Is she stubborn?
Or just broke?
Or worse, used to being told she doesn’t deserve better.
Like with that Diet Coke shit.
I don’t like any of the possibilities.
“Inside, Willow,” I say again, voice lower, gentler.
Then I add, the order clear, “Now.”
She doesn’t argue.
She moves.
And the way she listens—how she trusts me enough to follow without question—does something final and dangerous inside my chest.
Something clicks.
This isn’t just attraction.
This is instinct.
Possession.
And I don’t know yet how the hell I’m going to live with that.
But I know one thing for certain—nothing happens to her.
Not while she’s here.
Not on my watch.
CHAPTER 10
WILLOW
Baby Girl.
He called me that.
Didn’t he?
I lie on my side in the narrow bed, staring at the shadowed wall of the cabin, replaying the moment over and over like I’m trying to wear a groove into it.
His voice. Low. Rough. Certain.
The way it wrapped around the words like they belonged there.
Like I belonged there.
I tell myself I’m imagining it.
That he didn’t mean anything by it.
That men like Thatcher McCrae probably talk like that without realizing the effect.
