I nodded, not trusting my voice, and let him lead me to the edge of the ridge. The view was stunning. The sun was sinking toward the mountains, painting the sky in shades of orange andpink and gold, casting long shadows across the valleys below. The land stretched out endlessly, wild and beautiful, and I understood now why he'd fought so hard to keep it. Why he'd nearly destroyed himself to save it.
This was home. His home. He was sharing it with me.
"It's beautiful." My voice came out hushed, reverent, inadequate for the magnitude of what I was seeing, what I was feeling. I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the evening air, suddenly overwhelmed by everything this day had been.
"Yeah." Reid's voice was soft beside me, and when I turned my head I found him watching me instead of the sunset, his dark eyes burning with something that made my stomach flip. "It is."
He wasn't talking about the view.
The air between us shifted, charged with something electric, something inevitable. I could feel my heart pounding against my ribs, could hear the blood rushing in my ears, could smell his scent growing stronger—sharper, more intense, the whiskey-and-woodsmoke deepening into something darker and more primal.
"Aster." My name on his lips was a question and a prayer, rough with want and trembling with restraint. He'd turned to face me fully, his broad body blocking out the sunset, his dark eyes searching my face for permission. His hand rose slowly, giving me time to pull away, and brushed a strand of hair back from my face, his fingers trailing fire across my skin. "Tell me to stop."
"No." The word came out fierce, certain, surprising us both. I stepped closer instead of away, my hand rising to rest on his chest, feeling his heart pound beneath my palm—fast and hard and just as desperate as my own. "Don't stop."
Something broke behind his eyes—control, restraint, thirteen years of careful patience—and then his mouth wason mine. The kiss was soft at first, questioning, his lips brushing against mine like he was asking permission with every movement. His hand cupped my face, thumb stroking across my cheekbone, his touch impossibly gentle for a man so large, so powerful.
I didn't want gentle.
I surged up into him, my hands fisting in the flannel stretched across his shoulders, pulling him closer, deeper, demanding more. He made a sound against my mouth—a growl, low and rumbling in his chest—and then his arm was banding around my waist and he was kissing me back like I was air and he'd been drowning.
His lips moved against mine, firm and sure, and I tasted whiskey and want and something that felt like coming home. His tongue traced the seam of my mouth, requesting entry, and when I opened for him the sound he made vibrated through my entire body—a deep, rumbling purr that I felt in my bones.
His hand slid into my hair, cradling the back of my head, tilting me for a better angle as he explored my mouth with devastating thoroughness. His other arm was locked around my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I could feel every hard line of his body pressed against mine—chest and hips and thighs, all of it solid and warm and overwhelming in the best possible way.
When we finally broke apart, gasping for air, his forehead dropped to rest against mine. His eyes were still closed, his breath coming in rough pants, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding himself back.
"Aster." Her name was a rasp, wrecked and wondering, his voice rough as gravel and soft as a prayer. His thumb traced her cheekbone again, feather-light, reverent. "Tell me that was okay. Tell me I didn't just?—"
"It was perfect." My voice came out breathless, shaking, but sure. I pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, finding them dark and wild and blazing with something that made my toes curl. My hand rose to cup his face, feeling the rasp of stubble beneath my palm, the warmth of his skin. "You're perfect."
Reid made that sound again—that rumbling purr that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest—and pulled me back into his arms, tucking my head beneath his chin, his heart pounding against my cheek.
"I've been wanting to do that since the day you walked into my stable." His voice was a murmur against my hair, rough with emotion and soft with wonder. His arms tightened around me, holding me like something precious, something he was afraid might disappear. "Covered in dust, half-starved, ready to fight anyone who looked at you wrong. Most beautiful thing I'd ever seen."
I laughed against his chest, the sound wet and trembling, tears slipping down my cheeks that I couldn't explain and didn't want to stop.
"I was a mess." My voice was muffled against his flannel, my fingers curling into the fabric at his back, holding on like he might disappear if I let go. "I'm still a mess."
"My mess." The words were fierce, possessive, rumbling through his chest and into my bones. His hand stroked down my spine, soothing and claiming all at once. "If you want to be." I pulled back to look at him, at this steady, fierce man who'd shared his wounds with me and kissed me like I was something worth cherishing.
"Yeah." My voice was barely a whisper, but it carried the weight of a vow. I rose up on my toes and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, feeling him shudder beneath my touch. "I think I do."
Behind us, the sun finished its descent, painting the world in shades of purple and gold. The horses stood patient and calm, waiting to carry us home. And Reid held me in his arms on the ridge where he'd nearly lost everything and somehow found it again, and something that had been locked inside me for thirteen years finally, finally cracked open.
I was still scared. I was still uncertain. But for the first time in my life, I wanted something more than safety….and just maybe, that was the most terrifying and wonderful thing of all.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ASTER
The bunkhouse felt wrong. I stood in the doorway of the small room I'd been assigned that first day, looking at the narrow cot with its scratchy blanket, the bare walls, the single window that let in weak afternoon light. My bag sat on the floor where I'd left it—still packed, still ready to grab and run at a moment's notice, the way it had been for nine years.
Nothing had changed here. The room was exactly the same as it had been when I'd arrived. But I was different now, and the space that had once felt like safety now felt like exile. I hadn't slept here in almost a week. Hadn't done more than stop by to grab clean clothes before heading back to the main house, where breakfast waited on the table and someone always had coffee brewing and four sets of Alpha scents wrapped around me like a blanket I hadn't known I needed.
The bunkhouse smelled like dust and old wood and nothing at all. I grabbed a clean shirt from my bag—one of only three I owned—and turned to leave.
Reid was standing at the end of the bunkhouse porch, leaning against the railing with his arms crossed over his broad chest, watching me with those steady dark eyes. His scent reached me before I'd fully registered his presence, whiskey and woodsmoke drifting on the afternoon breeze, and I felt my shoulders drop without my permission.
