A low chuckle rumbles from his chest, satisfied and unhurried, like this was always the inevitable outcome.
“Guess you’re leaving after all,” Tessa mutters, recovering first.
Rayna shakes her head, muttering something under her breath about stubborn men. Maddie laughs, covering her mouth as if that’ll soften it.
“Put me down,” I hiss, trying to squirm without wriggling out of his hold and risking eating carpet in front of everyone. “I wasn’t done talking?—”
“You’re done,” he says simply, carrying me into the hallway as though I didn’t tell him no. His steps are steady, confident, like he owns every inch of this place and everyone in it.
Behind us, the women’s laughter follows, a mix of shock and amusement, fading as he starts up the stairs with me locked in his arms.
And as much as my pride wants to keep resisting, a small, traitorous part of me thrills at how easily he dismisses every obstacle between us.
Like I was never going to have a choice.
33
Colter doesn’t saya word as he carries me up the stairs. The only sound is the steady rhythm of his boots against wood, the faint creak of the banister as we pass. My fingers curl into his shirt, more for balance than anything, but he feels like iron beneath the cotton. Solid. Unyielding.
When he shoulders his way into his room, the door clicks shut behind us with a finality that prickles across my skin. He doesn’t set me down right away, but stands there with me cradled in his arms, his face unreadable, his eyes green and sharp in the low lamplight.
“Enjoyed yourself down there?” he finally asks, his tone quiet, almost casual. But his gaze pins me in place.
I swallow. “Yeah. They’re nice.”
“Mm.” His mouth curves a little, though it’s not exactly a smile. More like he’s cataloguing that information, deciding what to do with it.
When he finally lowers me, it’s not onto the floor but onto his bed. The mattress dips beneath me, springy and firm, smelling faintly of cedar and him. He braces his hands on either side of me, leaning close enough that the heat of him sinks through my hoodie.
“You told me no in front of my people,” he says, voice low, like it’s meant to stay between us. The word aren’t angry or sharp. Just a quiet observation.
My throat feels tight. “I wasn’t ready to leave.”
His eyes flick down to my mouth, then back up. “You’re used to people letting you have your way, aren’t you?”
“That’s not what this is,” I whisper.
One of his hands slides to my jaw, thumb grazing along my cheek like he can feel the pulse that betrays me. His touch is gentle, careful, at odds with the way he’d carried me up here like I weighed nothing.
“Then tell me what it is,” he murmurs.
The question hangs heavy between us. My heart pounds so loud I swear he can hear it.
I lick my lips, searching for words I don’t have. Because it isn’t about the women downstairs, not really. It’s about me not wanting to feel like a piece on his chessboard, moved wherever he decides.
But with him looking at me like this, with that quiet intensity, it’s hard to remember why I wanted to dig in my heels at all.
He doesn’t press, though. Doesn’t demand an answer. Instead, he shifts, his forehead brushing lightly against mine, his breath warm when he says, “You should know something.”
The weight in his tone makes my stomach drop.
I tense. “What?”
His hand falls away from my face, trailing down until his fingers rest lightly against my thigh. He watches me, steady and unreadable.
“It’s about Melanie.”
The sound of her name tightens something low in my stomach. I shift, pulling back to meet his eyes. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t fidget. He’s steady, like always, but there’s a weight behind his gaze that makes my chest ache.
