I risk a glance at Rhett. His hands are clenched on his knees, his knuckles white. He’s staring straight ahead, his jaw set like a block of granite.
From the back seat, Knox lets out a breath. “Yeah,” he says, his voice devoid of its earlier belligerence. It’s raw, honest. “I know. I smelled it too. That first day, when she was at the main house. It’s... I’ve never smelled anything like it.”
There. It’s out. The unspoken thing, the secret we’ve all been trying to ignore, is now hanging in the air between us, thick and suffocating. We’re two Alphas of a fledgling pack, and we’re both dangerously, inexplicably drawn to the one woman who is actively trying to destroy everything we’ve built. It’s a cosmic fucking joke.
Rhett still doesn’t speak, but his silence is its own confession. He feels it too. I know he does. He’s the one who held her hand, who drove her to town, who sat with her while she panicked. He might be newer to the pack, but the pull is there. It’s in the rigid set of his shoulders, in the way he refuses to look at either of us.
The admission hangs there, a raw, open nerve. The truck feels smaller. We’re driving down a dark road, and we’ve just admitted we’re all lost.
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to regain control. I’m supposed to be the level-headed one, the one who thinks things through. I can’t let this... this infatuation derail us.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, my voice hard, resolute. I force myself to look away from the road and meet Knox’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “None of it matters. She’s still trying to kick us off the property. She’s still the enemy. Don’t ever forget that.”
The words are a splash of cold water. They’re meant for Knox, but they’re also meant for me.
Knox leans back against the seat, the fight draining out of him. He doesn’t argue. He just looks out the window again, his reflection somber in the dark.
The rest of the drive is silent. A heavy, charged silence filled with everything we said and everything we left unsaid. When I finally turn off the highway and onto the dirt road that leads to the ranch, I feel like I’ve been gone for a week. The headlights sweep across the cabins, illuminating the familiar shapes of our home.
I pull up to the main house and kill the engine. The ringing silence is heavier than the noise from the saloon.
“Let’s get to bed,” Rhett says. Then he opens his door and steps out into the cool night air.
Knox follows, a little less steady on his feet. He slams the back door harder than necessary. “Night,” he grunts, not looking back as he stumbles toward the path that leads to the cabins.
I watch them go, two dark figures disappearing into the shadows. A moment later, a flurry of motion comes charging out of the darkness from the direction of the main house. Blue skids to a halt in front of me, tail wagging so hard his whole body wiggles, and rests his head on my knee, whining softly.
I reach out and scratch behind his ears, a small, familiar comfort in a night that’s offered none. “Hey, boy.” My gaze sweeps over the property, over the dark silhouettes of the cabins and the rolling plains beyond. And that’s when I see it. A soft, warm glow spilling from the high windows of the main barn.
My body tenses. It’s late. Too late for anyone to be working. My first thought is trespassers, or maybe one of the hands forgot something. But a prickle of unease, something instinctual, tells me it’s not that simple.
I open the glove box, pushing past the registration and a greasy rag to wrap my hand around the heavy, cold steel of my Maglite. We had a couple of rattlers sunning themselves by the corral last week, and a bull snake tried to make a home in the tack room just last month. You don’t walk onto a ranch in the dark without a light and a healthy dose of caution.
Blue trots faithfully at my heels as I cut across the yard, the beam of my torch cutting a white path through the darkness. The barn looms ahead, the light from inside turning the dusty air into a swirling galaxy. I pull the heavy door open just enough to slip inside, the scent of hay, manure, and warm leather washing over me. It’s the smell of home. Of hard work. Of peace.
But the scene inside shatters that peace.
There, on a bale of hay near Midnight’s stall, is Saramaria. She’s fast asleep, her hair fanned out across the golden straw, one arm thrown over her head. At her feet, that scruffy little mutt of hers is curled in a tight ball, its chest rising and falling with each soft breath. And standing over them both, his head lowered and his ears pricked forward, is Midnight. Not threatening, but watching. A silent, stoic guardian.
My breath catches in my throat. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t look so… goddamn peaceful. So vulnerable. All the professional armor she wears during the day is gone, replaced by this soft, sleeping form. And I hate that I find it so endearing. That I find her so adorable.
The sight yanks me back fifteen years. She was only fourteen then. I’d found her in this exact spot, curled up in a ball after a screaming match with her grandfather over god knows what. Her face was blotchy and stained with tears, and she was refusing to go back to the house. She was sleeping then, too, her head resting against the neck of her old mare, Blossom. I’d sat with her for hours that night, just watching her breathe, feeling a fierce, protective urge that scared the shit out of me.
Some things never fucking change.
I walk forward, my boots unnaturally loud in the quiet barn. Midnight nickers softly, a low warning. I hold up a hand to him. “Easy, boy.”
I stop a few feet from the bale of hay. I shouldn’t wake her. I should just turn around and leave. But I can’t. I need to know why she’s here.
“Saramaria,” I say.
Her eyes fly open. For a second, they’re wide with confusion, then they fill with terror. She gasps, a sound that’s halfway to a scream before I react. I close the distance in two strides, clamping a hand gently but firmly over her mouth.
“Shh,” I murmur, my mouth close to her ear. “Easy. It’s just me. You’ll spook the horses.”
Her body is rigid beneath my touch, her breath hot and fast against my palm. I can feel the frantic beat of her pulse against my thumb. Then, slowly, recognition dawns in her eyes. The tension in her shoulders eases, just a fraction. I wait another beat before I pull my hand away.
She scrambles into a sitting position, pushing her hair out of her face. That’s when I get a proper look at her. She’s wearing a matching set of purple leggings and a thin, strapless bralette. The soft fabric clings to her curves, and my gaze catches on the smooth expanse of her shoulders before I force myself to look away, a hot, unwelcome spike of arousal lancing through me.
