“I know. I am with you. But she’s not going to understand.”
“She will. Not right way, but she’s smart. She’ll come around.”
I’ve watched my brother kill men without a hint of hesitation or remorse. When it comes to Conor, however, he’s a soft and squishy teddy bear. It’s maddening.
“Let’s go.” I slide out of the truck and meet Jarret at the door to her room.
He knocks, and a second later, she emerges in the doorway, head cocked and red hair tumbling in sexy tangles to her hips.
Expressionless, she shifts her gaze between us, studying, probing, trying to read our intentions. “Did you hear about Levi Tibbs?”
“Yes.” I hook a thumb beneath my belt and wait for the invitation inside.
She glances at the bracelet she gave me and quickly looks away. A breath in. Out. Again. Then she steps aside and lets us pass.
“Are you going to honor the pact?” She shuts the door and leans against it. “Or are you chickening out?”
“I’ve waited six years to finish this.” I exchange a look with my brother. “We both have. The three of us are going back to the ranch to talk about—”
“No. Absolutely not.” She squares her shoulders. “We’ll talk now.”
“Do you think it’s wise”—I lower my voice—”to discuss murder plans here? The walls are thin, and the room’s too small.”
I motion at the cramped space, lack of seating, and amount of room Jarret and I take up. I don’t expect her to accept my bullshit reasoning, but it’s worth a try before I change tactics and do this the hard way.
“There’s no privacy at the ranch.” She juts her chin. “Your dad—”
“He doesn’t live there.”
“What? Why not?”
“He got tangled up with a woman. Ran off with her a few months ago. We haven’t heard from him.”
The woman is the same age as me, and that’s not the only detail I’m leaving out. John Holsten cut and ran because I gave him no choice.
“What about the ranch?” Her brow creases. “He left the business?”
“Yes. Jarret and I own and run the cattle operation now.”
“Did you buy it from him?”
We blackmailed him for it.
She takes in my unresponsive expression, and her lips press together, trapping all the questions she wants to ask. She deeply cares about the ranch, even though she won’t let herself believe that.
As a case in point, vivid impressions of horses and landscapes completely and permanently color her arms from shoulders to wrists. Her ink represents the terrain of her childhood. It’s what matters most to her.
“Those are your paintings.” I nod at her tattoos. “The ones you collected when we were kids.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s beautiful.”
And I mean it. The vibrant colors and uniqueness of the artwork exemplify her spirit and add a sexy, rebellious edge to her natural beauty. She’s the ultimate jeans and t-shirt girl. So the motorcycle, tattoos, and brazen glare—all of it suits her.
“Thank you.” Her glare narrows suspiciously.
She doesn’t trust a word that comes out of my mouth. I bet her mind’s whirling to reconcile the cheating asshole she encountered in my bedroom four years ago with the one standing before her now.
I’m the same man who loves her. It’s the circumstances that have changed.
“Pack up your things.” I widen my stance. “You’re staying at the ranch.”
“Hm.” She straightens from the door and laces her arms beneath her perfect tits. “Is this another set up? Will I find a lover in your bed? Or am I supposed to be the one you’re knocking boots with when some other poor lovesick girl shows up?”
I love the way her wicked mind works, but she’s completely off the mark.
“Don’t give me that look.” Her fists clench, and her cheeks twitch, eager for a fight. “I’m not going.”
She’s so damn feisty she could start an argument in an empty house. I’m all about wrestling and getting rowdy with her, but we’re not doing it here.
I give Jarret a nod.
Then I lunge.
My chest collides with hers. My hand covers her gasp, and I pin her against the door, restraining her with my weight.
Her huge green eyes go impossibly wide, and her vocal chords vibrate against my palm. Clawing and pulling at my arms, she’s nowhere near strong enough to move me.
A glance over my shoulder confirms Jarret is gathering her things. I return to her and adjust my hand over her mouth, ensuring she has plenty of breathing room.
“I know you have triggers.” I center my face in front of hers. “So I won’t bind your wrists.” Not yet. “Think about that while you’re scratching the hell out of my arms.”
Her chest heaves, stretching her nostrils as she squints at me furiously. She’s wondering how I know about her triggers. Or maybe she’s silently arguing that if I released her, she wouldn’t have to draw blood.
I’m not releasing her. Not ever.
Every shift and grind of her body feeds my hunger. I’ve gone too long without touching her, and the feel of her struggling and restrained beneath me awakens cravings. Dark cravings I reserve only for her.