Page 145 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

Mike had spent years making me doubt myself, whittling me down to something he could control, and yet, standing there in the dark, my feet planted firmly in the dirt, I still felt him inside my head. The scars he left behind, the damage he had done to the way I saw myself.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fucking fair.

Beau hadn’t moved yet. He was still watching me, still letting me feel this, letting me breathe through the wreckage.

His stance shifted slightly, the slow roll of his shoulders, his jaw tight with the kind of restraint that only a man with absolute control could hold on to. And when he spoke, his voice was smooth but thick with quiet fury.

“I don’t ever wanna see your face around here again.”

Mike had already lost, but he was too much of a coward to go without taking a final shot.

“Yeah?” His laugh was sharp, hollow, bitter. “Well, have fun with my sloppy seconds.”

The words sliced straight through me, every ugly memory he’d left behind rising up like bile in my throat.

Beau didn’t even flinch.

He turned, taking slow, deliberate steps toward me, closing the space between us until he was there—a solid presence.

“You are my first, Fable.”

My breath caught.

Beau’s gaze flicked down, dragging over me, over the way I was still trembling, my hands curled into fists at my sides. When his eyes met mine again, they weren’t reassuring. They weren’t calm.

They were sure.

“You hear me?” he murmured, so only I could hear. “You’re not his anything. You never were. But you?” His voice dipped, warm and smooth and steady. “You’re my first.”

I didn’t know if I was still shaking from adrenaline or from the way those words settled inside me, anchoring me.

“Have fun with her.” Mike let out a sharp breath, then spun on his heel, stalking toward his truck.

The slam of the door echoed into the night. The rumble of his engine cut through the silence, and then he was gone, his taillights fading into the dark.

I stood there, the night air thick around me, my pulse still thrumming, my wrist aching from his grip.

Beau ran his eyes over my face, my arms, my hands. “You okay?”

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. “Y-yeah.”

He nodded almost absentmindedly. “Cool. I’ll just get back to my regularly scheduled ghost treatment, then.”

“Beau,” I whispered, barely holding it together. “Please. We should⁠—”

He turned. He was . . . done. Done trying. Done hoping. I stood there, watching the one person who had ever seen through all my mess start to walk away. Again. Because I was the one who pushed him out.

That’s what I did. I pushed and pulled and retreated when it mattered most. I shut down, shut people out, built walls I didn’t even know how to tear down. And then I acted surprised when no one stuck around. I told myself it was protection, survival, some warped version of strength.

I was just scared. Of being seen. Of being known. Of my innermost secrets being exposed and left prey for anyone to hurt me with.

I was watching him walk away and realizing this might’ve been the last time he’d try. My stomach twisted. My hands trembled. I wanted to scream. Run after him. Take it all back.

Before I could even move, he stopped. He turned around slowly, his eyes locking on mine—fierce, tired, but still burning.

“Fuck it, Fable,” he said, voice hoarse. “I ain’t leaving.”