I walk over to the fireplace and add another log.
Boone moves to the armchair, sinking into it with a groan. He leans his head back, closing his eyes. Rhett sits on the rug, leaning his back against the front of the sofa.
I sit on the floor, leaning against the hearth. The heat is intense against my back, but I don’t move away.
We don’t speak. We don’t need to.
We just sit there, listening to the storm and watching her sleep.
I look at the puppy. I look at the way she is holding him. I think about us running out into the freezing rain, trudgingthrough the mud, risking our necks to find a dog that isn’t even ours.
We didn’t do it for the dog. Not really.
We did it for her.
We saw her break. We saw the panic in her eyes. And we didn’t think. We just moved.
I look at Boone, then at Rhett. They look as tired as I feel. Their wet clothes are drying in the heat, steaming slightly.
This is bigger than we thought.
It was supposed to be a job. A place to live. A way to keep the legacy of Anthony Cruz alive. It was supposed to be us against the world.
Now, the world is outside, and she’s in here.
She’s the owner. She’s the enemy. She’s the woman who wants to sell our home.
But watching her sleep there, surrounded by our makeshift bed and our dogs, I know the truth.
We’re in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.
Because I would go out into that storm again tonight if she asked me to. And I know Boone and Rhett would too.
We’re protecting her. We’re providing for her. We’re... caring for her.
The pack dynamic we all swore we didn’t want? It’s happening anyway. It’s building itself around her, brick by brick, log by log.
She shifts in her sleep, murmuring something unintelligible. Blue lifts his head, checks on her, and goes back to sleep.
I stare into the flames, mesmerized by the dance of orange and yellow. The future is uncertain. The circuit might be over. The ranch might be sold. The world might be ending outside.
But right now, in this room, with the fire burning and this woman safe, everything feels exactly as it should be.
And that’s the most dangerous thought of all.
Saramaria
Heat.
It swallows me whole. I am floating in a sea of it, weightless and tethered only by the hands on my skin.
They are everywhere. Strong, callused hands that know exactly where to touch. A hand grips my hip, fingers digging in with possessive force—Rhett. I know his touch. It’s anchoring me to the mattress even as I feel like I’m flying.
Another hand is in my hair, tilting my head back. Knox. He’s hovering over me, his weight a delicious pressure on my chest. His scent crashes over me—whiskey and ginger. It makes my head spin, makes my blood sing.
Then there’s the mouth on my neck.
It starts at the curve of my shoulder, hot and open. A tongue traces the line of my jugular, sending a jolt of electricity straight down my spine. Teeth graze the sensitive skin there, not biting, just threatening to.
