I nod, because refusing feels like admitting too much.
She turns toward the kitchen, and I trail after her, the silence stretching thin between us. My mind keeps circling back to what I heard, every word etched sharp as glass.
Boss. Protected. His word is law.
I don’t know how long I can keep pretending I don’t know.
I take the coffee because it gives me something to hold, something to anchor me. But as soon as I can, I mumble an excuse about being tired and slip away, the mug still warm in my hand as I climb the stairs.
My room is quiet, the only sound the faint hum of the air vent. I set the mug on the nightstand, pull my laptop from my bag, and crawl onto the bed. My fingers hover over the keys for a moment before I finally type it in.
Shaw family, Texas.
The results load fast, too fast and too neat. Article after article about horse racing championships, glossy photos of sleek thoroughbreds, smiling trainers, and men in suits shaking hands in front of prize ribbons. Pages full of local news about ranch expansions, charity donations, livestock auctions, county fairs.
Clean. Polished. Picture-perfect.
I scroll further, digging deeper, but it’s the same everywhere. Business accolades, magazine spreads on “The Legacy of Shaw Ranch,” Colter’s name tied to rodeo wins and land acquisitions. Even the family portraits look staged, their smiles curated for the camera.
No whispers. No scandals. Nothing that explains the weight in John’s voice when he saidhis word is law.
I chew my lip, leaning back against the headboard, the glow of the screen casting pale light across the room.Boss. Protected. Law.If Colter really is who John says he is, then he’s not some arrogant ranch heir with a bad temper and too much control. He’s something more. Something bigger. Something the internet doesn’t touch.
Or maybe something it’s been scrubbed clean of.
Frustration gnaws at me, low in my chest. I slam the laptop shut harder than necessary and press the heels of my hands against my eyes.
No answers. Just more questions.
The only certainty is that if I want the truth, I won’t find it online. I’ll have to get it from Colter himself. And something tells me… he’s not going to make that easy.
Several hours later, I sit cross-legged on the edge of the bed, the laptop closed beside me. My thoughts spin, darting from one puzzle piece to another: Colter, John, Hudson, the men in the kitchen, the way Sutton sounded…so worried.
The words from earlier still echo repeatedly in my head, heavy with unspoken meaning. And yet when I try to imagine it, Colter Shaw, the man I’ve been entangled with, as some kind of kingpin, it doesn’t make sense. He’s a man who laughs too loud, who teases too sharp, who makes my skin feel too hot and my chest too tight. The idea of him commanding entire operations, of bending people and situations to his will, is almost surreal.
I trace my fingers along the edge of the nightstand, my coffee long gone cold, and lean back against the headboard. The sun outside has shifted, casting long, golden streaks across the floor,and the light warms my skin but doesn’t calm the unease in my chest.
I think about the man who attacked me last night, the way Colter dealt with him. It wasn’t just possessive, not just violent, it was efficient, controlled. And terrifying. And no website about horse racing or ranch trophies would ever prepare me for that.
I tap my fingers against my knees, biting down on the inside of my cheek, and after what feels like hours, I give up.
There’s no information waiting for me online. There’s only Colter. And if I want answers… I’m going to have to hear them from him.
With a sigh, I push myself up and smooth the creases of my sundress. The fabric clings to my skin, soft and light, and I remind myself to breathe. Maybe if I act normal, I can get through the afternoon without letting my curiosity show too much.
Downstairs, the house is alive with a muted hum of activity. The smell of coffee mingles with the faint scent of something baked, warm and comforting. I pause at the kitchen threshold and glance around. Pace is perched on a stool at the island, fiddling with his phone, head tipped just so, giving him a casual ease.
“Afternoon,” I say, trying for lightness in my voice, but it sounds tighter than I expect.
He looks up, brows lifting. “Hey, Peyton.” There’s nothing else in his tone. It’s neutral, polite, nothing probing. Just… him. Safe, grounded.
I slide onto the stool next to him, setting my mug down. “I was wondering…” My voice falters as I try to phrase it carefully. “About Colter. About… everything. How all this works? Who he is? What’s really going on with the family?”
Pace leans back, tilts his head, and fixes me with a calm, steady gaze. “You want the full story, huh?”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Yeah. I mean… I keep seeing these pieces, overhearing things, and…” My hands fidget with the edge of my mug. “…I just need to understand. Or at least…” I stop, realizing I’m fumbling. “…something.”
Pace’s expression tightens, though only slightly. “I get it. You’re curious. And you have every right to know. But that’s not my story to tell.”
