I hammered the last post into place and wiped the sweat off my face with a bandana. My hands were raw, my shirt soaked through, but I didn’t care. I’d take honest pain over the ache in my head any day.
On the drive back, I turned the problem over and over: Was I going to tell Bronc? The man was my Alpha, and my friend, but there were things you just didn’t share. Especially when it made you sound weak. No one ever said that out loud, but it was the rule. If you couldn’t handle your mate’s nightmares, you didn’t deserve her.
But then I thought about what Pearl had said. How Brie wasn’t like the others. How she needed more than just a strong arm or a quick tongue. She needed someone who’d stand between her and the whole damn world, even if the fight was inside her own head.
I resolved right then that if tonight was anything like last night, I’d go to Bronc. I’d ask for help. I didn’t care if it made me look soft. I cared about her.
By the time I got back to the house, I had just enough time for a quick shower and a change of clothes before heading to the gallery. I didn’t want to show up looking like I’d been chewed on by the ranch, but I also didn’t want to be late. Brie hated waiting.
I parked across the street, took a deep breath, and walked in. The gallery was a hive of activity—two workers were painting the trim along the east wall, another was setting up tables in the back for the opening. And there, at the far end of the main room, was Brie.
She was perched halfway up a stepladder, adjusting a massive landscape painting on the wall. Lysander was at the foot of the ladder, hands on her hips to steady her as she leaned out, tacking a label into place.
I saw red.
It was irrational; I knew that. The man was harmless. But there was something about the way his fingers dug into her waist, the way he looked up at her with that easy, practiced smile. I wanted to rip him off the ladder and toss him through the plate-glass window.
Lysander noticed me first. He gave a little wave, then said something to Brie, who looked down and beamed.
She scrambled down the ladder, dropped the hammer onto the table, and hurried over. “You’re early,” she said, eyes bright.
I shrugged. “Missed you. And I wanted to see the progress.”
She looped an arm through mine, guiding me toward the back office. Lysander trailed after, all grace and detachment, but his eyes never left us.
Once we were in private, Brie hugged me hard, burying her face in my chest. I held her, breathing her in, the jealousy already fading.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
She nodded against me. “Better now.” Then, quietly: “Thank you. For last night. And for not making a big deal out of it.”
I squeezed her. “You don’t have to thank me. It’s what we do.”
She pulled back, smiling. “Lysander wants us to come to dinner tonight. Celebratory, he says. Are you okay with that?”
I considered it. The smart move would be to decline, plead exhaustion or an early morning. But the thought of leaving her alone with him made my skin crawl. So I nodded.
“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
She grinned, then stood on tiptoes to kiss me. “You’re the best.”
As we left the office, Lysander was waiting by the door. He smiled at Brie, then shot me a look—something like respect, something like a challenge.
I matched it.
We walked out together, the three of us, into the late afternoon sun. The storm was closer now; the wind picking up, electricity crawling over the skin of my arms.
I didn’t know what was coming. But whatever it was, I’d face it head-on. For her.
Even if it killed me.
Chapter 17
Brie
There’s something about Dairyville’s “authentic” Tex-Mex that always made me feel like I was participating in a low-budget reality show. Maybe it was the way the chairs wobbled, or how the chili-lime air clung to every inch of exposed skin. Maybe it was that the restaurant—a converted car wash—was just loud enough to drown out most attempts at eavesdropping, but not so loud that I couldn’t feel every conversational power play reverberate through the Formica table.
Gunner and I walked in a few steps behind Lysander, who was still dressed in what he’d worn to work at the gallery; a linen shirt, tan straight-leg slacks, and loafers without socks. The hostess, who doubled as the bartender, did a little double take at his accent, which Lysander immediately cranked to eleven as he requested “the table with the best view, darling, preferably near a mural.” He threw in a wink that almost upended her tray. She led us to a booth under the painted eyes of a Dia de los Muertos mask where the bench cushions were sun-bleached and squeaked when you sat.
