“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” I manage, my voice steadier than I feel.
Colter’s gaze softens. “You didn’t.”
Silence presses down for a beat too long. The older man clears his throat, lifting his coffee up in a mock-toast. “So. This is the infamous Peyton.”
It’s not a question, and the way he says it makes my skin prickle.
Colter pushes off the counter and closes the space between us in three easy strides. His hand finds the small of my back, warm and solid. “Yeah,” he tells them. “This is her.”
Something flickers in Ford’s expression. Annoyance, maybe? Disgust. I can’t tell. But he turns away, muttering under his breath before knocking back the rest of his drink.
The older man studies me a little longer, unreadable, then inclines his head. “Interesting.”
The word hangs there. Sharp and deliberate.
Colter’s grip tightens on me, fingers pressing through the thin cotton of the dress like he’s reminding both them, and me, who I belong to.
I swallow hard, caught in the tension, my mind spinning with all the things they weren’t saying before I walked in. My mother’s name still echoing in my skull like a ghost I can’t shake.
“Sienna,” Colter calls. A young woman, not much older than me, pops her head in from what looks to be a pantry. “Fix her a place.
The girl, Sienna, steps fully into view, her dark braid swinging against her shoulder as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. She gives me a quick once-over, not unfriendly, but not exactly welcoming either. More like she’s cataloguing me the way the men did.
“Yes, sir,” she says, her voice quiet but respectful.
I open my mouth to protest that I’m not hungry. Not after overhearing everything they said, but Colter’s hand presses into my back, urging me forward toward the table. His touch is deceptively gentle, but I know better. It’s not a suggestion.
My pulse thrums in my throat as I lower myself onto one of the high-backed hairs, the cool leather biting through the thin cotton sundress. The two men shift subtly, like wolves adjusting around a stranger in their den.
Sienne disappears and reemerges a minute later with a plate, fluffy biscuits, thick-cut bacon, scrambled eggs flecked with herbs. She sets it in front of me with neutral expression before retreating again, as if she knows better than to linger.
“Eat,” Colter says. Just one word, a command.
My fork feels heavy in my hand. My appetite is gone, but the weight of three men’s stares—his protective, their assessing, makes pushing food around my plate impossible. I force a bite of eggs past my lips, chewing even though it tastes like ash.
The older man sips his coffee, his gaze sharp as a scalpel. “You’ve brought her into your house, Colter. You laid a public claim.”
Ford makes a disgruntled sound of agreement.
Colter doesn’t answer. Not at first. He leans against the table instead, arms crossed, body angled toward me like he’s daring them to try and reach me. When he finally speaks, his tone is clipped. “You let me worry about it.”
Heat crawls up my neck, but I’m not sure if it’s from embarrassment or the way he says it in his trademark territorial growl.
The older man studies me a moment longer, then pushes away from the counter. “Fine.” His gaze flickers between the two of us, lingering on Colter. “Sooner or later, she is going to need tounderstand exactly what kind of family she’s sitting at the table with.”
Family. The words drip with something heavier than blood, and it roots me to the chair like lead.
They leave together, Ford muttering under his breath but the older one silences him with a look. The sound of the door closing echoes in the cavernous space, leaving me alone with Colter.
Only then do I let the fork clatter onto the plate. My hands shake, and I curl them into my lap before he notices.
“What the hell was that?” My voice comes out hoarse, but sharp enough to cut. “Who were they? And why were they talking about my mother?”
Colter watches me in silence, his jaw tight, a muscle ticking beneath his morning stubble. Then he steps closer, bracing his hands on either side of me, caging me in with his body.
“You ask too many questions,” he murmurs. His breath ghosts over my cheek, warm and steady, and his eyes burn with something that looks like warning and want. “And you don’t want all the answers.”
“You don’t get to tell me what I want,” I snap, tilting my chin up to meet his stare even though my heart is trying to pound its way out of my chest. “You don’t get to just…hide things and expect me to sit here smiling like some stupid little?—”
