If there is a later.
The way Colter is staring at me right now makes it seem as if there won’t be anything left of me to apologize to once he’s through with me. Without saying a word, he leads me to where his truck is parked, still running, and helps me into the passenger seat, making sure my dress doesn’t get caught up in the door.
The ride back is a blur of headlights and silence, but when the truck turns down a long stretch of gravel road that veers away from the main house, my stomach knots. I’d always assumed Colter lived with his father. That men like him never left the nest, not really. But the truck rolls to a stop in front of a house I’ve never seen before.
And not any house.
It rises out of the darkness like something from a magazine spread. Big, but not in the cold sprawling way of my father’s estate. This place has weight and presence with logs and stone stacked tight against the night, a wide porch wrapping around it. Warm light spills from the wall windows, cutting across the gravel drive, inviting and intimidating all at once.
My chest tightens. This isn’t any house.
It’s his house.
I’m busy staring in awe when Colter opens my door. His hand is firm at the small of my back as he helps me down. “Inside,” he growls, voice clipped.
He leads me up the steps, never taking his hand off me.
The heavy front door swings open to a wide foyer. My heels hit polished wood floors that gleam beneath soft, amber lighting. A stone fireplace anchors the living room to my left. The mantle is stacked with books and things that don’t belong in what seems as if it was made for some carefully curated designer’s catalogue. No…this feels lived in. Claimed. The space smells faintly of cedar, leather and something spicier—him.
It doesn’t match the man I’ve made him to be in my head.
Colter focuses his attention on me. Sharp enough that I feel stripped down to my bones. He nudges me further inside until I’m perched on a leather stool at the massive kitchen island. Dark cabinets. Wide counters. Everything neat, precise, but with that same rustic charm that makes the place feel grounded.
“You live here,” I blurt before I can stop myself.
His brows draw together like he doesn’t understand the question. “Yeah.”
“I though…” I trail off, my cheeks heating. “I thought you stayed with your dad.”
His mouth curves, humorless. “No. This is mine.” His tone leaves no room for doubt.
Something about the truth sinks beneath my skin, deeper than I want it to. Like this house is an extension of him, his independence, his dominance, his control. And here I am, dropped squarely in the middle of it.
Colter grabs a glass, fills it with water, and sets it in front of me like it’s an order. I wrap my hands around it, more for something to hold onto than thirst. He takes the chair opposite me, knees brushing mine, gaze unrelenting.
“Peyton.” My name comes out rough, like gravel. “Whoever laid a hand on you…he’s already dead. I need a name. A face. Something.”
The promise in his voice chills me. He means it. Whoever that man was, Colter will hunt him down and end him.
But my heart is still racing for a different reason. Because beneath the fury in his eyes, I see something else, something rawer, more dangerous. Possession.
And maybe the worst part?
Some twisted part of me feels safer here, in this house, with his rage aimed at the world instead of me. My fingers tighten around the glass, condensation damp against my palms. The water sits untouched. My throat is too tight, words scraping raw on their way out.
“We were having fun,” I start, keeping my voice even, though it shakes at the edges. “I went to the bathroom and when I came back out it, it was quiet. Too quiet. He was waiting, I think. In one of the stalls. I didn’t even hear him until it was too late.”
Colter’s jaw locks, hard enough I think it might crack.
“He grabbed me from behind. Slammed me into the wall.” My breath stutters, the memory flashing hot and bright in my chest. “His arm was around my throat. It felt as if I couldn’t breathe. Everything…blurred.”
The glass rattles softly as I set it down before I drop it. My hands won’t stop trembling.
“Then what?” his voice is a low growl, threaded with danger.
“He said something about getting a payday for getting rid of me—” I pause, forcing the words past the knot in my throat. “Then Jackson and Lee burst in. He bolted before they had a chance to see him.”
The silence that follows isn’t silent at all. It’s a storm, thick and charged. Colter’s fury rolls off him in waves. His knuckles flex against the granite of the island, tendons standing out like chords, his body taut with violence he hasn’t unleashed.
