Page 90 of Ruthless Enforcer

"Clara—"

"Not alone," she repeats, her voice firm. "You said we're in this together, so let's be in it together. I’m going with you."

I stare at her, at the determination in her eyes, and I realize she's not asking for permission. She's telling me how this is going to go.

Fuck, I love her. "Fine, but you stay behind me, you do exactly what I say, and if I tell you to run, you run. Understood?"

"Understood."

I kiss her once, hard and fast, then release her and reach for my phone. “Dress warm. We’re going back to Montana.”

67

CLARA

The Oregon Coast feels like another life by the time Blackthorn Ranch comes into view.

Two hours on a private charter and another ninety minutes through the forested foothills outside Iron Ridge, long enough for the ocean and the little house above the cove to start feeling like something I dreamed.

Gabriel’s barely spoken fifty words since we boarded the plane, but he hasn’t stopped touching me either. His left hand stays anchored on my knee, his thumb tracing slow, absent circles over my pants while his right works the encrypted phone.

Messages come in. He answers some and ignores others.

With every mile, my husband disappears a little more. Not from me, but into himself.

The relaxed man who walked the beach holding my hand this morning is gone. In his place is the Gabriel Reyes who hurried me out of a museum service corridor to keep me from being kidnapped. Intense, watchful, already three moves ahead of everyone else.

But every few minutes, his thumb brushes over my knee as if he’s making sure I’m still here.

The driver turns the SUV onto Blackthorn’s gravel drive. I was surprised when Gabriel said we were coming here instead of his family’s house, but then he explained in more detail who these people were.

Men and women who already fought Cole Turner once. People Gabriel trusts enough to ask for help.

Gabriel looks up from his phone.

His hand tightens on my leg. “Welcome back to reality, Duchess.”

This isn’t reality. The beach house was. At least that’s the reality I want to live in.

We haven't talked about what our marriage means now that every line we drew in Portland has been crossed. We haven't talked about the way he held me in the steam shower or the raw, breathless confessions whispered against my skin in the dark or what happens to us once Cole Turner is finally caught.

None of that can matter right now.

Gabriel’s cousin Mateo is fighting for his life in a Helena ICU with shrapnel in his chest and severe burns across his torso, and someone went to a great deal of trouble to make the attack look like it came from my family.

The heavy iron security gates of Blackthorn swing inward, their hydraulic whine muffled by the dense pine canopy.

The last time I arrived here, I was wearing an oversized sweatshirt, confused and running on pure adrenaline. Now, stepping out into the crisp mountain air, the ranch feels less like a temporary fortress and more like the beating heart of an army preparing to defend its own.

Gabriel comes around the SUV and catches my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. His grip is tight, possessive, and completely unashamed.

His thumb finds my wedding ring. “Stay with me,” he murmurs as we climb the wide porch steps.

I tighten my hold on the canvas tote hanging from my shoulder and look at him. “Always.”

Something flashes across his face.

Then the heavy front door opens.