Vincent crouched before the stove, feeding another piece of wood into the flames. The firelight caught the silver in his hair, making him look distinguished even in this hovel.
He’d always been like that—able to maintain his veneer of cultured elegance no matter the circumstances. As though the rot inside him couldn’t quite penetrate the carefully constructed exterior.
He stood and pulled a glass bottle from his coat pocket, then a cloth. A sickly-sweet smell drifted through the air, and her insides lurched with recognition. That had to be what he’d used to make her sleep in the boarding house.
He turned to her with that awful, familiar smile. “I really hoped you’d be more reasonable.” He uncorked the bottle and doused the cloth, holding it at arm’s length. “We could have had a pleasant journey back to Virginia City. But you’ve always had to make things difficult, haven’t you? Just like your mother.”
The mention of Mama spiked a surge of fury through her fear. Her mother had been trapped, manipulated, forced into choices no woman should have to make. And Vincent spoke of her like she’d been the problem.
He approached her, the sweet-smelling cloth held casually in his hand, his confidence absolute. He thought she was still that frightened fifteen-year-old girl who’d signed her life away. He thought she was broken.
But she wasn’t broken. She was angry.
When he reached out to press the cloth over her face, she slammed her boots into his groin with every ounce of strength she could muster.
Vincent staggered back, gasping, and Rose lunged to her feet. The chair came with her—still tied to her upper body, forcing her to bend forward. But the broken wood was lighter than she’d expected, and she could move.
He recovered faster than she’d hoped. His hand shot out, catching her shoulder, but she spun away. The chair swung with her, its legs catching him in the ribs with a satisfying crack.
He cursed and came at her again. She thrust backward into him, plunging the chair legs like a weapon.
He stumbled into the stove, his hand shooting out to catch himself. The metal rang with the impact, and he hissed through his teeth.
They struggled in the cramped space—he was stronger, always had been—but she was fighting for survival now, for her future. For the right to choose James and the ranch and the life she craved with everything in her.
She swung the chair wildly, screaming with everything she had, just in case someone—anyone—was close enough to hear.
Vincent’s fist connected with the side of her face near her jaw, snapping her head sideways. Stars burst behind her eyes, and her knees buckled, but she couldn’t give up.
His fingers closed around her throat, squeezing, cutting off the scream still clawing its way from her chest. The cabin tilted sideways, darkness creeping in at the edges of her vision. Her lungs burned. She thrashed against him, but his grip only tightened.
Black spots danced across her vision. Her lungs pleaded for air.
God, help me!
The words weren’t eloquent. They were barely even words—more a soul-deep cry torn from the last fragment of her consciousness.
The door exploded inward.
God must have heard.
CHAPTER 30
Ice and fire merged in James’s veins at the sight of Vincent’s hands around Rose’s throat.
He raised the rifle to his shoulder, his grip steady despite the white-hot fury coursing through his veins.
He couldn’t shoot Vincent outright, not with Rose in front of the man and struggling. But he had to stop the beast from choking her
“Let her go.” His voice cut through the sounds of struggle—Rose’s choked gasps, Vincent’s labored breathing.
Vincent froze. His hand remained wrapped around Rose’s throat, but his body went rigid as he turned to face James in the doorway. For one heartbeat, no one moved.
Then Vincent’s face twisted into something ugly—fear and calculation warring for dominance. He yanked Rose tighter in front of him like a shield, one hand still gripping her throat. “You won’t shoot.” The words came out tight, strained. “You’ll hit her.”
James’s finger trembled on the trigger. The rifle sight wavered, and every instinct screamed at him to pull, to end this, to make Vincent pay for every bruise on Rose’s face, every mark his fingers left on her throat. Every scar his dominance and lies had left on her heart.
But Vincent was right.
