She’d be safe.
She’d be mine.
From now until forever.
Chapter 9
Aspen
Iwoke with a splitting headache, dry-mouthed and stiff all over. For a second I panicked, certain I’d passed out on the bar’s sticky floor. But instead of beer stench and neon, the world was soft lamplight and the lavender scent of my own pillow. Quilt bunched around my knees, flannel sheets twisted at my waist. I blinked, squinting against the morning, and found myself alone in my bed—alone except for the shadow slumped against the side of the mattress, knees drawn up, arms crossed like some kind of sentry.
Papa sat on the floor beside me, head tipped back against the bedframe, breathing slow and heavy with sleep. His beardrough, hair mashed into strange little wings above his ears, arms crossed like he could keep watch even in his dreams. The sight nearly made me forget my hangover.
Nearly.
My mouth tasted like a biscuit left out in the rain, and my tongue was so dry I could’ve used it to sand a tabletop. But it was nothing compared to the ache in my chest as the memories of last night started coming back in ugly, overlapping fragments: the bar, the music, the drinks I’d pounded like a woman on a mission to forget her own name. The sick, humiliating lurch of panic when that man had grabbed me. Papa’s voice, hot and furious, followed by the cold reality of me puking my guts out in front of him. My face burned, even before I tried to sit up.
I risked a peek at the digital clock: not quite seven. I’d been asleep for maybe five hours. Or maybe forever. I let my head flop back onto the pillow and stared at the ceiling, mind racing the way it always did when my body was too tired to keep up. This was supposed to be a new start. I’d tried so hard to fit in, to be normal, and now here I was—helpless as a baby, with the one person I liked best in the world literally propping up the side of my bed.
Why would anyone want to take care of me? I could still see the look on his face as I’d leaned over the toilet, the way he’d held my hair back and wiped the sweat from my neck, never once looking disgusted. It should have made me feel safe. Instead, I wanted to dig a hole in the mattress and crawl in.
I closed my eyes, letting my thoughts twist around themselves like a bowl of overcooked spaghetti. All the ways I’d failed last night, all the ways I’d been a disappointment; not just to Papa, but to myself, to Mama, to anyone who ever thought I was meant for something more than being the town’s pity project.
I needed to get up and use the bathroom, but I couldn’t bring myself to disturb him. Besides, what if he woke up and saw me? What if he tried to talk to me about last night, about how reckless I’d been, or how he had to swoop in and rescue me like some battered puppy?
You don’t deserve a man like him; I thought. He’s a war hero, an Alpha’s best friend, a walking mountain with a heart bigger than Texas. You’re just…a defective little witch who can’t even hold her liquor.
I tried to hold still, but the need to pee became impossible to ignore. I eased my leg out from under the quilt, careful as a burglar, but of course the bed frame creaked. Papa’s eyes snapped open. Even groggy, his gaze was sharp as a blade.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” he said. His voice was a sandpaper rumble, softer than I’d ever heard it. “You been awake long?”
I shook my head, then instantly regretted it. “No, sir,” I croaked. “Just now.”
He smirked, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. “You need the bathroom, don’t you?”
I flushed so hard I thought my ears would pop. “Um. Yes, sir.”
He stood, slow and deliberate, then held out a hand for me. “Come on. I can hear your mind racing from here.”
I took his hand, expecting him to yank me to my feet, but instead he cradled my palm like it was made of blown glass. I slid off the bed and instantly wobbled. His arm caught me around the waist, steady as a fencepost. He walked me to the door, only letting go when I reached the threshold.
“Take your time,” he said. “I’ll make coffee.”
I closed the door and leaned against it for a second, trying not to let the wave of gratitude drown me. I took care of business, washed my face, and stared at the girl in the mirror:hair in a fright, skin ghost-pale except for the flush in my cheeks, eyes puffy and rimmed in red. I splashed water on my face again, hoping to trick myself into feeling alive.
I opened the medicine cabinet, found the bottle of ibuprofen, and shook out three. I dry-swallowed them, knowing I’d need at least that many if I was going to survive this day.
By the time I cracked the door, the smell of coffee was already drifting down the hall. I shuffled toward the kitchen in my t-shirt and nothing else, only remembering halfway that the shirt only hit me mid-thigh. I almost turned around, but the smell of breakfast stopped me in my tracks.
Papa was at the stove, tossing scrambled eggs in a pan like it was the most natural thing in the world. Bacon sizzled beside it, and the coffeepot gurgled on the counter. He’d found my favorite mug—blue, with a little pink cow design—and poured me a cup without asking how I took it. He knew. He’d remembered.
I ducked my head and slid into the nearest chair. My heart was thumping so loud I could hear it in my ears. I wrapped my hands around the mug and tried not to look at him.
“Eggs’ll be ready in a minute,” he said. “Toast is on the way.”
I just nodded, then sipped. The coffee was perfect—creamy, sweet, just the way Mama used to make it when she knew I’d needed some comfort. I felt a lump rise in my throat, and I did my best to swallow it down.
Papa set a plate in front of me: eggs, bacon, two slices of toast with jam. He took the chair opposite, watching me with those unreadable gray eyes.
