“It feels like it.” I looked down at my hands. “I came here to prove I could do this without anyone's help. Without favors or connections or my father's name opening doors. But every time I turn around, someone's whispering that I don't belong.”
“They're wrong.” The conviction in his voice made me look up. “You belong because you show up. And because you’re not afraid to ask hard questions and don't back down when people try to make you small. That's not something anyone can buy for you.”
My throat tightened. “You sound pretty sure about that.”
“I am.” His jaw flexed. “I've spent my whole life being told who I'm supposed to be. The reckless one. The screw-up. The Kincaid who can't be trusted with anything that matters.” He paused. “You don't look at me like that.”
“Because you're not that.” How could he think that about himself when all I saw was a man capable of doing anything.
His eyes darkened. “You don't know what I am.”
“I know you rode after me and put yourself in danger. I also know you're offering your land for something you believe in even though it scares you. I know you could've let the town tear me apart at the Merc, but you didn't.” I held his gaze. “I know enough.”
The firelight flickered between us, casting shadows that made the small space feel even smaller. The storm howled outside, but in here, everything had gone still.
“Morgan.” My name on his lips sounded like a warning.
“What?”
He stood and crossed to the window again like he needed distance. “You should get some sleep.”
“At three o’clock?”
“Then rest.” His voice was tight. “It's been a long day.”
I stood too and let the blanket fall from my shoulders. “Slade.”
He didn't turn around. “Don't.”
“Don't what?”
“Don't make this harder than it already is.”
I moved closer, stopping a few feet behind him. “Make what harder?”
His shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. When he turned, the haunted look in his eyes stole the air from my lungs.
“Being this close to you,” he said. “And pretending I don't want to touch you.”
His words hung between us, raw and honest. I should've stepped back. Should've deflected or changed the subject or reminded us both of all the reasons this was a terrible idea. Instead, I closed the distance between us.
“Then stop pretending.”
His hands came up to frame my face, his palms warm against my cold cheeks. “If I kiss you,” he said, his voice rough, “I'm not going to want to stop.”
“Good,” I whispered.
He held my gaze as he leaned in, waiting for me to turn away or laugh it off or shut him down before we crossed the line we’d been flirting with for days. When I didn’t, his lips brushed mine. Heat sparked, sizzled, and immediately made me wonder why the hell we’d waited so long.
His eyes lit up then he slid a hand up to cup the back of my head and kissed me like he'd been holding back for weeks. Like every argument and every charged look and every moment we’d spent together had been leading to this. His mouth was firm and hungry, and I responded with the same desperate need that had been building deep inside me since the day we met.
My hands found his coat and tugged him closer. He backed me toward the nearest wall, his body solid against mine, one hand sliding into my hair while the other gripped my hip. I made a sound I didn't recognize, and he groaned in response.
“Morgan.” He pulled back enough to look at me, his breathing ragged. “Tell me to stop.”
I shook my head. “I don't want you to.”
His eyes searched mine. “You're sure?”
