He squeezed my hand. I squeezed back.
And in that moment, I knew I wasn’t alone anymore.
Not now.
Not ever.
Chapter Nine
~ Burke ~
The sunset painted the ranch in shades of gold and amber, the kind that made even the dust in the air look intentional. I watched Danny from the corner of my eye, trying not to be obvious about it.
Six weeks had turned his bruises from angry purple to a sickly yellow-green, and he’d stopped wincing every time he took a deep breath. Progress. The kind that made my chest tight with relief.
We sat on the porch swing, our thighs pressed together, close enough that I could feel the warmth of him through my jeans. The evening air carried the scent of fresh-cut hay and the distant smoke of Jojo’s bonfire out by the creek. The swing creaked under us, a gentle, back-and-forth rhythm that matched my heartbeat.
Danny’s fingers brushed mine on the wooden seat between us. Not reaching, not asking—just there, like he was testing whether I’d pull away. I didn’t. I turned my hand, palm up, and waited.
He took it, his fingers sliding between mine like they’d been carved for exactly that purpose. His skin was cool, but not cold, softer than it had any right to be. I squeezed once, gently, and he squeezed back.
“I’ve never felt this way about anyone before,” I said, the words falling out before I could catch them. No joke, no deflection, just the raw, stupid truth.
Danny went still beside me. I could feel his breath catch, hear the soft hitch in his throat. His eyes—the one still healing, plus the good one—found mine in the fading light. Something passed between us, electric and impossible to name.
“Neither have I,” he said, and his voice had that same raw quality.
The breeze picked up, carrying the smell of him—that sweet, herbal thing mixed with something deeper, something that made my alpha instincts roar to life. He’d been here six weeks, sleeping in the guest room, but spending every other minute by my side. We’d kissed, held hands, fallen asleep in front of bad movies, but we hadn’t—not yet. The bruises had been too fresh, too many.
But now his scent was changing, warming with an emotion I didn’t want to name for fear of scaring it off.
I turned to face him, the swing creaking with the movement. The last of the sunlight caught in his hair, turning the edges to fire. I reached up, brushed a strand from his forehead, and let my hand linger on his cheek.
“I want to kiss you,” I said, because I’d promised myself I’d never take that choice away from him, not even for a second.
He smiled, lopsided and beautiful. “I want that, too.”
I leaned in slow, giving him every chance to back away. But he met me halfway, his lips soft and sure against mine. What started as gentle turned into something else—his hand coming up to grip my shirt, mine sliding into his hair. His mouth opened under mine, and I tasted the sweetness of the mint tea he’d been drinking.
His scent intensified, flooding my senses. Under the sweet notes was the unmistakable heat of an omega responding to an alpha—pure biology, impossible to fake. My body reacted instantly, blood rushing south, pulse hammering in my throat. I broke the kiss, breathing hard.
“We should go inside,” I said, voice rougher than I meant it to be.
He nodded, eyes dark with wanting. I stood, pulling him up with me. He was still too thin, the bones of his wrist tooprominent under my fingers. But he was solid, real, alive in my hands in a way that made my chest ache.
I couldn’t wait. I bent, got one arm under his knees, the other behind his back, and lifted. He yelped, then laughed, arms looping around my neck.
“I can walk, you know,” he said, but he was already settling against my chest, his face tucked into the hollow of my throat.
“Too slow,” I growled, and carried him into the house.
The living room was empty—Rawley and Jojo had taken a rare night off, heading to town for dinner and a movie—but I didn’t stop there. I carried him down the hall to the guest room, now unmistakably his, with the laptop Carter had fixed sitting on the desk and a stack of library books by the bed.
I set him down on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle his still-healing ribs. His eyes never left mine as I stepped back, just enough to give him room to breathe.
“You sure about this?” I asked, because I had to, even if the question burned.
He reached for me, hands finding the hem of my shirt. “Yes,” he said, and pulled me down.
