I press a kiss to her temple, lingering there, breathing her in. My grip tightens when her hand finally curls into my shirt.
And just like that, the storm in me calms. Because if she’s here, in my arms, it means I’m winning. At least for today.
I don’t let go of her right away. Hell, I don’t want to ever let go. She fits against me like she was made to be there, soft and warm and breathing steady now that the fight’s drained out of her. But I can feel the clock ticking, obligations clawing at the back of my mind, the world outside this house pressing to get in.
She doesn’t belong in this world. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I ease back enough to look at her, brushing my thumb across her jaw. Her eyes flick up to mine, still searching, still wanting answers I’m not ready to give. God, she deserves better than riddles and half-truths. But if giving her the truth means losing her, then she’ll get what I can give and nothing more.
“Go get your shoes,” I murmur, softer than I mean to. “I’m taking you back.”
Her brows pull together, confusion and a flicker of hurt crossing her face before she masks it. I feel it anyway. I always do.
Back at Broken Ridge, where I know John and the rest will circle around her, to keep her within their reach. Within my reach.
Peyton doesn’t argue, though. She nods once and slips away to gather herself, leaving me in the kitchen with a silence that suddenly feels heavier without her in it.
The drive is quiet. She stares out the window, the morning light painting her profile in gold, and I can’t stop looking. Can’t stop remembering her in my bed, my hands on her skin, her voice breaking on my name like it was the only prayer she knew.
And now she sits here like none of it happened. Like she hasn’t completely fucked me up in less than twenty-four hours.
I grip the wheel tighter, knuckles straining, because if I reach for her now, I’ll pull her into my lap and never let her go. I’ll cage her like she accused me of. And she’ll be right.
So I keep my distance. For now.
When the truth crunches over the gravel leading up to Broken Ridge, she finally speaks. “You don’t have to walk me in.”
Her voice is steady, but I catch the little shake in it. The one that tells me she’s lying. She wants me to follow, to press my hand against her back and claim her in front of everyone. To make it clear she is mine.
But she also doesn’t because, to Peyton, admitting she needs someone makes her feel weak. Vulnerable. Two things that she has learned in life to never be. She will learn that I’ll be there to support her when she is. That I won’t take advantage of her or tear her down.
I kill the engine, leaning back in my seat. For a second, I simply stare at her, committing every detail to memory—the way the sundress clings to her, how the sunlight catches her hair, the stubborn tilt of her chin.
“Okay,” I agree after a moment. “But You’ll see me later. Pack a bag.” Not a question. Not a choice.
Her eyes snap to mine, sharp and wary. “You mean you’ll pick me up.”
“Yeah.” My mouth curves, but it isn’t a smile. It’s a warning. “I’ll pick you up.”
She exhales, something between frustration and acceptance, and pushes the door open. Gravel crunches under her bare feet as she slips out, the hem of her dress swaying against her porn worthy legs. She doesn’t look back as she makes her way to the porch.
But I don’t drive off. Not until she disappears inside. Not until I’m sure the door has closed behind her and she’s out of sight.
Even then, I don’t leave right away. I sit there, engine off, hands tight on the wheel, fighting the urge to storm after her and drag her back into the truck.
Because she’s mine. And I’m not done with her. Not by a long shot.
After several moments, I finally start the engine back up and peel away from Broken Ridge, gravel spitting out behind the tires, the ranch house shrinking in the rearview. My jaw aches from how tight I’ve been clenching it, but it’s the only thing keeping me from turning back, from kicking down the damn door and taking her with me.
Later. I promised. And I meant it.
The road stretches out in front of me, long and empty, the kind that makes a man think too much. But I’ve got no room for pondering about my place in the universe, because the road I’mheading down now that Peyton isn’t in the truck is a dark one. Anger still simmers in my veins from last night. It’s been riding me ever since I saw her bruises, ever since I smelled the fear on her like smoke.
I reach the outskirts on the other side of Crimson Ridge, then beyond, where the buildings start to rot and the air feels heavier. I pull the truck into a cracked asphalt lot pitted with weeds. At the far end, tucked behind a row of shipping containers, sits the warehouse.
Unmarked. Ordinary. But ours.
I kill the headlights as I roll closer, the corrugates steel walls catching the late morning light. By the time I park and get out, one of my men is already stepping out of the shadows, a phone in his hand. He doesn’t speak, just gives me a nod and pulls the side door open.
