The rest was instinct, unspoken, inevitable. The room blurred, the only thing real was the press of her body against mine and the sound of her voice when she said my name like it still belonged to her. The fire crackled somewhere behind us, throwing light across her skin.
Later, when the world had gone quiet again, she lay half curled against me, her head on my chest, our legs tangled in the blanket we’d pulled down from the couch. My hand moved through her hair, slow and steady, because if I stopped, I’d have to think, and thinking would ruin it.
“You okay?” I asked softly.
She nodded, her voice a whisper against my skin. “More than okay.”
I kissed the top of her head and let my eyes close. For the first time in years, peace felt like something I could touch.
But peace never lasted.
She was still asleep when dawn crept through the windows. The house was cold again, and reality came with it. I slipped out from under her carefully, tucking the blanket around her shoulders. She stirred but didn’t wake. Her hair spilled across the pillow, her face soft, open.
It hit me then what I’d done. What I’d pulled her back into.
She had already been through enough, and now she was tangled up with me again, carrying the danger I still hadn’t told her about. The men from the rodeo, the phone calls that didn’t trace back anywhere, the shadow that had been following me since I took care of the man who’d hurt her before.
I’d told myself I could keep her safe, that marrying her on paper would protect her. But what I’d really done was paint a target on both of us.
I stood by the window, watching the sun come up over the ridge. The frost on the grass caught the light like shards of glass. Behind me, she murmured something in her sleep, reaching out for where I’d been. The sight of her hand searching the empty space was almost enough to break my resolve. Almost.
I pulled on my jeans and shirt, the cold air biting against my skin. Downstairs, the fire had burned low, leaving only glowing embers. I added wood, watched the sparks catch, then poured coffee I didn’t taste. Every part of me wanted to go back upstairs, crawl under that blanket again, and forget the world outside.
Instead, I forced myself to sit, to plan. I couldn’t tell her what was coming. Not yet. The threats weren’t just aimed at me anymore. Someone wanted to settle an old score, and if she knew the details, she’d try to interfere. That was who she was.
Keeping her safe meant keeping her in the dark.
The stairs creaked a few minutes later. She appeared in the doorway wearing my shirt, the hem brushing her thighs, her hair still tousled from sleep. She looked like something that didn’t belong in this rough old house. Like light.
“Morning,” she said softly.
“Morning,” I managed.
She smiled, shy in a way that wasn’t like her. “You left.”
“Needed coffee.” I gestured to the mug waiting for her. She crossed the room and took it, her fingers brushing mine. That slight touch sent a jolt through me all over again.
“Last night,” she began, but I cut her off gently.
“Don’t.”
Her brow furrowed. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t make it complicated. We were both running on adrenaline. You had a hell of a ride, and I,” I trailed off, swallowing the words I didn’t want her to hear.
“You what?”
I shook my head. “I don’t want you thinking this means anything’s changed. You’ve got enough on your plate.”
The hurt in her eyes was fast, sharp. “You really believe that?”
I wanted to lie. I wanted to tell her no. Instead, I forced myself to nod. “Yeah.”
She set the mug down too hard, the coffee sloshing. “Then that’s on you, Linc. Because I know what last night meant.” She turned away, heading for the stairs, every line of her body rigid.
When the door to the bedroom closed upstairs, I let out a ragged breath, my hands were shaking. I pressed them flat against the table until they steadied.
I’d lied to her, but it was the only way to keep her safe.
