Page 43 of Stealing the Runaway Bride

"I’m a designer, Cag. I observe. It’s what I do." I turn around, my hip bumping into the dress form, and find myself trapped between the mannequin and the broad expanse of his chest.

He’s still wearing his work shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with tension and dusted with dark hair. His beard is grown out rough from a week of not caring, and those eyes, those dark, soul-searing eyes, are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my breath hitch.

He doesn't look at the dress. He doesn't look at the workshop. He looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters, and also like he’s five seconds away from throwing me over his shoulder and carrying me back up to the cabin we finished in the spring.

“You’ve been here six hours.” Each word lands slowly. “The sun’s going down, you haven’t eaten, and you haven’t stepped outside.”

"I had a granola bar," I counter, lifting my chin. "And the light in here is perfect. Why are you hovering? Don't you have a fence to fix or a brother to grumble at?"

His hand moves, lightning fast, gripping my waist. His fingers are calloused and rough, digging into the soft skin just above my hips. He looks down at where his hand has landed, and his grip tightens like he doesn't mean to let go. The contact sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated electricity through my nervous system.

“I have a woman who’s worked six hours without a real meal. The dress can wait long enough for you to take care of yourself.”

"I belong wherever I want to be, Cag Kramer," I snap, though the fire in my belly is quickly turning slow and heavy and undeniable. "And right now, I want to finish this bodice. My father spent twenty-seven years telling me where I belonged. You don't get to do it too."

The mention of my father causes his eyes to darken, a flash of raw protectiveness crossing his features. He hates that man. He hates the shadow Conrad Marchand casts over us.

"I’m not him," Cag says, his voice harsh. “I’m not choosing for you. I’m reminding you that you don’t have to destroy yourself to prove this business is yours.”

“You sure about that?” I challenge. “Because you look like you’re about to put me in a cage right now.”

"Only if the cage is my arms," he says, and then he’s moving.

He doesn't give me time to argue. He doesn't give me time to breathe. He scoops me up, my feet leaving the floor, and tosses me onto the large, smooth surface of my cutting table. The fabric I was working on bunches under me, the silk cool against my thighs, but all I can feel is Cag.

He steps between my legs, his heavy denim-clad thighs pressing against mine, forcing them apart. He leans over me, his hands pinning my wrists to the table on either side of my head. The dominance in his posture is absolute. He looks down at me with a hunger so raw it’s terrifying.

"You’re mine, Juliette," he rasps. "Every inch. Every breath. This workshop is yours because I wanted you to have a place where you could be yourself. But don’t think for one second that you don’t belong with me."

"I’m not a piece of land, Cag," I whisper, my defiance flickering like a candle in a gale. "You can’t just claim me."

"I already did," he says, his face inches from mine. “The moment you climbed into my truck, I knew I wanted you. But you’re here because you chose to stay.”

He kisses me then, and it’s not a gentle request. It’s a demand. The kiss is rough, but beneath the hunger is the certainty that neither of us is walking away. His tongue slides against mine, tasting of coffee and determination, and I find myself arching off the table, my hands breaking free of his grip to tangle in his hair.

I want this. I want the weight of him, the heat of him, the absolute certainty of his possession.

He pulls back, his breathing ragged, and holds my gaze. The hunger in his face mirrors my own. He already knows the answer.

"Tell me," he commands.

"Tell you what?" I pant, my skin humming.

"Whose are you?"

I should be annoyed. I should have some witty comeback about my independence and my feminist ideals. But looking into his eyes, seeing the raw, bleeding vulnerability hidden behind all that possessive rage, I can’t.

"Yours," I whisper, the word a confession and a vow. "I’m yours, Cag."

His reaction is instantaneous. He growls, a low, animal sound, and his hands go to the hem of my skirt. He bunches the fabric up, exposing my legs to the cool air of the workshop, but the heat of his gaze is enough to burn me.

“Good. Because Conrad doesn’t get another piece of you, and neither does any client who makes you forget to eat.”

He reaches for his belt, the buckle clinking in the silence of the room. My eyes track his movements, the sight of his thick, scarred fingers working the leather making my throat go dry.

This is the man who saved me. Not from a dragon or a tower, but from a life of gilded boredom and emotional starvation. He’s rough, stubborn, and carrying scars that no longer decide what comes next.

"Christie mentioned at the Cozy Cup that the Black Aspen scouts were seen near the north gate again," I say, the words tumbling out as a desperate attempt to ground myself as he shucks his jeans.