reach.

"Now!" He roars, making me jump.

Anger flashes in his eyes, and something akin to fear carves through me. I quickly hand it over.

He powers it off and secures it in the console, with his elbow resting on the lid. Then he turns his gaze to the road.

Swallowing past a tight throat, I find my voice. "What just happened?"

"I've been too soft on you."

"Too soft—?"

"You needed a couple of days to adjust to being home and around me again. I gave you that." His eyes lure and capture mine. "My goodwill has come to an end. It's about to get very real for you."

A chill whispers across my skin. "You're making me uncomfortable."

"Expect more of that. More discomfort with a whole lot of tears and pain and catharsis. Cross those arms all you want. You'll stand up to the challenge, because the Conor I know never backs down."

I uncross my arms. "I'm not that girl."

"That's right. You're stronger, fiercer, and so goddamn ornery it makes me hard. Really fucking hard." The hoarse rasp of his voice curls through me like a slow burning flame. "I fell in love with your resilient spirit, and you're still in possession of that. If you weren't, I'd do this another way."

My reflexive reaction is to punch him in the nuts, but I'll save that fight for when he tells me what he's planning.

"In two weeks," he says, glancing between me and the road, "we're going to commit the same crime that put your brother in prison."

"Except Lorne killed an innocent man. Wyatt Longley lost his life for no reason." I hope to God Jake isn't getting cold feet. "Levi Tibbs doesn't deserve to breathe."

With one hand on the steering wheel, he places the other on the seat between us, palm up. "Give me your wrist."

"No." The hair on my nape stands on end, and I scoot closer to the door. "I can't do that."

"Put your wrist on my hand and I'll explain how Lorne killed a bad man."

"What?" My scalp tingles. "What do you mean?"

"Your wrist."

My pulse thrashes, like the wind whipping against the windshield. The tone of his voice is so damn demanding, but that isn't what moves me. It's the love in his eyes, assuring me without speaking, protecting me without taking.

Something dormant in me answers, compelling me to gamble on that love.

I lift my arm and rest my wrist on his palm.

The strong muscles in his hand remain slack and loose, his fingers slightly bent but not clenched. I wait for the memories to rise, but Jake's words distract me.

"Andy and Wyatt Longley shouldn't have been near the ravine that night. They had no business traipsing around in the south pasture at all." He scowls. "They were there to help two hitmen sneak on and off the property and dispose of the bodies left behind."

"Bodies?" My stomach knots. "Mine and Lorne's?"

"Yes." Not a single twitch or crease of maybe I'm wrong in his stern expression.

"You have proof."

"Three years ago, I recorded a conversation between my dad and Andy Longley."

"You were spying on them?"

"By that time, I was spying on everyone. Their conversation didn't allude to criminal activity, but something about it made me suspicious. So I confronted Andy and extracted a confession."

"How?"

"I relieved him of his teeth. With my fist. Then I relieved him of his job." He sets his jaw. "Only reason I let him live is because he let Lorne live. He was armed the night of your birthday and could've easily shot Lorne for killing his son."

Pounding explodes in my ears. Is Jake in the habit of not letting people live?

"Does Lorne know?" I ask.

"He knows everything Jarret and I know."

"You're telling me my brother's serving ten years in prison for killing a man who planned to dispose of his body?" My heart plunges into a pit of despair. "How can Lorne be okay with that?"

"He didn't know about Wyatt Longley's involvement when he pleaded guilty. Your dad told Lorne someone would kill you both if you returned to the ranch. That was the impetus for our decision to cut ties with you."

"Dalton knew?" A ragged breath drags from my chest. "He told me he didn't talk to Lorne. That Lorne was dead to him."

"Communication was on and off. Your dad's focus was on making sure your brother remained behind bars so he couldn't return home. In the eyes of your enemies, those bars made Lorne a non-threat."

"Who are our enemies? Your dad and—?"

"I'm not answering that today."

"Is my life at risk right now?" I toss an angry glare at our surroundings. "I'm not at the ranch. Should I be worried about your dad?"

"You're with me, and I can handle him."

I'm not getting anywhere with this line of questioning, so I switch gears. "Today, Lorne said I need to understand his position. What did he mean?"

"His position on serving prison time... One, he doesn't regret killing Wyatt Longley for the reasons I explained. Two, his incarceration hasn't just saved his life. It helped me protect yours by keeping you away."

My mind spins to make the connection. "Because he wouldn't have gone to Chicago with us. He was eighteen, a legal adult."

"He would've stayed at the ranch."

"And I would've found my way back to him. Because he's my flesh and blood."

"Conor."

"Hm?"

"Look at our hands and remember to breathe."

I lower my gaze, and my lungs seize.

Fingers lock around my wrist, strong and constricting. I jerk back, and they cinch tighter, compressing, restraining. Like a knot. Rope. It scratches, tearing at my skin, holding me down.

"Let go." I yank harder, unable to free myself. "Let me go, now! Let go! Let go!"

"Breathe and focus on my hand. It's just me. It's Jake."

Muscles and veins strain against the skin of his forearm. Then black dots move in, blotting him out and taking me to that place, that terrible black tunnel.

"It's too dark." I wheeze, flailing and desperate. "Can't breathe. Let go of me, dammit!"

"Focus on your wrist." Jake's voice filters in, deep and commanding. "Tell me what you see."

"You're hurting me."

"Tell me what you see!" he shouts.

I blink rapidly and clear my vision. "A hand. A strong hand. Squeezing. Knotting. It's too tight. I can't get free."

"Whose hand, Conor? Look at it!"

The shape of it blurs through my rising tears, but I know those knuckles. Those long, thick fingers.

"Your hand." I pant, shaking from the inside out. "It's yours. Jake's." Not a knot. Not rope.

"Describe how it feels."

"Warm. Gentle." My joints start to loosen, and I stop pulling. "Familiar."

"Am I hurting you?"

I shake my head, eyes fixed on his grip. "But you're...you're holding me. Oh God, you're holding my wrist." My breaths pick up.

"Keep talking. Don't take your eyes off our hands."

For the remainder of the three-hour drive, he keeps his grip on my wrist and makes me endure the nightmares his touch evokes.

I fight and regress into memory, surrender and produce bursts of words, and he doesn't let go. Doesn't relent. Not once.

By the time he parks the truck at the ranch, my throat is raw from overuse and exhaustion liquefies my limbs.

The hand on my wrist slackens, and his fingers intertwine with mine. Strong, callused fingers that know their way around rope.

I roll my head and find him watching me.

Dark brown eyes glow with gold flecks in the sunlight. His sculpted features convey concern and alertness. He cares what I'm thinking and feeling, perhaps more than I do, and it moves me.

He could've spent the last three hours blaring music and enjoying the drive. Instead, he attacked my trigger, lowered me into the darkness, and joined me there.

Something clicks inside me, like a turning key. I've been wandering aimlessly, so lost and far away from myself. But I just found the door that leads me back. He's the other half of me, and he holds the pieces that will make me whole again.

"You cured me?" Tears threaten, and I swallow the salty taste.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves." The Stetson sits low on his brow, and he nudges it up. "This isn't about a cure. We're just learning how to control your thoughts and feelings about the trauma and how to work through the memories during a panic attack. You still need to talk about the ravine."

"What if I can't? Will I have flashbacks next time someone grabs me?"

"Most likely, yes." He slides his hand to my wrist and latches on. "Going forward, your arms are no longer off limits. I will touch them, grip them, and bind them. Same goes for your other triggers. I'm going to trespass all over your nightmares and walk through them with you for as long as it takes. It's not going to be fun, Conor, but you won't be alone. Never again."

With his hand around my wrist and his thumb stroking my skin, I lean into the tenderness of his touch.

He took off two weeks of work to do this for me. To accompany me in the darkest corners of my mind.

"Jake, I..." I can't express my gratitude with words.

Unbuckling the seat belt, I crawl across the bench seat and climb onto his lap. His eyes widen, and his arms go around me.

I remove his hat and run my hands through his sexy brown hair. Touching him is an irresistible impulse, and I indulge in it with greedy fingers, traveling along the chiseled shape of his face and caressing the thick column of his neck.

Leaning in, I inhale the scent of his scalp, his whiskers, his breath. He smells like leather and steel, testosterone and sex. He smells like the man version of the boy I fell in love with.

He watches me heatedly with erratic gasps, his body rigid, cock hard, and muscles vibrating with raw, hungry power. There's no better feeling in the world than being desired by a man like Jake Holsten.

And that desire bucks restlessly between us. It feels cinched and saddled, like it's ready to be kicked into a gallop and ridden hard.

I gravitate closer, sinking into the trap. Beneath that molten chocolate gaze prowls ruthlessness and danger. He's not safe. Not where my heart's concerned. Of all the men who have hurt me, his cruelty was the most damaging.

"I'm scared." I cup his face, my eyes fixed on his seductive mouth.

"I know." He drifts toward me slowly, intently, until his breath licks my lips. "But you never run from fear."

He swoops in and kisses me, quenching my senses with his overpowering essence. His lips move urgently against mine, his tongue searching and plundering the hidden places in my mouth, as if I harbor the answer to everything he seeks.

I want to give it to him. I ache to surrender anything he demands. Because he makes me feel loved. Because he follows me into the dark. Because he dulls the pain pumping through my veins.

He slants his mouth and deepens the kiss, his tongue wild and demanding, his arms tightening my body against his.

His lips taste like happiness—the smoke and heat of a campfire, the sun over the meadow, and the birth of young love.

Our love.

I found my way home.

In a new pickup truck with a grown man, we recapture our irreplaceable bond. It arches between us, bigger, stronger, and more formidable than ever, extending from one heart to the other.

The bridge between us wasn't lost. The pieces have always been here. They just needed to be fitted back together.

I lean up and touch my brow to his, reveling in the connection. "I never stopped loving you."

"I hate you!"

Conor's husky scream echoes across the sunny meadow, spooking the livestock and hardening my cock.

She doesn't hate me.

She never stopped loving me.

It's been three days since her groundbreaking declaration. Three days of trauma-focused therapy, which has proven more difficult than I expected.

The therapy is straightforward. Conor is the difficult part. But fuck me, I can't get enough of her fire.

"Someone's going to see me, you perverted prick!"

She'll calm down, eventually. In the meantime, I have a killer view of her flexing ass.

I cinched a saddle on the fence at the far end of the east pasture. No one's working near here this afternoon, and the fencing in this section is newer, sturdier, with thick wooden rails that hold her restrained body beautifully.

Heavy straps buckle the saddle in place and prevent slipping. More straps cross her back and bind her legs to the fence.

It took some wrestling to get her into position—face down and bent sideways over the saddle. Her pretty tattooed arms dangle on one side, her legs tied down on the other.

I stand behind her, torturing myself with the sight of her backside in frayed cutoff shorts. Every time she squirms, the denim inches higher on her creamy white legs.

I didn't tie her arms. Not because she's not ready. God knows my cock is ready. But she needs her hands free for the pencil and leather-bound journal I gave her. To be honest, I'm surprised she hasn't hurled them at me.

"I'll write down the damn words." She pitches a glare over her shoulder. "Stop staring at my ass and unstrap me!"

"You said you'd rather hang your saddle on the fence and throw dirt at it."

"You're so fucking sick."

"Write that down."

I spent the last three days ordering her to keep a journal of every feeling and memory that surfaces. Words, pictures, prompts, details, anything that comes to mind. I touch her wrists constantly, and her flashbacks are growing fewer and farther between. But she needs to learn how to parse her distressing thoughts.

She carries a lot of blame—for the ravine, her dad's abuse, and Lorne's incarceration. By changing how she perceives the past, she can change how she feels.

Problem is she refuses to write anything down. Just getting her to vocalize the memories is like pulling teeth. She needs some motivation.

So I strapped her to a saddle with the journal.

She still hasn't written a single word.

It's time to coax some memories out of her.

From my pocket, I remove my phone and select a Chris Stapleton song to play on repeat. The thrumming chords of Whiskey and You draw her attention. As I begin to softly sing along, she goes still, lulled by my voice.

A dreamy look settles over her face. She rests her cheek on her arms, where they fold on the saddle beneath her, the journal forgotten in her hand.

Jesus, her expression, the waves of fiery red hair around her graceful shoulders, the gentle curve of her spine... My heart clenches.

She's the kind of beautiful that brings a man to his knees, and for whatever reason, she loves when I sing. So I spend the next few minutes serenading her with all the soul and emotion she deserves.

Once she's soothed into listlessness, I shift out of her line of sight and slip a flask from my pocket. A few hearty swigs saturate my breath and heat my throat. Then I return the flask and continue to sing.

The taste of whiskey warms my blood, but I don't make a habit of drinking. It would be too easy to numb my troubles with a bottle. I'm afraid it'll consume me, and that's the last thing Conor needs.

"You were singing to her." She lifts her head and finds my eyes behind her. "When you were with Sara Gilly, you were singing—"

"Beautiful War." I climb onto the fence beside her, and the wood rail groans beneath my weight. "I knew you were outside the door. I was singing to you, Conor."

Her face pinches with pain, and her shoulders shudder.

"I read and reread your letters every day." I stroke the leather cuff on my wrist, tracing the scratches and dents. "I never take this off."

"You wore it when you fucked other women?"

I nod, and her eyes lose focus, dulling beneath a sheen of tears.

A bone-weakening coldness spreads through my body. Sorrow. Shame. Heavy, inconsolable regret.

"Whatever you're feeling," I say quietly, "write it down."

She turns her gaze to the journal and hovers the pencil over the page. Then she writes one word.

Death.

That's how I made her feel when I broke her heart. I knew it while it was happening, but to see the brutal truth written so clearly in five letters... It hurts on a whole new level.

I guess that's the point.

Conor isn't the only one grieving the crimes that were committed against her.

Straddling the thick fence rail, I lean back against the post and work my throat against a searing lump.

"Don't stop singing," she whispers.

I clear my voice and give her what she needs. As I sing, the pencil moves beneath the curtain of her hair.

The journal will serve as an outline later, when we step away and decompress. We'll be able to evaluate her thoughts and talk through them. Right now, she just needs to let it out.

The song loops twice before she stops writing. "I'm finished. You can untie me now."

I decide when she's finished. That's a concept she seems to have forgotten.

She needs to yield to me as much as I need to take care of her. Our natures thrive in the roles we established long ago—the leader and follower, the top and bottom, the alpha and omega.

We both crave that pecking order. We find harmony in it. If I have any hope of making us work in the long haul, I need to maintain our dynamic.

This is the other reason I strapped her to the saddle.

I slide off the fence, lowering on the side she faces. Behind her, the sun makes its descent toward the hillside, taking some of the heat with it.

After a quick check on the straps against her back, I stand before her, a couple of feet away.

"Obey me." I tilt my head, studying her face. "And I'll tell you what happened when I went to Chicago."

"You went to Chicago?" She inhales sharply. "When?"

"The day after you rode away on your motorcycle."

"Why did you...?" Her eyes flick nervously between mine. "Oh my God. You saw the bruises that day. You knew he..." Her mouth closes and opens. "What did you do?"

"The journal," I say firmly, nodding at the book in her hand.

"Okay, I'll write." She wags the pencil. "Just tell me."

"The day after I saw your bruises, I hopped on a plane, went directly to his apartment, and beat his face in."

Her throat bobs. "He died three weeks later."

"I didn't kill him." I toss off my hat and stab my fingers through my hair. "I wanted to, Conor. I can't tell you how badly I wanted to end his life for what he did to you. But he was your father. Your only living parent. I couldn't do that to you."

Her breathing falters, and her shoulders tighten. She glances down at the journal, blinks a few times, and jots down some words.

Good girl.

I pace along the fence as she writes. A few minutes later, her hollow voice stops me.

"Did you talk to him?"

"Yes." I go to her and bend my knees, putting us at eye level. "I told him I saw the abuse he inflicted. He didn't deny it."

"Was he drinking?"

"Yeah." Fucking wasted. "I demanded answers about the threats on your life, but he refused to give me anything beyond what I already knew. He wanted you back in Chicago, away from the ranch. He was belligerent on that point."

I inspected the apartment while I was there and found food, clothes, everything a girl her age needed to live comfortably. He provided for her well enough, but in his attempt to numb his pain, he didn't give her the security and love she needed.

So I beat him into unconsciousness and left his bleeding, drunk ass on the floor.

She stares at the journal, the pencil pressed to the paper, unmoving. A bullet-point list of single words lines the page beneath her hand. Lonely, hurts, scared, hopeless, and so on.

Then there's my name, in caps and underlined, with a slew of adjectives beneath it. Arrogant. Manipulative. Revengeful. Kinky... I like that last one.

But she didn't write any specific memories about Chicago. She needs to address what happened with her dad.

I stroke the backs of my fingers along her delicate face. "Tell me what he did."

"No. Please, Jake. I don't want to talk about it."

"Write it down."

She shakes her head briskly, adamantly, and directs her gaze to my phone on the fence. "Turn off that song."

I'll have to trigger her memories of the abuse. I expected that, but I want her in my arms when I do it.

"Hold onto the journal." I move around her, releasing the straps on her back and hopping over the fence to untie her legs.

She slides off the saddle and turns in my arms.

My muscles tense, bracing. Then I direct her face to mine and exhale.

She sucks in a breath and freezes.

"You smell like..." She gasps, and her entire body locks up. "Why do you smell like whiskey?"

"Breathe. Deep, slow breaths."

Her chest heaves, and sudden, convulsive intakes of air pull more of my whiskey-scented breath into her nose. She chokes and tries to push me away.

The pencil and journal drop to the ground, and I follow them down, arranging her to sit sideways on my lap with her shoulder against my chest.

By the time I position her, she's in full panic mode, thrashing and sobbing and ripping my heart out.

"I'm with you, Conor." I hold her tight against me, breathing against the side of her face. "Don't fight it. Let it out. Purge it. I'll be with you the whole time."

She sobs and struggles in my arms for an agonizing eternity. Then her battle wanes into low, keening cries, soaking her cheeks and trembling her body.

I curl her fingers around the pencil and set the journal on her lap, silently urging her.

A stretch of reluctance lingers before her walls break, and her grief explodes in a brutal flood.

She talks while she writes, detailing the horrors of his abuse—every slap, punch, kick, and hateful word.

As I absorb her vicious memories, the backs of my eyes burn. My blood runs hot, and adrenaline crashes through my veins. But I keep my mouth shut and my hands gentle, caressing her arm and stroking her hair.

An hour later, the sun touches the horizon, and Conor sets aside the journal filled with pages of her flashbacks from Chicago.

She curls up against my chest, breaths even and muscles languid. "You're very patient with me."

"I want to do this right, and the process is important. Besides, I know what's waiting at the end of this."

She turns in my arms and peers up at me beneath wet lashes. "What's that?"

"You, where you need to be, with who you're meant to be with."

"I love your persistence." She edges closer, resting a palm on my cheek and hovering her mouth a kiss away. "I need that, Jake. Even when I'm fighting you. Especially when I'm fighting. I need you to not give up on me."

"I won't. Never." I take a sip of her sunset lips and lean back. "Can you taste the whiskey?"

She nods, and little lines appear between her eyebrows. "I don't like his scent on you."

"It's not his scent." I kiss her again, just a brush of mouths and breath. "We're making new memories. The next time you smell whiskey, think about this moment. The grass beneath your legs. All the colors in the sky. The way we feel together."

"I'll think of Whiskey and You." She glances at my phone, where the song plays on repeat, and returns to me. "Sing to me, Jake."

With a soft smile, I intone the lyrics in the deep, rumbling drawl she loves.

The longer I sing, the quicker her breathing becomes, her nose pulsing wider to accommodate the change in airflow. Her pupils dilate, and those lustrous green eyes hold me in such an intense, lingering stare I grip her hips and position her legs to straddle my hips.

Head down and cheeks slightly flushed, she rests her gaze on my mouth. "I think... I want you to—"

I devour the rest of her words, shaking as they bloom into an electrifying rush of heat through my body.

There's a hunger in her that matches my own, an expectant urgency that collapses the air between us.

I eat at her lips, ravenous to sink deeper, reach farther. She tastes like my girl—raw and wild like the land around us. A heavy groan rips free, and my cock strains against my zipper.

I can't fuck her. Not until she knows why I've been protecting her and what I've done to keep her alive. When we have sex, I want it to be honest, fully open, with nothing between us.

But I have no qualms about stripping her bare and making her come.

I don't know when my hands started roaming or how my teeth drew blood. Maybe she's the one biting, but I taste the coppery essence on our tongues like molten fire. Our combined need hammers at my control, making me crazed and greedy.

Reaching behind my head, I yank off my shirt and spread it over the grass. She trembles on my lap, her lust-glazed eyes shining with anticipation.

I swing her around and lay her out on the shirt.

"It's been six years." My hands shake as I release her fly and slide the shorts down her legs. "Six years since I've seen your body."

"Jake, I need..." Her skin flushes a delicious shade of pink as she tugs off her top.

Up until this point, I've managed to control myself. Not easily. But I haven't fallen on her like a rutting animal, despite how badly I want to shove inside her and fuck the shit out of her.

The sight of her breasts in the lacy white bra, the pretty bloom warming her flesh, and rise and fall of her chest as she regards me—all of it unravels me. It banishes my reasoning, and everything else becomes an insignificant blur in the backdrop of her beauty.

All that matters is touching her, kissing her, and stripping that lacy obstacle from her body. I fumble with the clasps, trying not to shred the damn bra from her body, but the fastenings are too small and intricate. My hands are made for bucking hay, working heavy machinery, and driving cattle. Not delicate hooks on lace.

She laughs at me as I unlock the fastenings and toss the bra. Her tits fill my view, round and rosy. So fucking stunning. I have to remind myself to breathe.

When she reaches for me, I remember why we're here and catch her wrists in my hands. Her rising panic is immediate—rasping breaths, trembling chin, and stiffening neck.

"Talk to me." I tighten my grip, aching to draw her heaving tits into my mouth.

"Don't stop."

Christ, I love this girl. My pulse accelerates as I shift around her.

With her head angled toward the fence beneath the saddle, I gather her arms in one hand and raise them toward the hanging saddle strap.

"I'm binding your wrists." I wind the leather strap once, twice, and tuck it through, leaving it nice and loose. "A hard pull and your hands will slip free."

"Okay." Her voice creaks, and tremors quake along her limbs.

She's been home for five days, and we've spent that time focused on her trauma related to me and her dad. We have yet to ride out to the ravine or discuss the details of the rape.

I keep a close eye on her distress as I move along her body, touching her curves, teasing her flesh, and chasing away her fear. The hour-glass shape of her waist, the crescent curves of her breasts, and the ticklish terrain of her flat stomach—she's a quivering, panting meadow of silky skin and temptation.

She moans as I caress her nipples, melts as I glide fingertips along her abs, and sighs as I remove her panties.

Kneeling between her legs, I cup the backs of her thighs and spread her open. It's been three years since I tasted her in that barn. Six years since I've rested my gaze on her auburn triangle and tight pink pussy.

Excitement buzzes through my nerve endings, and I give myself a moment to soak her in.

"Jake." She wriggles beneath my attention.

I travel my gaze up her body and find her watching me with the look she used to give me when we were younger, the one that tunnels so deeply into the core of me it unlaces my self-restraint, stitch by stitch.

Lowering to the ground, I settle into the apex of her toned thighs and inhale her sweetness. My cock swells and throbs, threatening to explode.

"I don't want to be gagged." Her eyes don't move from mine. "Ever. Promise me."

"You have my word." I turn my head and bite her thigh, eliciting a yelp from her. "I love your sexy little sounds too much."

"What else do you like? I know what turns you on when we kiss and when I used to...give you head. But when it comes to sex..." She nibbles on her lip. "We've only done it the one time, and it was dark and loud." She coughs. "And quick."

"Yeah, it was fucking quick." I give her thigh another nip. "I was an amped-up virgin with the most beautiful woman in the world on my cock."

Her eyes soften. "I love that I was your first."

"Me, too." I trail my nose along her slick slit, indulging myself as I consider her question.

What else do you like? She's asking about my turn-ons. Because it's in her nature to please. Because she's thinking about the future.

Our future.

"Clearly, you're into bondage." She gives the leather strap a light tug.

"Bondage, yes." I lick her clit. "And choking. Spanking. Dominating." I bury my face and curl my tongue through her folds, delighting in the flutter of her lashes. "Anal."

"No." Her gaze snaps to mine. "Anal is a hard no."

I keep my eyes on hers and push a finger deep inside her pussy, swirling and lubricating. She tracks the movement of my hand, twitching, as I slide it back and press against her tight ring of muscle.

"Jake. Please." She clenches her ass, but something flashes in her eyes. Something heated and lustful.

Other than me, Miles York is the only man she's willingly had sex with. After the conversation I overheard on the porch, I know she didn't allow him anywhere near her ass.

"Relax." I press in my finger to the first knuckle, not deep enough to cause discomfort. "That's as far as I'll go tonight."

The tension in her legs slackens, and she blows out a breath. "I don't want to ever experience that kind of pain again."

Holding my finger in her rectum, I slide my thumb into her cunt and kiss her clit. "When you're aroused and fully lubricated, it's extremely pleasurable."

"How would you know? Have you ever had anything forced into your ass?"

"No." But the women I fucked in the past loved it enough to beg for it. "Have you ever watched a video with anal sex?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"They're actors." The muscles in her pussy contract around on my thumb. "They're paid to make it look tantalizing."

But she likes it.

"Tell me about your favorite one," I say.

She sets her jaw and looks away, stubborn as ever.

I return my mouth to her clit and feast, licking and sucking until she writhes and moans and trembles beneath me. Then I remove my touch and pull away.

Her frustrated glare shoots a sadistic thrill to my cock.

"Your favorite video." I wet my lips.

"You're mean."

"Persistent." I wink.

"Dangerous."

"Dangerously in love."

She drops her head on the ground and stares up at her wrists in the straps. "I found this one video online. A movie clip from a foreign film."

I lower my mouth to her pussy and wait.

Her throat moves through a swallow. Then she describes a woman acting out a rape scene, one that includes bondage, choking, and anal.

Her nipples tighten as she talks, her voice raspy and breaths growing shallow. She explains how she pauses and restarts it, controlling the pain and getting off on the power in that. By the time she finishes, her pussy is wetter than I've ever seen it.

With my hands under her thighs, I yank her to me, bury my face and finish her off within seconds. She comes violently, rolling her hips, grinding her cunt against my mouth, and screaming my name.

Fucking hell, she's exquisite. I'm so damn turned on it takes great effort to not bust a nut in my pants.

As she calms down, I pepper kisses along her inner thighs. Then I climb up her body, trailing my lips across every delicious inch of her, nibbling and tasting with unhurried touches.

I release the strap on her wrists and take her mouth gently, kissing her because I have to, because I'll lose my mind if I don't.

Her fingers tangle in my hair, and her lips intoxicate my soul. My tongue guides her. Her moans meet mine. Our breaths fuse, and our hearts beat as one.

It's impossible to describe the bond we share. We're too great for words. Too sacred. We're a feeling that goes beyond starts and stops. We're stronger than hellos and goodbyes and deeper than beginnings and ends.

We're an existence that can't be measured. It doesn't matter where she is or what I've done. We'll always come back to this place. A place that can't be found on a map or a time line. Nothing in the world can touch us here.

Stretched out beneath me, she returns my kiss with a hungry mouth, her hands traveling the length of my body and reaching for my zipper.

"Conor." I capture her wrist and bring it to my lips. "You want to have sex with me?"

"I..." Her trembling body screams yes, but her eyes taper into suspicious slits. "I'm attracted to you."

"So you're ready to go for it, yeah? Your way."

Her mouth forms a flat line.

"When I fuck you, we're doing it my way. Let me give you a hint..." I pinch her nipple, hard enough to make her gasp. "I love all the positions."

"You know I can't—"

"Not until I earn your trust."

"If you would tell me everything you're keeping from me..."

"Soon." We still have a hard road ahead, but one thing's for certain. "You're mine, Conor Cassidy."

I steer Conor through the next week with more of the same. More kissing and touching. More light bondage. More therapy.

Grueling memories fill the pages of her journal front to back, and conversations about those memories fill our days.

At night, we find sanctuary on the back porch with Jarret, reminiscing, singing, and playing guitar. Then we retire to our bed, her body wrapped around mine, and pretend we don't want to fuck each other's brains out.

It's been a long goddamn week.

I lean against the kitchen island and watch her flit along the back counter, wiping down surfaces and putting things away. Jarret drove into town to bang his flavor of the night, and the house is deafeningly quiet and still, as if holding its breath.

I'm the one not breathing.

The wait is finally over.

The bodies in the ravine, the blackmail with my dad, the news of Levi Tibbs' release, the planning and secrecy, the therapy sessions, her declaration of love—all this had to materialize and culminate, to bring us to this pinnacle point. Tonight, I'll lift her out of that dark tortured place in her mind, where she's held herself captive for six years, and set her free.

She pauses at the sink with her back to me and sighs. "Two days."

Levi Tibbs walks in two days.

The three of us formulated an ironclad strategy to take him out without getting caught. The details of that plan have been occupying her mind all day.

After visiting Lorne last week, I know she has reservations. The consequences of killing a man stared down at her with her brother's hardened eyes.

"You can sit this out." I prefer she did, but I know she won't.

Either way, I have no intention of letting her take the fall if shit goes south.

"I worry about you." She bows her head, staring at her scarred palm. "I can't lose you again."

My heart skips a beat. That's the closest she's come to verbally acknowledging our future together.

I push off the island, reaching her side in three strides.

"I'm not going anywhere." I cup her face and stroke my thumb across her pouty lips. "I promise."

She nods, looking down, her expression pensive. "We didn't have any therapy talks today. I feel like..." Her eyes return to mine and narrow. "You're planning something big."

I gave her the day off to rest. She'll need every ounce of energy for the long, exhausting, very big night ahead of us.

"In a few minutes, we're going to discuss the ravine." I touch a finger against her lips, halting her attempt to protest. "Then I'm going to tell you everything."

"Everything?"

"Yeah." I step behind her and press my chest to her back, trapping her pelvis against the counter.

"Jake." Her shoulders hike to her ears, and she pushes against the counter's edge. "Back up."

I crowd closer, clocking the acceleration of her breaths. I've been provoking this trigger a lot over the past couple of days. Tonight, I'm going to red-line it.

"Focus on my voice." I slowly slide my arms around her tiny waist and put my mouth at her ear. "We're going to talk about your sixteenth birthday. I'm going to tell you everything I know. Then, if I've earned your forgiveness, I'm going to fuck you." I lower a hand to her pussy and press against the denim seam. "Here."

"I can't talk about..." She grips the edge of the sink, trembling and wheezing. "Not the ravine. I can't do this."

"You can, and you won't be alone."

Her nails scratch against the counter, her breaths loud and fitful. "I can't have sex from behind."

"Every position, Conor."

A shuddering sob escapes her lips. "I think... Maybe..." She gulps for air. "There's medicine I can take for the anxiety. That would be better."

"Medication is addictive and unnecessary. Lift your arms."

She crosses them, hugging her waist.

I step back just enough to let my hand fly. The hard smack on her ass sends her up on her toes. Her hands drop to the counter, and she releases a half-cry, half-moan.

"Arms up." I spank her again. "I'd love to spend all night reddening your ass."

A deep, reluctant groan sounds in the back of her throat, pulsing a surge of blood to my cock. She loves when I spank her, so much so she'll risk a panic attack just to feel the bite of my palm.

But she still hasn't lifted her arms.

"I'll take your disobedience as a sign you're not ready." I back away from her.

"Wait." She spins around, pinching the bridge of her nose and whispering under her breath, "Fucking hell and damn. Just..." Her hand lowers, and her eyes latch onto mine. "Don't leave me."

A crack rips through my chest. "You think that's what I'm going to do?"

She lifts a shoulder. "I don't know."

The tightness around her mouth suggests there's more she's not saying.

I close the distance, grip her hips, and hoist her onto the counter.

"Let's break it down." I wedge between her legs and give her the full force of my eyes. "Talk."

"Always with the damn talking." She hovers her hands above my shoulders before flattening them on my chest. "You're just so imposing. Forceful. Larger than life. You give me this crazy, buzzing, full-body rush all the time, and my brain just goes splat." She narrows her eyes. "Don't let that go to your head."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"I've spent every second with you for the past ten days, and I keep thinking this buzzing, hyper-aware feeling I get with you is going to wear off. But it doesn't. It just keeps growing stronger and louder and..."

"And?"

"I'm terrified of it. Of this." She gestures between us. "I don't know what you're hiding. I don't know if you're going to break my heart again. I haven't even tried to find a place to live, and that's just...stupid. Then there's the whole spanking thing. Jesus, Jake. Why do I even like that? After Dalton..." Her eyebrows knit together. "I should be throat punching you every time you lay a hand on me."

"Thank you for being honest with me." I cup her jaw and kiss her lips. "I love you."

"I love you back." She touches a finger to my mouth and lingers along my whiskers. "That scares me, too."

"After tonight, there'll be no more secrets between us. And you already have a place to live. If you're not able to forgive me for the hell I put you through, I'll move into Jarret's wing. The Cassidy wing is yours, no matter what."

"I wouldn't ask you to—"

"About the buzzing feeling..." I remove my hat and set it aside. Then I angle my head to drag my nose along her neck. "Did you feel it when we were younger?"

"Yes." Her voice shivers.

"How about three years ago? In the barn?"

"Definitely."

"And you didn't even know it was me." I scrape my teeth against her throat. "You might be stuck with the buzzing." I straighten and brush her hair from her face. "You feel it now?"

"Not so much here." She touches her nose. "Or here." She holds up an elbow. "But pretty much everywhere else." She glances at my twitching mouth and hikes up an eyebrow. "You're letting this go to your head."

"Maybe." I grin. "With regard to the spanking, I know you liked that when we were younger."

"I did?"

"I swatted your ass constantly. Then you'd love up on me, all hot and bothered."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess I did."

"Tell me why you like it."

She considers me for a moment, her gaze slipping up and down my body and making it impossible to keep my dick in check.

"You're strong. Really big." She tilts her head back to look up at me, as if illustrating her point. "A powerhouse of manly muscle and testosterone. Not just your build. It's your disposition. Your deep voice. Your hands."

She clutches one of my arms and runs her fingers through mine. I hold still, hanging on her words, loving the way her mind puzzles things out.

"The parts of you that overpower me," she says, "are the same parts that are so soft and affectionate and tender. That's the attraction. The appeal. I love that I can let my guard down and relinquish control to a man who fires up my ass and takes care of me at the same time. You might be pushy as all hell, but I know if I tell you to stop, you will. That means, when you spank me and bind my wrists, it's one-hundred-percent my choice. There's power in that."

"That's why you watch that foreign film, freezing and replaying the rape scene over and over. You're not trying to control that woman's pain. You want to control your own."

"I guess... Yeah, you're right."

"What else?"

"I love your..." She closes her eyes and groans. "This is going to sound so greedy."

"I won't ever use our talks against you, Conor."

"I know." She gives me her gaze, blinking with vulnerability. "When you do things to me, the kinky things, I love your attention. That single-minded focus. The way you're so into me. It's such a turn-on." With a sigh, she tucks her fingertips under my belt, holding on. "You make a mess of my insides, Jake Holsten."

"I'm about to make a bigger mess. The next few hours are going to be rough." I grip her chin and imprison her eyes. "I know that talking about the ravine feels impossible, but you're strong enough. You already survived it, and here you are, despite it all." I harden my voice with conviction. "You're ready, Conor."

A muscle quivers in her cheek, and she squares her shoulders. Then she slides off the counter, gives me her back, and raises her arms, following my initial command.

My blood sings in awe. No one does courage like Conor Cassidy.

"You know what I find so remarkable about you?" I lift off her shirt and unclasp the bra. "Lower your arms."

"Hm?" She drops her hands to the counter.

"Through the rises and falls..." I feather the backs of my fingers down her bare spine. "Through the ups and downs..." Leaning over her shoulder, I touch my lips to her neck. "You never let the shit in your life define who you are."

"I went through some pretty horrific redefining moments."

Remorse pinches hard in my gut. "But you're still you. You absorbed the good and bad, and the core of you endured. You never broke."

"Give it time." She laughs nervously. "The night's not over yet."

I spin her to face me and fasten my mouth to hers. With my hands caressing her breasts, I kiss her until her muscles loosen and her knees buckle. Then I step back.

"Go to the bedroom. Remove the rest of your clothes." My groin tightens. "Lie face down on the bed and wait for me."

As she willingly walks toward a long night of terrifying memories, my stomach knots with trepidation.

They're not just her memories. They're mine, too.

I failed her that night. Under no circumstances can I fail her again.

Can a soul be delivered from hell?

That's where mine resides, dying a blistering death in the torture of Conor's tears.

We've been at this for an hour, and I've only succeeded in triggering back-to-back anxiety attacks.

Tying her wrists with rope to the headboard shoved her straight into hyperventilation. Covering her back with my weight spiraled her into another sobbing, breathless breakdown.

While prolonged exposure to the triggers benefits her in the long run, it doesn't help us tonight. She's not using her voice or addressing her emotions. She's just trying to keep her lungs filled with air.

I'm starting to convince myself she doesn't need to do this. But I know that's panic talking. It's killing me to see her like this.

"Conor. Look at me." Stretched out beside her on the bed, I tuck her tear-drenched hair behind her ear. "Tell me what those men did to you."

Her gaze darts to the rope on her wrists. Her face scrunches in agony, and a pained keening sound erupts from her throat.

I wrap my arms around her and kiss the track of tears along her cheek. I could endure her misery if I knew it was helping her, but she seems to be retreating deeper inside herself.

Her memories aren't completely repressed. Fragments of them surface in strobe-like bursts of words. It's as if her mind is protecting itself by disassociating from the complete picture.

When I bound her naked, face down, and covered her back with my body, I hoped it would rewrite the script in a safe environment.

But maybe she doesn't need that night rewritten. What she needs is to get in touch with her feelings about it and bear witness to it.

I'm going about this the wrong way.

"Hang on, girl." I drop a kiss on her lips and reach for the knots on her wrists, untying her.

"You're giving up on me?" She lifts her damp face, tracking my movements.

"No. Never." I release her hands from the rope and guide her off the bed. "We're trying something different."

I yank off my shirt, slip it over her head, and straighten it around her legs. Then I unbuckle my belt and slide the leather strap free.

"Hold this." I fold the belt in half and press the ends against her palm. "Like that."

"What are you doing?"

Unzipping my jeans, I let them slide midway down my ass and kneel on the bed with my back to her.

"I'm giving you permission to be angry." I turn my neck and find her eyes over my shoulder. "I'm empowering you to let go of every emotion, thought, and memory you're suppressing. Channel it all through that strap and onto my back."

"What?" She gasps. "No. I'm not going to—"

"Hit me, Conor!" I shout in a tone that makes her jump. "Let it out."

She paces behind me, twitching the belt and breathing heavily.

"I'm right here." I stretch my arms out to the sides. "I want everything you're holding in, no matter how ugly or painful. Every bruise, fracture, ache, tear, scratch, and torment. What's yours is mine. Give it to me. Beat it into me. Do it!"

Her hitched sob penetrates my ears and grips my heart.

Facing away from her, I sit on my heels on the edge of the mattress, hands braced on my thighs and back straight.

Then I wait her out.

Five minutes.

Ten minutes.

She's not going to do it without motivation.

I draw in a breath and release the first painful shove on my exhale. "I fucked those women at the bar. All the girls we went to school with. Shannon, Tina, Courtney—"

The strap whips across my back with a stinging burn, and she cries out, a seething, gut-wrenching sound. "Damn you, Jake."

I slide my tongue across my lips, tasting her rage. "I fucked you in a barn and didn't tell you it was me. I let you believe you were forgettable."

More strikes, one right after another. She has a strong arm, but it's just surface pain. She's not breaking skin.

"I left you in the ravine." I close my eyes against the acidic memory. "You had just been raped and sodomized, and you begged me not to leave you. I did it anyway, too occupied by my own needs."

Her fury explodes, unfettered and shrieking from deep in her chest. I soak in her pain and knot it with my own as she drives the belt against my back.

Every bite on my skin burns hot with her trust, branding me, possessing me. She would never raise a hand to another person. She hits me because I commanded her to do it, because she knows I'll protect her in the fire of her anger.

I keep talking, keep spurring her with reminders of my deceit, omissions, and manipulations.

Until her shattered whisper cuts me off.

"The first one pushed me into the dirt, and he... He..." She swings the strap, pelting my ribs. "He forced himself inside my b-b-butt. He raped me there, and it... God, it hurt. So fucking bad." Her voice breaks with tears, and she hits me again. "I lost my virginity back there, before I lost it the other way, and I fucking hate him for that. I wish I would've been the one to kill him, because I hate him so much for hurting me. It was excruciating, and I bled, and he wouldn't stop. The pain was so deep..." She releases a soul-crushing cry. "It was so deep I felt it cramping in my belly." She falls still. "Then the second one climbed on top of me."

Levi Tibbs. As she describes the trauma he inflicted on her, my eyes burn. My chest aches, and the world seems to slow beneath my fuming breaths.

She drops the belt and comes at me with her fists, pummeling my back as she furiously recounts the tragedy of her sixteenth birthday. Inconceivable emotion pours from her lungs, her voice shaking with anger and tears. She doesn't stop hitting, doesn't stop shouting, until every horrifying detail singes the air and every pound of rage breaks free.

I immerse my entire being in her words, in the images they conjure, and relive the brutality of that night with a hot ember charring my throat.

In that moment, I make the decision to forgive myself. I failed to protect her that night, but I've walked through hell since then, doing everything in my power to keep her safe. I'll spend the rest of my life making sure she's never harmed again.

Eventually, her fists open, rubbing over my back as she cries. "I'm so sorry, Jake. I'm sorry—"

"No sorries." I twist around and gather her in my arms. "No shame. Do you hear me? You gave us exactly what we needed."

I tuck her against me and roll us to our sides, with her back against my chest. Her body sags, arms slack and breaths shredded. I run my fingers through her hair until her eyes drift shut. Then I sit with her in the grief.

Sometime later, she stirs from the silence. "Jake?"

"I'm here." I turn her in my arms and caress her pale face. "How are you feeling?"

"My heart feels like it's beating differently. Clearer. Brighter. Like it's waking after a long hibernation." She stares up at me with puffy, bloodshot eyes. "I think that might've been an enormously healing experience."

"For you and me both."

"Are you okay? Your back..."

"I'm good, Conor. Relieved." I kiss her forehead, her nose, her lips. "We'll still have some hard days ahead. Grief doesn't just come and go in a night. But now we know how to work through it."

"Okay." She rests a hand on my cheek. "You're going to give me answers now, right?"

"You're exhausted. We can wait until—"

"Tonight." Her eyes plead as she sits up.

"Tonight, then."

"Thank you." She slides her arms around my shoulders, hugging me while stroking her marks on my back. "Thank you for helping me. For not giving up."

I ache to kiss her, but once I start, I won't be able to stop. The quicker I tell her everything, the faster I'll be inside her. That's if she absolves the things I've done.

She'll forgive me.

I think she already has.

Turning my head toward her arm, I ghost my lips along colorful sunsets and horses until her inked skin shivers with goosebumps.

"I need to get something." I reluctantly unwrap us and set her on the bed against the pillows. "Stay here."

In a few brisk strides, I reach the dresser and remove a large envelope from the bottom drawer. The seal is still intact, which means she hasn't snooped. Not that she's had the opportunity. I haven't let her out of my sight since the first night she returned home.

"What is that?" She twists her fingers in my t-shirt, where it gathers around her thighs.

"The deed for the land." I return to the bed.

"Julep Ranch?"

"No. The ten-thousand acres the ranch sits on." I set the envelope on her lap. "You can read through all the documents later. For now, just focus on the highlighted sections on the pages I marked with tabs."

I leave her to pick through the legalese and head to the bathroom to prepare a bath.

When the tub is filled, I shut off the faucet and turn to find her standing in the doorway.

"Lorne and I own the land? All of it?" The deed trembles in her hand as she stares down at it. "How? I thought my dad sold it to yours? And this other document?" She shuffles the papers. "It's a trust signed by my mom. I didn't know she had anything like this. Is it real?"

"Yes. I had everything verified by an attorney. Before your mom died, she gave the land to you and Lorne. She put it in your names, and that copy of the deed is documented by the county recorder. She handled everything through the proper channels."

"What about your mom? She owned half of the ranch."

"She owned half of the cattle business. Not the land. The acreage belongs to you and Lorne and no one else." I crook my finger, motioning her closer. "Come here."

"I'm so confused." She steps toward me.

I take the documents from her, set them aside, and test the temperature of the water.

"Did you read the highlighted clauses in the trust?" Sliding my hands up her thighs, I catch the hem of the shirt and inch it up, up, and off.

"Yes, but the verbiage is incomprehensible."

Naked Conor makes conversation incomprehensible.

Toned legs, sinuous curves, raveled red hair, perky tits, and goddamn, that freckle... My jeans aren't big enough for the length of my reaction to her.

Giving her a bath right now was a terrible idea.

I scoop her up and lower her into the tub. "I couldn't make sense of the trust, either. The attorney spelled it out for me. Dunk your head."

As she slips under the water, I reach into my jeans and adjust. The belt is gone. The zipper's undone, and I have nowhere to go with my erection, except...

She comes up for air, clears her face, and her gaze falls directly on my lap. "Are you joining me in here?"

"Not if you want to finish this discussion." I grab the shampoo and focus my hands on washing her hair. "Your mom's trust created hoops for you and Lorne to jump through, meaning you have to meet certain requirements to revoke the Power of Attorney."

"Revoke what Power of Attorney?"

"Rinse your hair." I pick up the conditioner and wait for her to resurface.

"I'll do this." She takes the bottle from me. "Keep talking."

"You own the land, but your mom created a Power of Attorney that appointed our dads as the agents in the event of her death. This granted them the power to manage any and all business transactions and decisions related to the property."

She finishes washing as she absorbs my words. "You're saying Lorne and I own ten-thousand acres, but we have no power over it?"

"You can sell it. That decision still belongs to you and your brother. Not my father."

"We wouldn't." She rubs her brow, frowning and nibbling her lip as she thinks.

Christ, I love watching her cunning mind at work.

"The drilling." Her head pops up, and her jaw tightens. "The Power of Attorney allowed your dad to turn the ranch into an oil field without approval from Lorne or me. Approval we would've never given."

"Exactly."

"But you said we could revoke his power?"

"Not until you meet certain requirements. Those are the hoops I mentioned."

"What are they?" She grips the edge of the tub.

"You must be eighteen, pass a drug test, and show proof of your residency on the property."

"Residency on the property," she echoes quietly, her gaze clouding, turning inward.

"You have to live here, Conor."

"Oh my God." A whisper. She grabs the plug for the drain and yanks it hard. "Is that why you kept me away? To stop me from revoking his power? For what? So he could drill the land? And you—"

I spear her with a glare that ends her accusations. "I kept you away, because there were multiple hits on your life if you returned. My father, among others, would've killed you before they allowed you to live here and file that revocation. And you would've filed it. The moment they started drilling, you would've looked into land ownership and discovered what everyone was keeping from you."

Her eyes stay with mine, tunneling into me as I help her out of the tub and dry her off. Then I wrap the towel around her and guide her into the bedroom.

She sits on the bed, staring at her scarred palm. "The night of my sixteenth birthday..."

"Lorne was the concern." I lower onto the mattress beside her. "He just turned eighteen and met all the requirements to revoke the power from our dads. Dalton and John couldn't let that happen, because they made some crooked deals over the years with some dangerous men. Deals that involved borrowing money they couldn't pay back."

"Money for what?"

"Their extravagant lifestyle and poor business decisions." I sweep an arm around, indicating the estate. "After our moms died, they lived like oil barons, with the finest furnishings, countless luxury trucks, new outbuildings and equipment. They spent and spent, as if the cattle operation was booming. But it wasn't. The ranch was barely breaking even. This went on for fourteen years and reached its snapping point around the night of your birthday. They weren't just going to lose the ranch. They were going to lose their lives at the hands of the men they owed money to."

"But they were sitting on land rich in oil and natural gas."

"Yes."

Her nostrils flare. "Land that didn't belong to them."

"Land they could drill on and profit from as long as you and Lorne didn't live here."

The air clots in my lungs, so heavy and thick I wrestle with it.

"Dalton was involved in this?" The pain in her voice cuts me.

"Your dad made bad decisions with bad men, but he wasn't involved in the threats against your life. He was going to tell Lorne about the Power of Attorney. My dad was not okay with that."

"Because Lorne would've never allowed the drilling. So your dad hired men to kill us. Problem solved." She closes her eyes as a violent quake crashes over her tiny frame. "Do you know how fucked up that is?"

"I've had a couple of years to come to terms with it." And it still keeps me up at night.

"How did he think he would get away with murder?"

"Sheriff Fletcher was in his pocket. He and my dad share a history I haven't been able to work out. What I do know is they were in it together. Fletcher got a cut of the profits in exchange for making the murders go away."

"Except we weren't murdered."

"When my dad hired that hit on you and Lorne..." I grip her hand, lacing our fingers together. "Jarret and I weren't supposed to be there when it happened. That was the first miscalculation. The second fuck up was their decision to rape you before they killed you and Lorne."

She flinches, clutching the knot of the towel against her chest.

I shift our intertwined hands to my lap and capture her eyes. "Sheriff Fletcher tampered with the evidence and testimonies from that night to make sure Lorne went to prison. That took your brother out of the picture."

"Why didn't Dalton turn in your dad and Sheriff Fletcher?"

"Your dad was scared." I grind my teeth. "He owed debts to violent criminals, and your lives were at stake. Yours and his. So he forfeited his shares of the business and took you to Chicago to keep you both alive and allow for the drilling on the land."

"Did the debts get paid back?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Why not?" Her voice bites with suspicion. "Why haven't you turned them over to the authorities?"

Our eyes lock, and our breaths spool out in the space between us. She's not going to like this part.

I adjust my position on the bed to face her and touch the curve of her cheek. "Jarret and I killed a lot of men. Bad men."

"What?" Her throat wobbles with a hard swallow.

"We killed every debt collector and hitman that knew your name and buried the bodies in the ravine."

"No." She shakes her head rigorously, and tears topple over the rims of her eyes. "You'll get caught, Jake. They'll find the bodies, and you'll go to prison and—"

"They won't find the bodies, and Sheriff Fletcher is highly motivated to make all this go away." I hold her face in my hands and catch an errant tear with my thumb. "I have evidence against the sheriff. Conversations between him and my dad. Confessions of his plans to cover up your murder. The payments he received from the drilling. I have enough to put him away for a long fucking time."

"You threatened him."

"Damn straight. If he keeps my sins buried, I'll keep his buried."

"That's dangerous." She stands from the bed and paces through the room.

"Dangerous for him. I never admitted to a crime. He has nothing on me, and my threats ensure he won't come around sniffing for evidence."

"How many bodies?"

"I'm not telling you who, how, or how many. There's no good reason for you to know the details, and I don't need to talk about it. I have no regrets."

"You've lost your mind." She pulls at her damp hair, twisting it around her fingers. "You risked everything, Jake."

"And I'll do it again. In two days."

Her breath holds. She doesn't release it, as if she's afraid she'll say something that proves my point.

I rise from the bed and approach her. "When we made the blood oath that night, none of us hesitated. We didn't hesitate when we sliced open our hands. We didn't hesitate when we uttered the words we had every intention of honoring." I lift her chin with a fingertip. "Jarret and I killed your enemies with that same vehemence. The instant I learned someone was watching you at school, we killed him. We picked them all off, one by one, until we were certain it was safe for you to come home. There is no one left with vested interest in this land."

"Except John Holsten."

"We killed my dad's debt collectors. That means he has no debts. Then we blackmailed him with the evidence I used against the sheriff. I promised not to turn him in if he signed over the ownership of the cattle business and left town." Regret twists my stomach. "I should've killed him."

"But if he doesn't have debts or any reason to return..."

"Revenge can be a pretty big motivator. He was looking at making a shit ton of money off this land, and Jarret and I took that away. To say he was livid when he left is an understatement. But he also knows that if he returns, we'll end him."

She chews on that for a moment, pacing, contemplating.

"Now that you live here," I say, narrowing my eyes when she opens her mouth, "we'll start the process that gives you full power over the land."

She nods, continues to pace, then jumps into a barrage of follow-up questions.

We spend the next hour rehashing it all again. As I clarify every detail, my eyes never stray from hers. Where does she stand on all this? Her thoughts are inscrutable.

It's after midnight when she sits on the edge of the bed and sighs. "One thing's for sure. You never do anything half-assed." She looks at me with the same scrutiny I've been giving her. "When you protect those you love, you do it with every breath in your body."

"The same can be said when I hurt those I love." I stand over her, shirtless, exhausted, and saddled with sins. "I abandoned you when you needed me in Chicago. I broke your heart when you returned home. I withheld vital information to manipulate you into obeying me." A jagged breath drags from my chest. "I don't deserve you."

"The one who believes he doesn't deserve me is the only one who does." Her gaze drifts away for the span of a thousand unraveling knots. Then she meets my eyes again. "I forgive you."

I breathe in, and my chest expands with the enormity of those three words.

"I forgave you ten days ago." She reaches for my hand. "When you held my wrist in the truck, I knew I would accept everything you've done to bring us to this point. Right here. Together."

Jake towers over me, an imposing pillar of strength and promise. He said I would talk about the ravine, and I did. He said he would tell me everything, and he did. Only one thing remains, and it thrums through the bedroom, engulfing my senses.

"No more miles between us." The predatory intensity in his eyes captures, claims, and marks his territory.

"No more years." I remain on the edge of the bed before him, trapped in his sights.

"No more secrets." His unblinking gaze stares through me with unmasked desire. Jaw locked and hands flexing at his sides, he looks as if he's going to eat me alive.

"I love you, Jake Holsten." I lick my lips, my mouth dry. "Even if you don't go slow. Even if it's not that great."

He laughs, a dark rumble of thunder. "I'm confident you'll come on my cock this time. Multiple times."

A pleasurable shiver skips up my spine. "If I knew it was you in the barn that night..."

"Tonight, you know. Take off the shirt." His command ravishes my body, thrusting into me with deep vibrating tones.

I lift the shirt up and off.

He drinks in my nudity, his attention loving me raw and his dominant nature owning my depths.

"On your knees." He points at the rug beneath his bare feet.

He wears jeans, unbuttoned and unzipped, and nothing else. His hot, hard, half-naked body is incentive enough to run my mouth all over him. But it's instinct that slides me off the bed and onto the floor. The instinct to please him, to surrender to him in every way.

As I lower to my knees, his breathing loses rhythm, his chest a heaving slab of power that contracts and expands. I rest my hands on his trim hips, and the position puts me at eye level with the hardness straining against his briefs through the open zipper.

Three years ago, I held his cock in my hand in the dark. I haven't actually seen it since we were sixteen, but I felt every steely inch of him inside me that night.

"You said something to me in the barn." I feather my fingers along the rigid shape of him through the cotton. "Do you remember? You pressed your lips—"

"Against your cheek. I wanted you to feel my voice when I said, I love you. I belong to you. No matter the time or distance, I'm yours."

His words decimate me. The severe look on his face accelerates my pulse. His hunger is raw, palpable, and only a couple layers of clothes away from becoming very real inside me.

"Pull me out." He tangles his fingers in my hair.

My skin tingles and heats as I lower his jeans and underwear and free his swollen length. Jesus, he's bigger than I remember, thicker, harder, and hungry.

His balls hang heavy and full beneath his jutting cock. A clear bead of arousal wells on the plump tip, and I ache to catch it with my tongue.

"I need you to take the edge off." His voice strangles. "It's been too long, and... Goddamn, stop staring at it." His features tense as if he's in pain. "Put it in your mouth, Conor."

I slide my lips over his shaft, relishing the taste of that salty drop. I draw him in until he bumps the back of my throat, and his growly groan envelopes me, urging me to suck root to tip and back again.

He tightens the fist in my hair, and I let myself go, tonguing the velvety skin with a yearning I've only ever felt with him.

The room pulses with our uneven breaths, and the rug offers little comfort beneath my knees. But I'm exactly where I want to be. Where I'm supposed to be.

I've always been his.

The suction of my mouth muffles my moans as his sounds run wild. Grunting, guttural groans reverberate in his chest and charge the air with enough sexual energy to raise the hairs on my nape.

"Fuck, Conor." His head drops back, exposing the taut cords in his neck. He clamps his hands against my scalp and drives my movements, fucking my face, and panting heavily. "I'm so close. Shit. Oh God, fuck, I'm gonna fucking come."

His eyes latch onto mine, and my pussy clenches. I sheath my teeth, suck him hard, and send him over the edge. I'm so hungry for him my heart rate explodes with the first gush of his release against my throat. He throbs against my tongue, grunting and moaning as he empties himself in my mouth.

His legs tremble beneath my hands, and his fingers move to my face, roving across my lips where they seal around his softening cock.

"Now I can take my time with you." He slips from my mouth, shoves off his jeans and underwear, and hoists me onto the bed.

His hands grip my thighs, and with a forceful yank, he brings my butt to the edge of the mattress. Then he buries his face between my legs.

I fall back, melting beneath the wet hot sensations of his lips and tongue. The scruff of his whiskers burns my skin, and his fingers dig against my thighs, holding me open for his punishing mouth.

He eats me like he's starving. The same starvation that depletes my lungs and coils in my core. His teasing flicks and bites ignite an unbearable need inside me, driving me to madness.

"I need your cock." I squirm beneath him, tugging on the messy brown strands of his hair.

But there's no denying him. He devours my pussy until I detonate against his mouth and slump into a puddle of spent limbs and liquid pleasure.

He prowls up my body and scoots us to the center of the bed. Knees between my legs, he stretches me open, his cock hanging hard and long between us, twitching with readiness.

This is really happening. It won't be stolen from us this time. It's not faceless or nameless. It's just him and me and vibrating awareness.

"It took us twenty-two years to get here." I wrap a hand around his steely girth and stroke a hoarse moan from his throat.

He lowers his mouth to mine, filling my horizon with his sexy bedroom eyes. "You know what they say about hard-earned happiness."

"We won't be so quick to part with it." I kiss his scruffy jaw. "No matter what happens, I'll fight for this. For us. For—"

His tongue parts my mouth and feeds on my words, flooding my taste buds with the tang of my arousal.

It's a touching, sweltering, slow-burn kiss that sizzles through my veins and smolders the passion between us. His lips worship mine, and his hand holds my face, orienting my head as he ravages me, lick by wicked lick.

The lazy swirls of his tongue, his caressing fingers, his soft groans of contentment—this is my cowboy, devoted and patient, taking his time, indulging himself while building a fire that will never burn out.

As that fire grows and roars into something more demanding, he edges back. Not to end this, but to bask in the moment before we begin.

He runs his fingers up my bare arms, sending electricity to my heart, his eyes firmly fastened on mine.

Staring isn't what I'd call it. His gaze inhabits, like it belongs on my face, connecting us between slow, infrequent blinks.

His eyes remind me of a fine-grained saddle, deep brown with striations of golden hues. Tough and dependable, crafted to hold and support through years of hardship.

He moves closer with those eyes that peer so deeply into mine. Then he whispers my name as the wide crown of his cock breaches me.

Slowly, he sinks inside, and a long groan vibrates in his throat. His sounds, the intense feel of him, the warmth of his breath on my lips—he's my heaven.

He begins to thrust, and my breathing grows shallow. The focused look on his face melts me into the mattress, the pleasure enormous, gripping my body with bursts of sensations. I squirm against the invasion, throwing my head back and gulping for air.

With a finger on my chin, he directs my face to his, his gaze absorbing the hunger in mine and returning it tenfold. There's no smile in his expression. Only white-hot intensity, the sparks of what will soon become an inferno.

He drives deeper inside me, and my inner walls relax, welcoming him, needing more. Being with him in such an intimate way is mind-blowing. He is love and safety. A proven cure for the soul.

His deep grunts are therapeutic. His kisses are remedies, but it's the feel of his body inside me that heals. Or maybe it's all of him and all of me combined.

Every thrust restores what was stolen from us. His constant gaze revives what we lost. There's something in that look of his I'll never find in another person. It's the bridge between us, the bond that cements us together.

His lips touch mine, and his tongue carves out my mouth, his kisses long and penetrating.

I gasp, and he thrusts harder.

We moan together and move faster.

Arms and legs entwined.

Tongues rubbing and tangling.

Lost in the rhythmic throb of our beating hearts.

Then he slides out and shifts to my side.

From the nightstand, he grabs a remote and aims it at the stereo across the room. A second later, the intro to a familiar song hums through the speakers.

"Now we're going to do this the reluctant way." He flips me to my stomach. "Until you're no longer reluctant. Focus on my voice."

Before I can resist, he covers my back with his warm, heavy body and jumps in with the music, singing Meant to Be by Bebe Rexha and Florida Georgia Line.

The darkness tries to pull me under, seizing my chest and tensing my muscles. But I cling to the security of his heavy weight and the sultry twang in his voice as he sings.

I'm with Jake, and his presence is so potent it armors me in a sheath of warm protective skin and humming notes, promising I'll never be alone again.

Not everything's meant to be, but Jake and I are inevitable. We're knotted together, and damn if he doesn't know how to tie a knot that withstands the test of time.

He wraps tendrils of red hair around his fist and tilts my neck back, positioning my face in his line of sight. His knees push my legs apart, and his free hand notches his cock against my pussy.

My breaths careen into gasps, and his singing cuts off.

"I love you." With his lips on mine, he sinks into my wet heat from behind.

The indomitable size of him stretches my inner walls, and I arch off the bed, moaning against his mouth.

"Goddamn, Conor." He buries himself to the root, his body iron hard and shaking against me. "You're so fucking tight. Do you feel that? You're clamping down on me."

"I feel everything."

I don't know if it's the position or the fact that he's riding me bareback, but my God, I feel his hardness, his heat, every ridge and twitching pulse of him.

Neither of us have ever had sex without a condom. Willing sex, that is. When we had a conversation about it last week, he learned that I'm still on the pill.

"Nothing between us." He thrusts slowly, spiraling electric sparks through my body. "Never again. Fuck, you feel incredible."

He pulls out and moves me onto my side, facing away from him. Then he kneels against the backs of my thighs and drives into me from behind.

"Ahhh." His head falls back. "Feels so fucking good." He surges into me, panting as he tweaks my nipple and plays with my clit. "God, you're so wet and snug. Fucking perfect."

The position gives him full access to my body, and his hands roam everywhere, rubbing and pinching my heated flesh. I rock against his thrusts and reach up to scrape my fingers along his sculpted torso, delighting in the flex of masculine strength as he bends over my hip and drives harder inside me.

Ravenous desire mounts between us. His pelvis collides with my backside, his cock stabbing in and out, demanding more, needing release. We're famine and drought, starving and wanton, fucking like our lives depend on it.

"I need your mouth." He rolls me to my back.

Crawling between my legs, he plants his lips over mine and grinds his way back inside me.

With a groan, he grips the back of my head and pulls me closer to his hungry mouth. His other arm hooks around my lower back, crushing our bodies together.

Then he fucks me into a languid rhythm, his hips rolling against mine with delicious friction. He holds me buoyant, drifting through a lofty, dreamlike state, with none of the frenzied desperation that reunited us. We're just as impassioned, more so, but in a dazed, spellbound way that drugs the senses and intensifies the fever.

I'm lost in him, in the fusion of our heart beats, in the hooded sensuality of his eyes as he watches me.

He moves in and out of my body and kisses me achingly. Then he watches me again. Back and forth. Kissing, watching, both connections are possessive and inescapable as he digs his cock deeper inside me.

I slide my hands down his back and palm his ass, gripping the rigid muscle.

He's a stallion between my legs, possessing me with his touch, all brawn and power and huffing breaths, a steady and bucking rush of animalistic hunger and watchful eyes.

It's his unwavering eye contact that sends me over. I grind against him, moaning and gasping as every pleasure zone inside me bursts into full-body shock waves.

His mouth swallows my screams as he joins me with spasmodic jerks of his hips. We climax together with our entire bodies, every inch of him sliding against every inch of me in a rhapsody of prickling skin and electric ripples.

He continues to thrust, kissing me languorously as his cock strokes in and out, throbbing against my walls. I wrap my arms and legs around him, inhaling his gasps and locking our souls together.

"That was... Jesus, Conor." He half-groans, half-laughs against my neck. "And we're only getting started. I fucking love you."

For the next few hours, I relearn his rough edges, the intoxication of his breath, the scar on his calf from the rattlesnake bite, and the sounds his throat makes when he's turned on. I rediscover all my favorite things—the dimples above his ass, the way his hair falls around my scraping fingers, the twitches in his legs when he comes, and the elation in his eyes when I scream his name.

When we aren't lost in the throes of orgasm, I curl up against his chest and fall into an enchanted coma as he strokes my hair with reverent fingers. We talk about everything from school work to cattle ranching and the mischief we stirred up as kids. He hates snakes and wants children. I love all animals, and I'm terrified to get pregnant. He thinks I smell like wildflowers and sweet cream frosting. I accuse him of taking Viagra and injecting steroids. We both wish we knew our mothers before they died.

I snuggle against his hard body, chest to chest, and hook a leg over his hip. "Why do you think my mom created those hoops for Lorne and me to jump through?"

"It's an incentive trust, which isn't uncommon. My guess is she thought if you cared about the land, you would live here and work for it. College was the exception, as long as the ranch was your permanent address."

"Makes sense, I guess." I nuzzle my nose against his neck, breathing in his spicy male scent. "What's the state of the ranch? Did it go into bankruptcy?"

"I retained some of the profit from the drilling and kept the business out of the red. Jarret streamlined the entire operation and hired better workers. Now I'm focused on the accounting and making better investment decisions."

As he launches into a long-winded explanation on business models and money stuff, my eyes start to glaze over.

"By next year, we'll be profitable again." He pushes me onto my back and slides over my body, licking and kissing my breasts.

"What are you doing?" I shiver beneath his diabolical tongue.

"Clearly, you need to be stimulated by something other than my intelligence."

"Hey, now..." I laugh. "Don't judge me because I have a thing for naked cowboys with killer abs and endless stamina."

"Well, this naked cowboy has a thing for you."

The thing in question jabs against my thigh, buzzing a throb between my legs.

"The best course of action on this investment," he says, biting my nipple, "is to go all in."

He does just that, loving me hard into the mattress until we both pass out. Then he wakes me a few hours later and takes me again. By the time morning rolls around, I know Jake in every way—fast and brutal, slow and sensual, front and back, over and under, and side to side.

I fell in love with him when we were kids, before I understood the language of love.

Tonight, I fall harder than ever before. With every kiss, glance, smile, and evocative word, he doesn't just stitch my heart back together. He welds it to his own.

We sleep in the next day and take the horses out for a ride before lunch. I'll never grow tired of seeing Jake in the saddle. With his legs encased in denim, worn boots in the stirrups, and the Stetson perched low on his pensive brow, his sex appeal ropes me in and ties me up.

The fit of his t-shirt outlines grooves of six-pack abs, the curvature of pectorals, and the nub of nipples. The shadow of his hat darkens his tanned face, his features made darker by the scruff on his chiseled jawline. His striking good looks, the sensual way his lips move in a kiss, the devotion in his hands as they trace the curves of my body—who he is, what is captivating about him, comes from deep within.

His soul glows through his skin and radiates from his actions. He embodies all the rugged beauty in the world, and I'm caught up in it, in him, in the magic floating across the meadow and swirling around us.

But as nighttime approaches, I can't ignore the nervous energy gathering inside me.

Levi Tibbs goes free tomorrow.

We're all thinking about it, dwelling on the details of the plan. After a silent, tense dinner, Jake and Jarret decide to take me dancing to get our minds off it.

Since the Big Sugar is the only bar in town, that's where we end up an hour later.

The townsfolk of Sandbank congregate in packs of denim, leather, and wide-brimmed hats. Their boots scrape across floors covered in ground peanut shells, and distrust tapers their eyes as our party of three settles into a high-top table.

It's not just my tattoos that raise their hackles. Though, that's part of it. Women in this town just don't put ink on their skin. Period.

Their main point of interest is the arm Jake rests around my shoulders. The fact that we're together is enough to ripple whispers of controversy through the bar.

He leans in and drags his nose along my cheek. "Ignore them."

Hard to ignore all the women ogling my cowboy like he's the juiciest slab of meat in three counties. Last time I was here, I swore to a table of old classmates that I wouldn't take their playboy off the market.

The fact that he's been with a lot of these women riles a toxic, gnawing ache in my gut.

I shove back my shoulders and rise from the stool. "I need a beer. You guys want anything?"

"A beer?" Jake narrows his eyes. "You're going to drink?"

"I'm twenty-two years old." I shrug. "'bout time I give it a try."

"You can share mine." He gets Jarret's order and ambles to the bar.

Every female in the bar watches him pass, eyes glued to his ass as he leans a denim-clad hip against the bar and tips his hat at the bartender.

He has the kind of intimidating beauty that stops a woman in her tracks. He must be used to it, the hitching of breaths and the sweep of greedy eyes. His confident nonchalance about it only makes them stare longer and pine harder.

My hands ball into fists on my lap. "I'm in high school again."

"You were pretty back then." Jarret uncurls my fingers and gives my hand a gentle pat. "But you're unbelievably gorgeous now. Those women are so threatened by you they don't know what to do with themselves."

I glance down at my plain white tee, tattered jeans, and beat-up square toe boots. I've never put girly products on my face or in my hair. Jarret's judgment must be clouded by his affection for me.

The familiar faces around me are all done up with pretty make-up, their hair ironed and sprayed or whatever they do to make it so shiny and straight. Except that one. I squint at the blonde perched at the end of the bar, watching her as she stares a hole through Jake.

She's not even trying to blend in with her fitted black trousers, button-up shirt, high-heeled pumps, and curly hair that cascades around her shoulders, down her back, and everywhere. She runs a hand over it, patting down the unruly locks, like it's a nervous habit. Her hair is natural and beautiful. Hell, she is beautiful.

And she's not from around here.

"Who is that woman?" I poke Jarret's leg. "Do you see the...?"

He's already gawking at her with his tongue sliding across his lip. "I don't know, but tomorrow morning, I'll tell you what her O face looks like."

"Don't be a pig."

He laughs and cuts himself off. "Oh shit. Here she comes."

She slides off the stool and glides toward us, navigating those heels through the sawdust of tossed peanut shells.

"She has that gleam in her eyes." He stares at her with creases marring his brow.

"What gleam?"

"She's on the hunt, and it has nothing to do with my irresistible charm."

"Oh, brother." I shake my head, biting down on a smile.

At the bar, Jake collects the beers and heads back. His longer strides catch up with the woman, and they arrive at the table together.

He straddles the stool beside me and passes a beer to Jarret.

"Um... Hi." The woman hooks a thumb under the purse strap on her shoulder. "You're the Holsten twins, right?"

"Yup." Jarret takes a long draw on the bottle and stares her up and down, lingering on her chest, then her lips.

I kick his boot beneath the table. "Women don't like to be leered at."

She inclines her head at me, blue eyes shining with gratitude. "You must be Conor Cassidy."

My scalp tingles. How does an out-of-towner know my name?

Jake slides his beer in front of me, his attention on the woman. "And you are?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" Jarret rests his forearms on the table and captures her gaze. "That's your name?"

"Yeah." Her smile tightens at the corners. "Maybe Quinn. Mind if I sit?"

Jarret nods and waits for her to lower onto the stool.

I sip from the beer, surprised by the tangy flavor. I don't love it, but I don't hate it, either. I pass it back to Jake.

"So, Maybe..." Jarret tilts his hat, scrutinizing her. "Which news network do you work for?"

News network? A chill works its way down my spine. Is she a reporter? How does he know?

"Oh, that's not..." She purses her lips. "I'm just passing through."

Jake bumps the hat up on his head and shoots her his patent glare. "The only folks passing through this town are investigative journalists."

My stomach buckles. He said the police wouldn't be snooping around, but I never considered the likelihood of reporters smelling out our story.

"Who do you work for, Maybe Quinn?" Jarret takes another sip of beer, eying her around the bottle.

She sighs and drums pink-colored nails on the table. "Freelance. I write the story and sell it to the highest bidder."

What the fuck? She intends to profit from our misery?

"What's the story?" I can't stifle the bitterness in my tone.

"Levi Tibbs is getting released tomorrow." Her hand goes to her hair, pressing down the curls around her shoulders. "What are you three planning to do about that?"

Levi Tibbs' release isn't public knowledge. How much does she already know?

"What are we planning? Well, we're going to drink our beers." Jarret lifts his and throws back a long swill. "We'll probably warm up that dance floor. Then I'll work off some steam in a warm, feisty body." His gaze dips along hers and returns to her eyes. "You're welcome to join the party. Particularly the last part."

"I think not." Her words are clipped, but her breathing accelerates, pulsing her nostrils.

"Then I expect you'll find your way out of town and back to wherever you came from."

"I'm gonna dance with my girl." Jake stands and tips his hat at Maybe. "Ma'am."

He grips my hand and tugs me off the stool and through the bar. By the time we reach the dance floor, my nerves are spitting sparks.

"Jake." I pull on his neck until he lowers his ear to my mouth. "What are you going to do? She's sniffing around, and if she digs shit up, we're going to have one helluva—"

He grabs my rear with both hands, hoists me up his chest, and devours my mouth. His tongue thrusts past my lips and steals my breath in a kiss that's neither soft nor tender. It's a shut-the-fuck-up kiss that threatens he'll spank my ass if I don't comply.

A few older couples step and swing around us to the slow music, rubbernecking to get a good look at our scandalous display of affection.

I ease back and stretch my boots toward the floor. "Aren't you concerned?"

"Jarret's dealing with it." He stares at my mouth.

A glance at the table confirms Jarret is dealing with something. He leans into Maybe's space, caging her with his arms. Whatever he's saying turns her face red. The enraged kind of red.

"He'll play with her for a while." Jake pinches my chin, forcing my eyes to his. "Then he'll send her home with a dazed smile on her face."

"If you say so."

The song changes to Body Like A Back Road by Sam Hunt, crackling the air with the upbeat rhythm.

Jake touches the brim of his hat and holds out a hand, staring at me expectedly.

The enticing look on his face is enough to replace my tumbling anxiety with a reckless smile. I tuck my lips together, but the grin pushes through, lighting a flicker in his eyes.

When his mouth starts moving and his soft singing reaches my ears, I'm a goner.

We step toward each other at the same time. Our hands connect, and we glide effortlessly across the dance floor as he drawls the lyrics in his deep, seductive voice.

He's not big on footwork or hip twists. His boots kick out here and there, but his best moves are all in his shoulders and neck. He sensually rolls his body into the strength of his arms as he swings me around and dips me low to the floor.

His hands roam constantly, caressing every inch of me. He bends me backward over his knee, his fingers branding the skin above my waistband. Then he sets me free, and I spin and dance around him, smiling up at his indulgent expression.

Despite his brawny build, he doesn't look stiff or uncomfortable. His subtle steps flow easily with mine, his body loose and competent and sexy as hell. And his eyes... God, the man has a habit of looking at me. The intensity in those dark brown depths, the way he tracks my movements, never straying, barely blinking.

I whirl behind him, hair whipping in my face as I snatch his hat. He pivots toward me, singing with a scowl that desperately wants to smile. I set the Stetson on my head.

His lips twitch. His hands fall to my butt, and he uses his grip to yank me up against him and wriggle my hips. I run my fingers through his messy hair and sing with him, hungry and breathless.

Our mouths gravitate closer, eyes locked, hearts pounding. I move in to steal a kiss, but he beats me to it, fastening our lips and rubbing his tongue against mine.

Then he snags his hat back and swings me into another song. No footwork. No technique. I simply float in his arms as he dips, drops, and lifts me through aerials, waterfalls, and slides like I weigh nothing.

The firmness of his hands heats my skin. The confidence in his stance revs my blood. His unwavering attention weakens my knees and melts my bones.

When we reach the end of the fifth or sixth song, I'm so aroused my panties are soaked.

"I need to use the ladies room." I leave him with a kiss and push my way through the congregation.

The locals might be leery of me, but they didn't hesitate to crowd around the dance floor to watch me rub up against their favorite cowboy.

After a short wait in line, I step into the single-occupancy bathroom and empty my bladder. As I wash my hands, I cringe at the reflection in the mirror. Sweat dampens my hair, face, neck, and... I lift an elbow. Yep, armpit sweat.

"Jesus, you're a hot mess." I gather paper towels and start dabbing.

Am I glowing? I blink at the mirror, and my mouth wobbles. Definitely glowing. My eyes are bright, my cheeks flushed. I'm radiating happiness, and I feel it, from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes. For the first time in six years, I feel like myself again.

It's the ranch. It's Ketchup and Jarret and Jake. But most of all, it's the sense of overwhelming relief. My shoulders fall back without thought. My boots feel twenty pounds lighter. Every ugly, twisted, bitter regret inside me is still there. It's just easier to carry now. I no longer feel burdened by it.

I no longer have to carry it alone.

The sudden urge to grab my guy and drive home with the windows rolled down turns me toward the door. I swing it open, and a huge body storms in, shoving me backward.

"What the—?" I stare up at Jake's face, and my heart slams against my ribs.

He locks the door and prowls toward me with a carnivorous glint in his eyes.

I stumble back with nowhere to go in the small room. He stays on me, and we circle each other, assessing, waiting to see who will make the first move.

Should I run for the door? Or surrender to whatever he has in mind?

As if I have a choice.

"There's a line for the bathroom." My voice is breathy.

"Let them listen." He sets his hat on the sink behind him. Then he lunges, catches me in his arms, and crushes my chest against his.

"Jake—"

His kiss punishes my mouth with its potency. His tongue invades, and I yield, liquefying in his heady embrace. His hands capture mine, pinning my wrists behind my back as he thrusts his hips up against me.

He's holding my wrists. It's a powerful feeling. A fucking invigorating feeling, and I throw my head back, inviting him to lick a fiery trail down my neck.

"I need inside you." He wraps a hand around my throat, his breaths erratic. "Right here. Now."

Other than the barn, I've only had sex in a bed. That's what this is about. Yeah, he's horny. But it's more than that.

Everything he does is so intricately planned and thought out, so attentive and respectful. Banging me in a public restroom isn't meant to degrade me. He's reinforcing his dominance, letting me know that he decides when, where, and how.

Damn if that doesn't make me hot in all the right places.

As he forces my back against the door and fucks my mouth with his tongue, I relinquish control and gladly turn over the burden of power into his capable hands.

His fingers release my fly, and he crouches to push my jeans and panties to my boots. Then he shoves up my shirt, yanks down the cups of my bra.

"Fuck, Conor." He kisses and bites my breasts, plumping them up in his hands and lifting them to his ravenous mouth. "Watching you dance, putting my hands all over you... You're so goddamn sexy."

He grinds his erection against my bare thigh, sending a fresh gush of wetness between my legs. Then his hand is there, sliding along my sensitive flesh and sinking inside.

I swallow noisy gasps of pleasure as he fingers me into a single pulsating throb of need.

Just as I'm about to peak, his hand vanishes, and the sound of his zipper shoots a thrill through my body.

"You're going to come on my cock." He tugs down his jeans.

I wrap my arms around his shoulders and fumble my mouth against his, ravaging his lips with mindless urgency.

He lifts me up the door and lines up his cock with the entrance of my pussy.

Then he pushes in, hard and fast, seating himself to the root.

We groan together, shaking and clinging to each other. I'm tied up in my clothes, leaving all my weight in his hands. The jeans around my boots bind my ankles and allow my knees to open just enough for him to slam into me.

His fingers grip my thighs. His body nails me against the door. My hands seek any part of him I can reach, digging fingernails into his shirt, biceps, and neck.

He's fire and ruthlessness, and I'm desperate to be burned and consumed. Together, we're a heaving, grunting, hungry battlefield, hunting and raiding, chasing and pillaging.

Fingers scratch. Lips ensnare. Muscles contract, and bodies bend. We give and take and fuck with abandon.

When his hand returns to my throat and presses down on my windpipe, a new sensation ignites beneath my skin. Shameless and wanton, my body pulses harder, flooding adrenaline through my veins, roiling my blood, and tightening the deepest parts of me.

"Jake." I stare into his eyes. "I'm going to—"

I come suddenly, violently, and with such great force I clamp down around him, causing him to choke on a breath.

He pounds into me, rattling the door as he gulps for air and climaxes on his exhale. His hand slides off my throat, and hips thrust, slowing the rhythm and milking every last drop.

"You're wrecking me." He tucks himself away and goes to work on my clothes, straightening and zipping. "You know what I'm going to do every night for the rest of our lives?"

"Get wrecked inside my body?"

"That's the plan." He snatches his hat, dusts it off, and sets it on his head. "Let's go home and do it again."

In every person's life, there's a point of no return. Honoring our teenage pact is that point for me. I weighed the risks. Pored over the plan. Considered every angle. There's no way I can stop myself from seeing this through.

But Levi Tibbs can.

All he has to do is pass our test.

He was released this morning from a correctional facility an hour's drive from Sandbank. His freedom was the first thing on my mind when I woke, and the ache that amassed in my throat has persisted into the afternoon.

Am I scared?

Fucking petrified.

Will I chicken out at the last minute?

Not a chance in hell.

I sit on a wobbly wooden chair in a decrepit shack on the outskirts of town. My leg bounces restlessly as Jake and Jarret move around me, checking weapons and making minor adjustments to the musty furniture.

They told me about this place a week ago when we discussed the plan. Surrounded by woods in the middle of nowhere, the tiny one-room house was bought and paid for by their dad years ago.

John Holsten never told his sons about it. Jake discovered the property during his investigation into his dad's secrets.

The significance of this shack is the duffel bag of money hidden under the floorboard.

When Jake searched the place a few years ago, he found the bag. Ten grand in cash. Left behind by two hitmen the night they went to the ravine to commit murder.

We know it's their money because the bag includes photos, personal belongings, and other identification. We know John Holsten let them stay here to prepare for my murder. And we know Levi Tibbs will return for that cash.

As a registered sex offender, he's not allowed outside after dark. He's not permitted within two-thousand feet of a child, and he only has the cash that was on him during the time of his arrest. That severely limits where he can stay the night. The shack is his only option.

Beyond the grimy window, the sun begins its downward arc, sinking an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"He should be here by now." I clamp a hand down on my knee to stall the nervous bouncing.

"There's only one Greyhound bus to Sandbank." Jake leans against the wall, hat tipped downward and legs crossed at the ankles—the patient, sexy slouch of a confident man. "An hour walk from the bus station puts him here in about twenty minutes."

"Unless he hitchhikes."

"He might." Jake nods. "Though I don't think he'll want anyone knowing he's here. Witnesses lead to questions, and questions could lead to the money he claimed he never received."

"And you're sure he won't have a GPS tracker?"

Most states require sex offenders to wear ankle bracelets.

"I'm certain." He nudges up the Stetson to meet my eyes. "Oklahoma only puts those on habitual offenders. This was his first offense."

And last. Sucks for him. A monitoring device might've saved his life. Hard to bury a body with a tamper-free GPS tracker attached to it.

"You can still back out." Jarret lowers into the chair across the table from me. "We'll get him, Conor. You don't have to be here when it happens."

"I'm not freaking out. I would just feel better if we were all in position."

"All right." He rises from the chair and ruffles my hair. "Remember, whatever that fucker says to you—"

"I know. I'll be fine."

If I can survive what Levi Tibbs did to me that night, I can survive his hateful words.

"What about the situation with Maybe Quinn?" I arch a brow. "Is that dealt with?"

Jarret pokes his tongue into his cheek and stares down at the floor. A strange huffing sound passes his lips, and he turns toward the door. "Don't worry about her."

"That doesn't sound very convincing."

He steps outside, and a moment later, his shadow flickers past the side window.

No doubt he wants to get his dick wet with the journalist, but he would never let a woman jeopardize our safety. I know his head's in the game as he waits outside that window, hidden from sight with a gun in his hand, ready to shoot through the glass if needed.

Jake pushes off the wall and stands in front of the only door. He surveys the room, as if looking at it through the eyes of the man who will walk in at any time.

I perch on a chair behind a table. The long wooden surface will be the only thing separating me from Levi Tibbs.

My motorcycle sits outside the window behind me. Levi won't see it when he approaches the shack, but he'll spot it through the glass when he steps inside. We positioned the bike there to give him the sense that I'm alone.

Beside me, a sagging couch faces the door. Jake inched it away from the wall, just enough to squeeze behind it, but not enough for Levi to notice it moved.

Jake ambles toward me and cups my chin in his strong hand.

"I love you." I fill my eyes with the words and see them reflected in his.

"It's almost over." He kisses my lips, grabs the shotgun off the table, and takes his position behind the couch.

Then we wait.

Five minutes. My muscles quiver and twitch.

Ten minutes. Heart palpitations tighten my chest.

Fifteen minutes. The scuff of footsteps sound outside the door.

My lungs collapse. My breath cuts off, and I fight the urge to glance at the couch and window. The guys will stay concealed. I just need to focus on schooling my expression and not losing my shit.

Placing my hands on the table, I relax my joints and try to look as nonthreatening as possible.

The door swings open.

Levi Tibbs stands on the threshold, backlit by the glow of the afternoon sun. His eyes converge with mine. His brows jump up, and his breath chokes.

He composes himself quickly and lowers his backpack to the floor while scanning the room for threats.

Looks like he lost weight. He was skinny before, but now he's all gangly and sallow in trousers that hang on his shapeless legs.

Same evil gray eyes, glinting like razor blades as he leans back and surveys the perimeter outside.

Black hair crops close to his scalp, and his hands flex at his sides. Same hands that bruised my flesh and held a knife against my throat. Same thin lips that stretched around the gag Jake shoved in his mouth.

This is the man who stole my virginity. If Jake hadn't gone after him that night, he might've gotten away with it.

His gaze ticks between me and the gravel road out front until it lands on the window behind me. He registers the motorcycle, and a sick smile pulls at the corner of his mouth.

"Well, I'll be damned." He steps all the way inside and closes the door. "You came here alone? How did you know about this place?"

"I heard John Holsten mention it once. I figured you might've heard about it, too, and thought you'd come here for a free night's sleep before skipping town."

He glances at the floorboard where he stashed his money six years ago. I keep my eyes on his.

"You're either stupid or you're really fucking stupid." He lowers into the closest chair, sitting across the table from me, exactly as we hoped.

"Waiting for you to come after me would've been stupid. Would you have done that?"

"What? Gone after you?" He wets his lips and gives my chest a skin-crawling examination. "You sent me to prison, you fucking bitch. What do you think?"

"The prosecutor sent you to prison."

His gaze darts to mine, his expression oily and hostile. "I can still feel your tight cunt. You bled all over me, and I haven't stopped thinking about it for six years, about how I was your first. I bet you think about it, too."

I hate that Jake heard that. But he was there that night, right beside me in hell, watching the whole thing. As my mind replays it in agonizing detail, a bitter tang floods my mouth and burns in my throat.

I clear my voice. "I came here to get closure. Did you receive my letter?"

"I jerked off to it every night." His hand slides under the table.

Part of me wishes he kept that hand on his lap. It might've saved his life.

But a bigger part of me, the part that wants this to end, is relieved he failed the test.

He reaches for the pistol taped beneath the surface of the table. A pistol we assumed he put there six years ago.

"You're right. I would've come for you." He yanks the gun free, cocked and aimed at my head. "Thanks for saving me a trip across town."

He stands and shoves the table aside, leaving three feet of nothingness between us. My heart races.

"Take off your jeans." He waves the pistol at me. "Everything below the waist."

A swallow sticks in my throat as I shake my head.

His face reddens, and his hand tightens around the gun. Evidently, he wants to rape me while I'm still breathing. Otherwise, he would've squeezed that trigger by now.

"You want it rough, huh?" He steps toward me and tenses, his gaze swinging toward the couch.

"Back up." Jake rises from his hiding spot and trains the shotgun on Levi's chest. The fire blazing in his eyes negates the calmness in his approaching steps.

"I'll shoot her." Levi points the barrel at my head from two feet away. "Don't come any closer."

"Try it." Jake advances another step.

Levi squeezes the trigger with a hollow click, and the blood drains from his sunken face. He looks at his gun, eyes wide, and tries to shoot me again. And again.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

When he realizes we removed all the bullets, he stumbles back toward the exit, arms up and hands shaking. With a roar, he hurls the pistol at Jake, misses, and yanks open the door.

And slams into another armed cowboy.

Jarret bares his teeth and pistol-whips Levi across the head, knocking him out cold. Then his eyes find mine. "Conor?"

"All good." I suck in a calming breath. "We knew he'd fail. I prepared myself for this."

As Jarret restrains Levi's limp body for transport with duct tape and cable ties, Jake moves into my line of sight.

Crouching at my feet, he sets the shotgun on the floor and gathers my hands in his.

"In another hour, we'll be able to put this all behind us." He searches my face and smooths wayward strands of auburn behind my ear. "Go home. We'll meet you there."

I open my mouth to argue, but his fingers snake into my hair and capture a fistful.

"Obey me." His firm grasp punctuates his command.

He and Jarret will drive Levi—alive and bound—to the ravine. It's a risky transport, but a hidden video camera in the corner of the room recorded them acting in self-defense. The footage won't be needed unless they get pulled over.

I lean into him and brush our lips together. "Come home to me."

"Always."

I take the motorcycle to the ranch, head to the stable, and tack up Ketchup for a ride to the ravine. It's nearing dusk by the time I get her saddled and into the field.

All the ranch hands have gone home for the day. The lowing of cattle drifts across the south pasture, the tall stalks of grass silent and still in the absence of wind.

As I approach the ridge that leads to the ravine, my fingers turn cold around the reins, and an icy tingle sweeps through my chest. I meant what I said to Jarret. I'm prepared for this. But that doesn't mean I'm looking forward to watching a man die.

Ketchup climbs the final hill, and I spot Jake's pickup truck parked near the fire pit at the entrance of the ravine.

I haven't been here since that night, and the ridge looks so different. More open and bare. Like someone came through here with a bulldozer.

Forty-some feet away, Jake and Jarret hold Levi on his knees at the edge of the bluff that overlooks the ravine. Six years ago, there were so many trees on that overhang we couldn't stand there. When did it get cleared out?

I tie Ketchup to one of the remaining trees, and my gaze lingers on the charred wood in the fire pit. I can still see Lorne sitting against that log and strumming his guitar. He was here that night to watch over me, to support my relationship with Jake.

Tears blur my vision without warning, and I blink them away.

If he can forgive me for ruining his life, I can forgive him for keeping me at a distance.

I'm so damn ready for him to come home.

Turning toward the bluff, I pick my way along the rocky terrain toward Jake and Jarret. As I breach the highest point, two dump trucks come into view behind them.

"What are you...?" I glance over the edge of the cliff and gasp. "Holy shit."

The narrow gorge and trickling creek below are gone, replaced with a landfill of dirt and rock. That explains why the trees were cleared away.

"We're still filling it in." Jake knots a noose of rope around Levi's neck while Jarret holds the man still. "The dirt came from the drilling site."

There must be hundreds of truck loads in there. Mounds of dirt climb halfway up the steep ravine walls.

A chilling thought pinches my gut. "The bodies are under all that?"

Levi's eyes bulge, and he thrashes and heaves against Jarret's hold.

"They went in first." Jake loops more rope around Levi's ankles and looks up at me. "Do you have any last words for this motherfucker?"

"No." Pins and needles creep up my legs and deaden my insides.

Jake's vigilant gaze stays on me as he kicks Levi onto his stomach and presses a boot against his back.

The rope leads from Jake's hand to Levi's neck. The man's wrists and feet are bound together behind him, his mouth sealed with duct tape and expression stark with dawning horror.

I clutch the base of my throat, my mind swirling with images of his death. We never discussed the exact method. I expected it to be drawn out and gruesome, but maybe strangulation is better than a stab wound or gun shot. None of us are here to bathe in blood. We're not killers. We just want it done, so we can have closure and move on.

The knowledge alone that he's about to die makes me want to puke.

Jarret strides toward me and pulls me into a tight hug. "You don't have to watch."

I wrap my arms around him and fix my gaze on Jake, trembling and nauseated.

"You hurt my girl." Jake pulls hard on the noose around Levi's neck, his dark, rugged features cut with vengeance. "You stole something sacred from her. From me. And you thought you'd do it again?" He drives a brutal kick into Levi's ribs. "We live and die by the choices we make. You made yours. I hope you relive that night from her perspective, over and over, while you burn in hell."

He pushes his boot down on Levi's spine and holds the rope taut, straining the muscles in his forearms.

I clap a hand over my mouth, fighting the bile in my throat as Levi bucks and jerks face down in the dirt, fighting for air.

The strangulation goes on for eternity. Jake doesn't move or speak, his hands clenched around the rope. With his head tilted down, the rim of the hat conceals his face.

My fingers bite into Jarret's back, my entire body locked in frozen panic. Why is it taking so long?

Finally, the body slumps, breathless and unmoving. Jake checks his pulse and shoves him over the edge and into the ravine.

"It's over." He comes to me, arms open, and pulls me from his brother.

Jarret takes off toward the dump trucks to unload the dirt. To bury Levi Tibbs.

Jake lifts me and carries me away from the bluff, nuzzling his whiskered face in my neck. I melt into him, clinging to his strong, dependable breaths.

Neither of us have words. None are needed. Levi Tibbs stole six years from us. He's not going to get another second.

Ketchup offers a soft, little whinny as we approach. I wiggle out of Jake's arms to kiss and rub her nose.

"Aren't you going to help him?" I nod at the dump truck as Jarret backs it toward the cliff.

"Nah." He grips my waist and hoists me into the saddle. "He'll drop those two loads, and we'll move the rest of the dirt in tomorrow."

Swinging up behind me, he tucks my rear against his groin and slides his arms around me to grasp the reins.

A suffocating sensation closes in, but his embrace is stronger. He chases away my demons because he's the biggest, baddest bully of them all.

My protective bully places an unyielding hand under my chin and directs my head back against his shoulder.

"Just breathe." He touches his lips to the edge of my mouth. "I'm right here."

"I'm here for you, too, you know. We were both there that night. Please, lean on me. Whenever you need me."

"I'm leaning on you right now." He brings me tighter against his chest and holds me close on the ride to the stable.

He holds me as we shower. His hand never leaves my back as we warm up pasta leftovers.

Jarret joins us on the back porch, and Jake holds me as we eat in silence.

Dusk creeps across the pasture like it always does—sleepy and peaceful. But tonight, it feels more sullen, darker, and full of shadows.

After dinner, Jarret collects our dishes and heads inside the house.

I turn to Jake beside me. "The air feels heavy."

"Come here." He reclines on the cushioned bench, legs spread and expression open.

I crawl onto his lap and snuggle against the warm cotton of his shirt.

"It's okay to be sad." His voice slips over me, just a soft breath of sound, but it feels like a velvet caress. "For as long as it takes, I'll hold you through it."

"There's nothing to be sad about."

"You don't believe that."

I love that he understands me so completely, like he's inside my head feeling my thoughts before I can make sense of them.

The past is behind us, but I still mourn it. I mourn my relationship with Dalton. I mourn Lorne's absence. Most of all, I mourn the six years I lost with Jake. I resent it as strongly as I cherish every breath we share now. But that's okay. It's okay to cry and be angry. I'll never bottle that shit up again.

The moonlight casts a tranquil glow across the field, creating fathomless shadows between the ripples in the terrain. I can see our childhood in them—the joy, the serenity, and the indestructible love between the four of us.

I let myself drift back to that innocent place. I let the tears fall when they fill my eyes. And l let Jake hold me until it passes.

Thank God this day has come and gone. All the pain we suffered, all the hurt we survived, it's over. Gone.

I lift Lorne's guitar from the chair beside us and strum a few notes, listening to Jake breathe and matching the soothing rhythm.

My fingers move over the strings, searching for a song until I lock onto Breathe by Faith Hill.

He strokes my hair while I play, watches my lips while I sing, and smiles when I smile.

I wear the skin that feels his touch.

I breathe the air that fills his lungs.

I'm the girl he wants, the one he loves, and he's mine.

"It's just us," I whisper.

He kisses my neck. "That's all we need."

I tuck Conor into bed after she falls asleep in my arms on the back porch. Head on the pillow, she blinks up at me, all soft and sleepy-eyed, and I fall in love for the millionth time.

"I'm going to check on Jarret." I kiss the cushion of her lips.

"'kay." She turns on her side and closes her eyes. "Love you."

"You, too."

She's so insanely beautiful I'm held captive in her presence, standing over her, drinking her in, and watching her sleep like an obsessed creeper.

There's no question I'm obsessed. Unapologetically so.

I kiss her again and force my boots out of the room and through the house.

Jarret's not in his bedroom or office. Maybe he went out? He didn't seem to be in the mood for a hook up. Something's on his mind, and I'm too nosy to let it go.

When I step onto the front porch, I spot an unfamiliar sedan parked next to his truck in the lot. Neither of us have ever brought a fling to the ranch. Our home is our sanctuary, and we trust no one outside of our childhood circle.

I head around the side of the estate and scan the dark pasture.

Across the field, the interior lights of the stable glow through the open doorway. He's in there with whomever is visiting.

Except we don't get late-night visitors.

This reeks of a certain meddlesome journalist. What the fuck is he doing with her?

I take the short walk to find out.

At the entrance of the stable, I push past the door and slam to a stop.

Arms bound to a support post and legs kicking air, Maybe Quinn is trussed up with rope and seething past clenched teeth.

I guess that's one way to deal with the journalist.

"You're going to regret this, you sick, perverted, sick...sicko!" She thrashes against the restraints, causing her dirt-smudged dress to slip farther off her shoulder.

She's a filthy mess, hair hanging in her face and skirts ruched up in the rope.

Jarret circles her, flicking a riding crop against her bare legs. Irritation lines his expression, but beneath that, he's worked up in a way I don't want to see my brother. Ever.

I edge closer, pausing a few feet away, and they turn their heads in my direction.

"Is this consensual?"

I hate asking him that question. He would never force a woman. Though, there's a gray area, a dubious zone that he and I love to play in.

Jarret gives her another whack with the crop, and she growls at him.

"I don't know." He steps into her space, grips the pole above her head, and puts his face in hers. "Is it consensual, Maybe? Do we have a deal?"

The hungry look in his eyes tells me exactly what kind of deal he's offering.

"This is not what I had in mind." Her chest heaves, cinching the rope he looped around her torso.

"Yes or no." He pinches her chin, making her breaths come harder. "My brother's not going to leave until he knows you're willing. Do you want the story or not?"

I don't know what bullshit story he promised her, because he sure as hell wouldn't give her the story.

She cuts her eyes at me. "You can go. I'll deal with your brother."

I meet Jarret's gaze. "You might want to bind her—"

She kicks out and nails him directly in the groin.

"—legs."

He bends over, cupping himself, and shoots me a glare. "I've got this."

"I see that." I back away, grinning. "Good luck."

Maybe Quinn must be hard up for a job. I can only imagine what she'll agree to do to get our story.

My dirty imagination follows me back to the house, resulting in a sizable erection by the time I slide into bed with the hottest woman on the planet.

I should let her sleep. That would be the selfless thing to do.

I'm here for you, too, you know. Whenever you need me.

She wasn't thinking about sex when she offered those words. But I'm a guy, and my needs are simple.

So I wake her with my mouth between her legs. Then I flip her over and ride her into the mattress until she needs me as much as I need her.

After, when our needs are sated and my body twitches with fatigue and lingering bliss, I make myself move. I pull her into my arms, and the tattooed canvas of hers comes around me.

Legs tangled.

Breaths melded.

Hearts knotted together.

Mine.

ONE MONTH LATER...

Never in my life have I appreciated a sunset quite like this one.

A smoldering collision of color dyes the line where heaven kisses the seam of the earth. The meadow blushes in shades of blue, tangerine, and red. Fire red. Like her hair.

Conor kneels on a blanket a few feet away, her curvy silhouette cut out of the sky like a piece of the night. When she breathes or twitches, streaks of color shimmer across the backdrop and dance over her naked body.

I stand in awe of her mesmerizing perseverance. It's only been a month since she watched me strangle Levi Tibbs. She still has setbacks with her PTSD, but she doesn't let it control her. She doesn't let fear stop her forward progression.

She tilts her face to the sky, eyes closed and hair falling in flames of red behind her. Sitting on her heels, she holds her thighs open, her wrists tethered with rope at her back and every inch of her gloriously nude.

I'm going to annihilate her final trigger tonight.

I search her expression and already know I won't find vulnerability there. My girl is sunshine, rawhide, and pure fight. The bottle of lubricant on the blanket beside her doesn't deter her. Whatever fear she still has about anal sex, she'll face it with radiance and ferocity.

Far to the south, the ravine is filled in, leveled, and sealed with a huge concrete slab. We used the money from Levi Tibbs' duffel bag to pour the cement pad. It'll be the foundation for the veterinary clinic I plan to build over the next two years.

The ravine was an ideal place to discard the dirt from the nearby drilling site, and since there's already a back-road entrance to the property there, it makes sense to build her clinic in that location. Anyone who might be suspicious of the newly poured concrete would consider these factors.

When I told Conor about the investment decision, her soaring joy trumped any trepidation she had about erecting her business on top of a graveyard.

There are still obstacles ahead—the manhunt for Levi Tibbs, the unpredictability of my missing father, and the unfinished business between my brother and Maybe Quinn. Whatever game Jarret is playing with the journalist is guaranteed to end badly, but he refuses to heed my advice to get rid of her.

On the bright side, Conor completed all the steps for her proof of residency and filed the revocation of the Power of Attorney. In two years, she'll be finished with school and Lorne will likely be released on parole. He and Conor own the land. Jarret and I own the cattle operation. We're so close to getting our dreams back on track.

Speaking of dreams, I let mine wait long enough.

I approach her sleek, fluid silhouette and stare down at her sanguine lips. Her eyes open, soft and resounding in the fading light. Her mouth wears the hint of a smile, enough to suggest she's enjoying her thoughts.

I step between her spread knees and curl my fingers around her neck. Her throat bounces against my thumb, but she stays quiet, attentive, and lets the weight of her upper body sink in the collar of my hand.

Her surrender's as beautiful as the iridescence of color emblazoned on her body. Her muscle definition creates tight dips and winding trails along her outline. Flawless bone structure, skin like silk over porcelain, she glows with the kind of beauty that fucks with a man's self-control.

Every part of me hardens and heats. Pulses of hunger throb below my belt, tightening my fingers around her throat and flooding my cock with blood.

Her gaze dips to my straining zipper, and she laughs at me. "Eager, are we?"

"You have no idea."

She lifts her chin and touches her tongue to her lips. "I'm yours."

Our future manifests inside me, brought into existence by those two words. I want to see my ring on her finger, her belly swollen with my child, and her veterinary clinic thriving beneath her dedication on our prosperous ranch.

I lower to my knees and roam my hands. Her body is my shrine, my place of worship, and I pay homage to every curve and crevice, kissing and licking, stroking and kneading.

She begs for my cock until I give it to her. Then she begs for release until she comes undone in my arms.

But I'm not finished with her, and her awareness of my plans flickers in her green-grass eyes.

"I'll go slow." I untie her arms and position her on her knees with her gorgeous ass in the air.

"That's what you always say." She laughs nervously.

"Do you trust me?"

"Yes." No hesitation.

The fall of night robs us of the sunset colors and darkens the fields to obsidian. Bent over before me, she's no more than a flowing black outline, sighing languidly and dripping with arousal.

I've played with her asshole often over the past month, getting her used to the sensations. She's relaxed, and that means whatever's going on in her head isn't causing her to tense up.

Her knees grace the ground, her body swaying like a delicate flower in grass, and I take her as such. Lubricating and pushing against her ring of muscle with care.

Her flashbacks surface, but she fights them. I work her through it with starts and stops, running a hand up and down her spine and marking the changes in her breathing. It takes a while, but I have all the time in the world.

Eventually, she calms enough to accept me, and goddamn, she's tight, squeezing and releasing around me. Nothing has ever felt this good. The impulse to pound into her grips my body, but I lock it down, keeping my thrusts slow and gentle.

"This is nothing like I remember." She arches her back, relaxing further into my thrusts.

"Jesus, I hope not." I dig my fingers into her hips.

She glances over her shoulder, eyes steady on mine and lips parted. "You can go faster."

A blazing flame crackles and scorches the air between us. I tangle my fingers in her hair and pull, using my grip to bring her back to my chest and her head against my shoulder.

Then I fuck her, dragging my cock along the walls of her dark tunnel, grunting, and fingering her wet pussy. I suck hard on her neck and scrape teeth against tender skin. Her moans feed my hunger. Her breasts fill my hands, and she holds on, reaching back to clutch my ass.

This is us, wild and incendiary, dancing in the open air like a campfire. Galloping through the pasture against the wind. Soaring over the ridge with falcon wings and marveling at the glory of our life together.

I watch her profile as she comes, holding back my own release so I can savor hers—the silent scream, arched neck, and full-body tremors. She's so much more than a gorgeous woman. She's love and fight, laughter and tears, challenge and ecstasy.

She's the best parts of my past come to life. Like a phantom dream.

Except I know this is real.

Because I'm more in love with the woman in my arms than my memories of her.

TO BE CONTINUED...

———————————————-

Do you want more kinky cowboys?

There are three books in this completed series.

TRAILS OF SIN continues with:

BUCKLED, Book 2

Jarret's story

Chapter 1 of BUCKLED is included at the end of this book.

Keep scrolling to read or CLICK HERE to buy it now.

BOOTED, Book 3

Lorne's story

CLICK HERE

———————————————-

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LOVE TRIANGLE ROMANCE

TANGLED LIES TRILOGY

One is a Promise-FREE

Two is a Lie

Three is a War

DARK ROMANCE

DELIVER SERIES

Deliver #1-FREE

Vanquish #2

Disclaim #3

Devastate #4

Take

Manipulate

Unshackle

Dominate

Complicate

DARK PARANORMAL ROMANCE

TRILOGY OF EVE

Heart of Eve-FREE

Dead of Eve #1

Blood of Eve #2

Dawn of Eve #3

DARK HISTORICAL PIRATE ROMANCE

King of Libertines-FREE

Sea of Ruin

STUDENT-TEACHER ROMANCE

Dark Notes

ROCK-STAR DARK ROMANCE

Beneath the Burn

ROMANTIC SUSPENSE

Dirty Ties

EROTIC ROMANCE

Incentive

BUCKLED

CHAPTER ONE

Maybe

The Big Sugar is the biggest bar in Sandbank, Oklahoma. Actually, it's the only bar in this godforsaken town. I don't belong here, and every boot-scuffing, flannel-wearing redneck in the joint knows it.

These people have a deafening way of judging and accusing without opening their mouths. They watch me without staring. Avoid me without moving out of the way. Insult me without uttering a sound from the pinched lines of their lips.

To say I'm not welcome here is an understatement.

Do they give all out-of-towners the same treatment? Or just the ones wearing ill-chosen high heels to a bar littered with peanut shells?

I teeter over the mess on the floor, certain I'll break an ankle. When I sink onto the first available stool at the counter, I heave a sigh of relief.

The bartender ignores me. Just as well. I don't drink when I'm working.

I call it work. This assignment is officially unofficial.

In Chicago, I write for a few beauty and fashion columns under different pen names. Horribly boring and uneventful, but it pays the bills. Or rather, it paid.

I lost those jobs. Over the past six months, I lost everything. Which is why I'm here. Trying to put my life back together.

Jake and Jarret Holsten are going to help me with that. But first, I need to run into them. Make it look like a fluke encounter. They would be more likely to divulge personal information during a casual conversation than if I knocked on their door and demanded answers.

"Excuse me." I tap the shoulder of the thirty-something brunette beside me. When she turns, I plaster on my warmest smile. "Hey, there."

She squints at my silk button-up, starched black trousers, and cute red pumps. "You're not from around here."

"I get the feeling that's a curse in this town, as if I'm bringing in an infectious disease or something. I swear I'm current on all my shots."

I laugh. She doesn't.

Where's the southern hospitality I always heard about? Maybe I need to wander farther south for that.

"I was wondering..." I pat down the unruly curls around my shoulders. "Do you happen to know the Holsten family? There are two sons—"

"The twins?" Mascara clumps in the slits of her eyes. "What of them?"

The only photo I found of them was a grainy black-and-white snapshot in the newspaper. I had to visit the local library to dig up that one, and I still don't have a clear idea what they look like.

"Do you know where they hang out?" What I really want to ask is if they're here in the bar tonight, but I don't want to look stupid.

"I don't know who you are or where you come from, but your interest in those boys is a waste of time. They ain't friendly with outsiders."

"I just need a few minutes—"

"No single gal wants just a few minutes with them." She scowls at my ringless left hand and lifts her chin. "I hear Jake is off the market, but don't go getting your hopes up about Jarret. He'll settle down with one of our own before he marries the likes of you."

"Marriage?"

"He won't take kindly to you asking about them, neither."

I can't even wrap my mind around this conversation.

Her eyes dart to the front entryway, and a hitch cuts her breath.

I follow her line of sight and stifle my own gasp.

Good God Almighty. Cowboys do nothing for me, but the two men who just strolled in redefine my preconceived notions of rugged ranchers.

Maybe I've watched too many old westerns, but I expected sweat-soaked dirt rings around the collar, unwashed and overlong hair, iconic mustaches, and rotten teeth. Most of the guys in this bar fit that description. But not these two.

They're definitely twins, but not identical. One has a narrower face, paler eyes, and a darker hairline beneath the wide brim of his hat. His almost-smile is far more personable than the almost-scowl the other one wears. He exudes charisma, which makes him the most attractive of the two.

And the most dangerous.

Finely-honed brawn bunches and contracts as they move through the bar. Sculpted biceps and pectorals, flat stomachs, and powerful thighs—they're built the same, as if carved from a single hunk of testosterone-infused stone.

Golden complexions. Six-foot-and-several-intimidating-inches tall. Clean-shaved faces. Squared jaw lines. Broad, sloping shoulders. Well-worn denim encases well-endowed packages that draw the eye. There's so much to take in.

Holy hell, I'm staring, and I can't stop.

It isn't just their hotter-than-hot surface area that compels me. There's an air about them, a confidence, an authoritative intensity that grabs a woman by the ovaries and reduces her to her most primitive core. It's the same instinct that drives females of any species to mate with the strongest male, to birth the fittest, most viable offspring.

Jesus. I'm not even interested in that. I'm so fucking done with men, especially the good-looking ones. Yet here I am, slurping back drool as it leaks from my gaping mouth.

I'm here for the Holsten twins, to learn about them, and hopefully, to get answers. If I wasn't already certain I found them, the petite redhead between them would be a dead giveaway.

Conor Cassidy.

One doesn't need to be a journalist to know her story. A simple online search on Sandbank brings up dozens of results related to the brutal attack on her six years ago. What the articles don't mention is the Holsten family's involvement that night.

I didn't expect her to be in town. Last time I checked, she was still at OSU. I certainly didn't expect to see her all cozy with the family who caused her so much pain.

The one with the darker eyes and the arm hooked around her shoulders must be Jake. Rumor has it they were the sweethearts of Sandbank, right up until the attack.

Her brother, Lorne Cassidy, went to prison for killing the wrong man, and her father moved her to Chicago. To my hometown. She doesn't have a clue who I am or how we're connected, and I hope to God I never have to be the person to tell her.

I drag my eyes away from the magnetic trio as they sit around a nearby high-top table. That's when I notice that every woman in the bar is caught in their spell.

Conor stands out with her outrageous beauty and colorful sleeves of tattoos, but it's the Holstens who coax the far-away looks beneath the feminine lashes around me. Not to mention, the irritated scowls of their male companions.

Jake and Conor share a few whispered words. Then he makes his way to the bar and orders drinks.

I glance back at the table and find the other brother, Jarret, staring right at me.

Shit. I look away and curse myself for flinching. I won't be unnerved by him, no matter how goddamn sexy he is.

I force my gaze back to his.

He's still staring, and the effect that has on me is bizarre. It feels like victory, like I just won a competition against every female in the bar. There are thirty or forty women he can stare at, but he's looking at me. An unwavering, potent look from the most potent man I've ever seen.

I may not be accustomed to this kind of scrutiny, but if I don't get a grip on my headspace—and other hungrier spaces inside me—he'll eat me alive before I spit out two words.

Conor speaks to him, and he touches her hand on her lap, keeping his eyes on me.

That stare... Fuck me, it's too much. I turn my focus to Jake at the counter. He would be easier to approach. He hasn't glanced at me or any other woman since he walked in here.

I slide a hand over my hair, pressing down the blond disaster. The humidity is a nightmare on natural curls. I hate the frizz when it's this long. I hate it more when it's short. I really hate that I can't stop touching the tangles when I'm anxious.

The bartender turns toward Jake with his beers, and I dare another peek at Jarret.

He's still watching me.

Damn. There's nothing discreet about him, and now that he's caught me looking multiple times, I might as well get on with this.

I rise from the stool, and he drags his tongue along his lip, speaking to Conor. He laughs at something she says and sobers when he realizes I'm heading his way.

That's right, Jarret Holsten. I'm not as shy as I look.

He might be intimidating as all hell, but I'm not leaving town until I get what I came for.

As I cross the room, the damn peanut shells make it difficult to navigate on heels. First thing tomorrow, I'll find a second-hand clothing store and replace my shoes with something practical.

When I reach the table, Jake slips past me and settles next to Conor.

"Um... Hi." Oh God, I sound like an idiot. I hook a thumb under the purse strap on my shoulder and strengthen my voice. "You're the Holsten twins, right?"

"Yup." Jarret drinks from his beer and rudely stares at my chest.

Conor kicks him under the table. "Women don't like to be leered at."

She would know. Her beauty is really something to behold. I bet she gets ogled and catcalled everywhere she goes.

I tip my head at her in thanks. "You must be Conor Cassidy."

Jake gives me direct eye contact for the first time. "And you are?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe?" Jarret wings up a brow. "That's your name?"

It's not a name at all, but no one bothered to tell my mother that.

"Yeah." I try to smile, as if I haven't heard all the Maybe one-liners in existence.

I'll take that as a Maybe.

Call me...Maybe.

Maybe she's born with it.

Maybe or Maybe not?

"Maybe Quinn." I stand taller. "Mind if I sit?"

With a nod, he sets down his beer, flashing a thick red line on his palm. I perch on the stool, trying not to stare at the scar.

"So, Maybe..." Jarret angles closer, his golden eyes poking holes in my bravado. "Which news network do you work for?

My pulse quickens. It's almost true, but not quite. I came here dressed like a reporter, hoping it would distract my real intentions. Evidently, I'm doing something right. But I don't want to appear too eager.

"Oh, that's not..." I school my features. "I'm just passing through."

That earns me a withering glare from Jake, who calmly says, "The only folks passing through this town are investigative journalists."

That title is above my pay grade, but he can think what he wants.

I glance down and spot a welted slash on his palm. Weird. They have the same scar?

Without being too obvious, I steal a peek at Conor's hand as she brushes a strand of hair from her face. Sure enough, another scar. They must've cut themselves on purpose? Like in one of those truth-or-dare games kids play?

"Who do you work for, Maybe Quinn?" Jarret tips back his beer, and a swallow slides down the strong column of his throat.

With a feigned sigh, I give him an answer that could be true. "Freelance. I write the story and sell it to the highest bidder."

I have the credentials to write and sell their dirty laundry. If they're as corrupt as I'm led to believe, I'll sell them out in a heartbeat.

"What's the story?" Conor narrows her eyes with distrust.

"Levi Tibbs is getting released tomorrow." I yank my hand from my hair, realizing too late I'm fidgeting. "What are you three planning to do about that?"

"What are we planning? Well, we're going to drink our beers." Jarret takes a hearty draw from his. "We'll probably warm up that dance floor. Then I'll work off some steam in a warm, feisty body." He checks me out again, a slow journey from north to south. "You're welcome to join the party. Particularly the last part."

On another day, in another life, I might've considered his offer. The deep rumble of his voice alone makes me feel blissfully warm and dizzy. I'm certain the rest of him would give me the ride of my life.

But my situation doesn't allow for indulgence. Especially not indulgence with this man.

"I think not." My tone is short, tolerating no room for argument.

"Then I expect you'll find your way out of town and back to wherever you came from."

"I'm gonna dance with my girl." Jake rises and cants the brim of his hat in my direction. "Ma'am."

He and Conor vacate the table, leaving me alone with Jarret.

"I'm not going anywhere." My stomach ripples with nerves, and I press my hands against my lap to keep my fingers out of my hair.

The silent space between us becomes the focal point, hovering like an awkward intruder. Jarret doesn't strike me as the quiet type. He's blatantly ignoring me.

"You were there the night Conor was attacked." I pull in a steady breath. "Yet you were unharmed. Were you in cohorts with Levi Tibbs?"

He moves his eyes slowly, deliberately, locking onto mine with lethal warning.

"Look at her." He tilts his head toward Conor without shifting his gaze from me.

My pulse stutters as I find her red hair in the crowd of cowboy hats. With her fingers curled around Jake's neck, she lifts on her toes and whispers to him. As he listens, his hands roam her tiny frame with intimate familiarity.

They're definitely back together.

"You may not see what I see." Jarret's voice yanks my attention back to him. "But you see her, and you know there's something extraordinary there. Something rare and priceless and worth protecting." His jaw flexes. "Here's a free tip for your bullshit story. I love that girl more than life itself. I can't even fathom playing a part in the brutality inflicted on her that night."

Crystal-clear sincerity sharpens his tone, his eyes glowing with devastation. I believe him, but I know he's involved in something. Something illegal. I just don't know how deep it goes. Yet.

In a blink, he's off the chair, breaching my personal space with his arms bracketed around me.

"She's been through more hell than you can comprehend in your privileged existence." He seethes at my ear. "If you exploit her suffering, I will ruin you."

"Don't you dare threaten me." My blood goes hot, burning my cheeks. "Step the fuck back."

His pupils swallow the golden hues of his eyes, and his lips stretch into a humorless, wolfish smile.

"You got some fire beneath those prissy clothes." He returns to his chair.

I thought my clothes made me look professional. I'm either ridiculously transparent or he's really good at reading people. Unfortunately, I don't have any casual clothes among the few things left to my name.

"You just met me." I straighten my spine and meet his gaze head-on. "Yet you condemned me the moment I approached. You don't know a damn thing about my existence, privileged or otherwise."

"Fair enough." He rubs a thumb along his bottom lip, searching my eyes. "Enlighten me."

"What do you want to know?" I glance at Jake and Conor, where they burn up the dance floor with their eye-fucking, hip-grinding, disgustingly-in-love embrace.

"Which side of the bed do you sleep on?" he asks.

"What?" I whip my head toward him, expecting a taunting smirk.

"You heard me." He stares at me steadily, dead serious.

Last time I owned a bed, I slept on the right, snuggled up to the man I loved. But that's an ugly story, not appropriate for current company.

"I don't have a side," I say honestly. "You?"

"Same. Where is this bed of yours?"

"Chicago."

His gaze darts to Conor, eyebrows gathering.

"I know she lived there a few years ago, but it's a big city." I chew my lip and give him the truth. "None of you were on my radar until recently."

"How did you hear about us?"

Since he sees right through me, I won't lie to him again. So I answer with a non-answer. "I have my ways."

He continues to watch Conor dance with his brother, and a pinch of envy twinges in my gut. She's a lucky woman to be cared for so deeply by two protective, insanely attractive men.

"Are you in love with her?" I ask.

His eyes slide to mine, the only part of him that moves. "You're not very good at your job."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I've been straight with you, and you still don't get it." His stony expression chills me to the bone. "I consider her my sister, and I protect what's mine. It's time for you to leave."

"You don't own this establishment." I stare him down with the recklessness of a woman who has nothing left to lose. "Good luck kicking me out."

His silent glare confirms what I already assumed. He doesn't like me. That bothers me, but I don't blame him.

I'm a threat.

He rises to his feet and ambles away. Without speaking or casting me a backward glance, he effectively brushes me off.

My stomach sinks. The disappointment is made worse when he joins a table of smiling young women.

I remain seated, easily forgotten and replaced with the flirtatious giggles of his friends. Or potential bed partners. Or whatever those women are to him.

It stings. It shouldn't, but I'm hypersensitive to being cast away by men. It's like I'm wearing a sign on my forehead that reads, Not worth the effort.

Not even worth a goodbye.

As much as I want to tuck tail and flee, pride holds me in place through several songs. The music isn't bad. A little twangy. I like all kinds of genres, especially country pop. The folks in this town would probably roll their eyes at that.

Or so I thought.

Legends by country-pop singer Kelsea Ballerini trickles through the speakers, and the room gravitates toward the dance floor. At the center, Jake and Conor sway in an embrace that entrances the entire bar.

It's not just the seductive way they dance together. It's the passion that glows between them, like the rest of the world doesn't exist, and all they see is each other.

I thought I had that with someone once, and it was pretty amazing. Until it wasn't.

At the end of the song, Conor steps off the dance floor and heads into the bathroom. A few minutes later, Jake bypasses the line outside the door and shuts them both inside.

Across the room, the woman beside Jarret runs a hand up his thigh.

I've seen enough.

I make my way out of the Big Sugar. If Jarret's aware of my exit, he doesn't show it. He doesn't look in my direction once.

No matter. He'll see me again.

When I reach my ugly old sedan, I move it to an unlit corner of the parking lot and wait.

Jarret said he planned to work off some steam in a warm, feisty body. If that's the case, he'll leave with a woman.

Does he have a regular lover? Or does he play the field? If he has a confidant, someone he spends a lot of time with, I might have better luck coaxing information from her.

Thirty minutes later, Jake leads Conor out of the bar. Her smile screams freshly fucked, and following on their heels is Jarret.

He's alone?

The three of them pile into a big pickup truck, with Jake in the driver's seat.

It's only ten in the evening. Traffic on the main street allows me to tail them at a distance without being noticed.

Until they reach a dirt road at the edge of town.

They turn off, kicking up dust and leaving the Sandbank traffic behind. If I follow, they'll spot me.

I slow the car, creeping along the shoulder until Jake's truck disappears over a hill. Then I veer onto the dirt road.

Not wanting to catch up with them, I maintain a slow speed until I reach a private drive about a mile up.

I scoped out the route to their ranch earlier today and found a place to bed down for the night. There's a motel in town, but I didn't bother checking for vacancy. I can't afford to stay there.

Overgrown weeds consume the private road, surrounded by the seclusion of thick trees. The tire tracks are from my sedan earlier. Other than me, no one's driven through here in a long time.

I back in, park the car out of view of the dirt road, and shut off the motor. When I'm ready to sleep, I'll drive deeper onto the isolated property. There's a lake back there I can use to wash in.

For now, I'm content to sit here and watch the road for activity. Since Jarret rode to the bar with Jake, it's possible he went home for his own truck before heading out again.

If that happens, I'll follow him. I have nothing else to do and nowhere to go. Everything I own is in this car. How's that for privileged? Jarret would choke on his words if he knew how hard I worked for every penny I earned. And lost.

The large envelope on the passenger seat holds the solution to my homelessness. Once the documents are finalized, I'll get a piece of my life back.

But money isn't what brought me to Sandbank. I need to understand what happened. I need answers.

For now, I slide the envelope under the floor mat. From the backseat, I pull out a jar of beets and a bottle of water. Then I roll down the window and eat dinner beneath the soothing chirrup of night critters.

It's quiet here, so unlike the constant din of a big city. I could live in a place like this, away from the hustle and judgment of people.

There's nothing left for me in Chicago, and I won't be returning. I can write articles from anywhere. Hell, I can wait tables or bartend and be happy.

Happiness. I have that to look forward to. Starting over won't be easy, but I'm stronger this time. Less gullible.

But first, I need to right the wrongs that have been done to me.

Finished with dinner, I discard the containers in a trash bag and settle into a more comfortable slump behind the steering wheel.

Just as my eyes grow heavy with sleep, the sound of an approaching vehicle jerks me into awareness.

I crane my neck until headlights emerge on the hill in the direction of Julep Ranch. Grabbing the key in the ignition, I wait for the motorist to pass.

Tires crunch, followed by the blare of an unfamiliar country song. Then a pickup truck similar to Jake's rolls past.

An elbow perches on the window frame. Broad shoulders. Wide-brimmed hat. Sculpted profile.

Jarret Holsten.

Following him will be tricky until we get into town. I force myself to wait a full minute before I start the engine and speed off after him.

When I arrive at the main thoroughfare, he's nowhere in sight. I scan the passing trucks. Which way did he go?

I turn toward town center, hoping it's the right direction.

A few blocks later, I spot his truck at a gas station. My heart rate doubles as I park in the shadows of an adjacent lot and watch him stroll inside the convenience store.

Doesn't take him long to return to his truck with a small bag in hand. I'd bet the case of canned oysters in my backseat that he just purchased a box of condoms.

Oh God, I'm watching a man buy condoms. Of all the things I've done over the past couple of months, this is the first time I've felt like a bona fide stalker.

What am I doing? Am I actually going to follow this guy to wherever he goes to get laid? What if he sees me? What if I see something disturbing? Like freaky, fucked-up sex shit? Some things can't be unseen.

Considering the crimes I think he's involved in, this might not end well for me. He's not exactly the kind of man I want to piss off.

I'd rather focus on Jake instead, but he seems to be attached to Conor's hip. I need to keep some distance from her.

When this is all said and done, maybe I'll have my conscience examined. Until then, I need to stop second-guessing myself.

I have to finish this. If I don't, the mystery surrounding my total ruin will forever haunt me. I need an explanation.

I need closure.

With a tight grip on the steering wheel, I hit the gas and follow Jarret Holsten.

————————————

Buckle up for Julep Ranch's kinkiest cowboy.

BUCKLED is the second book in this series of interconnected standalones, and it gives you a whole lot more of Jake and Conor.

CLICK HERE to buy it now.

Run by Matt Nathanson and Sugarland

Mile On The Moon by Sarah Jarosz

Highway Don't Care by Tim McGraw

What Hurts The Most by Rascal Flatts

Need You Now by Lady Antebellum

Beautiful War by Kings Of Leon

Girl Crush by Little Big Town

Kick It In The Sticks by Brantley Gilbert

Poison & Wine by The Civil Wars

Don't Bite The Dick by David Allan Coe

Not Ready To Make Nice by Dixie Chicks

Whiskey and You by Chris Stapleton

Meant to Be by Bebe Rexha and Florida Georgia Line

Body Like A Back Road by Sam Hunt

Breathe by Faith Hill

LOVE TRIANGLE ROMANCE

TANGLED LIES TRILOGY

One is a Promise-FREE

Two is a Lie

Three is a War

DARK ROMANCE

DELIVER SERIES

Deliver #1-FREE

Vanquish #2

Disclaim #3

Devastate #4

Take

Manipulate

Unshackle

Dominate

Complicate

DARK PARANORMAL ROMANCE

TRILOGY OF EVE

Heart of Eve-FREE

Dead of Eve #1

Blood of Eve #2

Dawn of Eve #3

DARK HISTORICAL PIRATE ROMANCE

King of Libertines-FREE

Sea of Ruin

STUDENT-TEACHER ROMANCE

Dark Notes

ROCK-STAR DARK ROMANCE

Beneath the Burn

ROMANTIC SUSPENSE

Dirty Ties

EROTIC ROMANCE

Incentive

To Shea Moran - Thank you for helping me with the playlist. I didn't know where to begin with this, and you showed me the way. I might even like country music now. Maybe. Kind of. Okay, not really. But you introduced me to Coe and the brilliance of cowboy porn songs. I love you.

To the Freedom Fighters - You're always there for me with the best kind of encouragement. I wouldn't be able to do this job without you.

To my beta readers - Angela Ann, Tajana Cote, Brooke Hoover, Author Ellie Masters, Helene Cuji, Ketty Beale, Shea Moran - You're fucking awesome. Like, after a night of mind-blowing, wall-banging, ravaging sex, and the next morning, you still feel all that affection and raw honesty in your bones... You're that kind of awesome.

To my greyhounds - You have terrible gas and dig in my flower beds and ruin my hard work. But I forgive you with all the love in the world, because you're my favorites.

To my family - Chad, Jaedha, and Leighton - Thank you for putting up with my neurotic schedule. I love you more today than I did yesterday, and I'll love you even more tomorrow.

New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author, Pam Godwin, lives in the Midwest with her husband, their two children, and a foulmouthed parrot. When she ran away, she traveled fourteen countries across five continents, attended three universities, and married the vocalist of her favorite rock band.

Java, tobacco, and dark romance novels are her favorite indulgences, and might be considered more unhealthy than her aversion to sleeping, eating meat, and dolls with blinking eyes.

EMAIL: pamgodwinauthor@gmail.com

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