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He chuckles—low, rough, knowing—and slides the ring onto my finger with a care that does something ugly to my stomach. Too gentle. Too intentional.

Even through the fury, something about it feels permanent.

The ring slides on my finger cool and snug–too fucking snug. Like it knows it has no fucking business being on there. The air between us thickens, charged and humming like something volatile is about to detonate.

Henry’s eyes find mine again, dark and storm-soaked. That quiet look—the kind he only gets when the weight of what we could be presses too hard on what we never were.

He’s not saying it. But it’s there.

I open my mouth, maybe to snap again, maybe to say something cruel just to push him back to a safer distance, but then⁠—

Knock, knock.

The sound slices through the tension like a blade.

I flinch, just slightly, my eyes snapping to the door. Henry’s jaw ticks.

Neither of us moves right away.

“That’ll be them,” I mutter, my voice quieter than I expect it to be. “You ready?”

Henry meets my eyes, blinking slowly, like he's trying to process the weight of the moment. He runs a hand across his face, rough fingers dragging through his hair, and for the first time, I see it—the nerves. The real, raw nerves hiding behind his usual confidence and willingness to carry the weight of the world simply because he can.

His chest rises and falls in a way that betrays him, and for all his size and strength, he's small in this moment. Like he's just as afraid of what's on the other side of that door as I am.

I decided to cut the bleeding heart a break and reach for the doorknob. “Well, buck the fuck up, Sheriff, it’s showtime.”

I don’t wait. I throw the door open wide, a practiced, plastic smile already stitched across my face.

Because if I’m going to be someone else today, I might as well sell the hell out of it.

Chapter Thirteen

I WAS THE GAMBLE

LOUISIANA

I open the door—and freeze.

A boy stands on the porch, glaring up at me like he’s already decided he hates everything about this place. He’s small, but the attitude rolling off him could fill a room. His expression is pure defiance—chin raised, jaw tight, blue eyes narrowed like he’s daring me to say the wrong thing. There's a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas, and somehow, he wears it like armor.

He looks like he crawled out of a junkyard. His shirt is stiff with dried mud, jeans sagging and torn, and his skin is a patchwork of grime and scrapes. His hair is a wild, matted mess, curling around the tops of his shoulder blades like he’s been lost in the woods for months. Honestly, he looks more like a dirty little yeti than a child.

From the scowl on his face, it’s clear—he doesn’t want to be here.

Yeah, well…join the fucking club, kid.

He gives me a slow once-over, starting at the ridiculous cow slippers on my feet, then dragging those cold blue eyes up my legs, pausing on the paint-splattered overalls, and finally settling on my face. He doesn’t blink. Just stares. Like he’s trying to figure out exactly how fast he can make me crack.

Behind him, Henry shifts awkwardly. The kid doesn’t even glance his way when he speaks.

“What is this place?” Dallas mutters, voice gravelly for someone so young. “Some kinda shelter or some shit?”

Okay…so the kid had grit.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t cower or cling. He just stands there, legs planted like roots, arms crossed like armor, eyes sharp and unflinching. There’s something wild in him, something that’s already been scraped raw and calloused over. A little boy who looks at the world like it owes him an apology he knows he’ll never get.

“Dallas, this is Louisiana Wright,” his caseworker says gently, trying to soften the air between us. “Sheriff Wilder’s fiancée.”