My jaw locks, teeth grinding together like metal on stone. “I do not want to control you. I just want you alive—and in bed—by curfew.” The words come out rougher than intended, scraping my throat raw.
Her jaw clenches. The air between us thickens, heavy as gunpowder before ignition. My right hand forms a fist at my side, veins mapping ridges across my knuckles as my blood boils with something that feels nothing like anger. Every instinct screams to reach for her, but I plant my boots wider in the soil instead—immovable, disciplined.
She shifts, her toes digging trenches in the grass, her challenge as unmistakable as a thrown gauntlet. Electricity arcs between us: her rebellion against my iron restraint, with something dangerous—primal—simmering beneath.
Finally, she cuts through the tension with a laugh sharp as broken glass. “Fine.” Then, without another word, she turns and climbs back up.
I track her movement like a target through a scope, pulse hammering against my ribcage. Standing sentinel in the darkness, I realize I'm battle-ready, every muscle coiled for action. And I might never let her go.
Grayson is going to kill me.
CHAPTER FOUR
CADE
You can always tell when a horse knows how the day’s going to end. This morning, Delilah’s gelding has its ears laid so flat I can see the white of its eye from forty yards. Not typical for her thoroughbred. Not typical for the Munro estate, either. Even with a press line cordoned off tight as a munitions crate, and half the State Patrol in high-vis, there’s a drag in the air. Helium sucked out of the moment. Senator’s team missed it, but I didn’t. Neither did the horse.
Munro's running his mouth like a goddamn faucet—typical. Delilah sits that thoroughbred like she was born in the saddle. All business in her tailored jacket and those boots that could gut you with one kick. She's on autopilot, barely registering the bullshit as the senator works the press with some half-assed story about family legacy and the "Great American West." Christ. The man owns a vineyard but says "ranch" because that's how he learned it from a chain restaurant menu. Delilah's giving the cameras that practiced smile—the one that doesn't reach her eyes. Her gaze keeps sliding left. Her posture's tight as a tripwire. After three tours and one week on her detail, I can read her signals like a tactical map.
I scan the line. Usual suspects: local TV, farm rag, a podcaster with a $2,000 mic and $15 shoes. One, though, is dead ahead. Bad stance for media—left hand jammed inside her jacket, right thumb texting under the pad. Chin dipped so her hat covered his eyes. Closer than comfort. No press badge. Just a cheap DSLR and a lens worth more than his entire outfit. He’s not curious; he’s focusing. On Delilah.
I lock it in. The rest of my universe shrinks. Delilah’s posture. The horse’s twitch. The man with the camera. If my instincts are off, I apologize to no one. I don’t move—yet. The fastest way to get a mark to act is to act like you haven’t noticed him at all.
Munro gestures like he's crying over some dead steer, and the crowd eats it up. Delilah's stirrup slips. Her knuckles go white. The thoroughbred's flanks heave with sweat, nostrils flaring like a bull's. I break protocol. Close the gap in three hard strides, tracking both the horse and that fake reporter. No one else appears alarmed, but my gut is never wrong.
Delilah locks eyes with me—first acknowledgment all morning. I give her one sharp head-shake. She reads me instantly, shifts her weight back, drives her heels down, and grips the saddle horn with a fist. That's when the air splits open.
It’s a professional job. A suppressed round cracks through space and punches bark off an alder post two feet from her knee. The impact hits like a sledgehammer. The horse, already wound tight as piano wire, explodes sideways with the force of a freight train. Delilah's thighs clamp the saddle; her grip is iron on the horn. The cameras freeze. Munro's shout comes too late. I'm already moving, muscles firing before my brain can catch up.
She releases, and I yank her free, arms clamping around her waist, pinning her close to my chest. Two more shots bark out—one slams into the dirt at my boot, the next goes wide. I clamp Delilah tight, my hand so rigid on her ribcage she’ll wear bruises. She quakes—not dramatic, not staged, just pure adrenaline.
She lets go, and I use all of my weight to drag her free, arms around her waist, and pin her close to my chest. Two more shots, lower caliber—one slams into the dirt at my boot, the next I can’t place. I hold Delilah tight, my hand so rigid against her ribcage she’ll have bruises. She’s shaking—not dramatic, not for show, just adrenaline dump, cold and pure.
She crumples into my side, knees buckling as I whirl us behind a stone planter. The world mutes; the crowd stutters into confused murmurs as security finally kicks into gear. The “reporter” vanishes. Munro howls for calm, his voice three octaves higher than usual. I drag Delilah down, sheltering her head, and sweep a three-sixty scan. She pants, and I grind her face into my jacket, forcing her focus onto the leather, hay, or me.
“You alright?” I say, voice low.
She laughs—a sound with no joy in it. “That’s a new one. I think so.”
I let go, but not really, keeping my hand on her shoulder. I check her arms, her face, the fragile bit of throat that always looks so breakable. No blood. She’s intact.
“Stay down,” I say. “Do not move until I say.”
Her face is right up against mine, freckled and flushed. She gets it now—this isn’t politics. This isn’t theater. It’s the real game. She nods, biting her lip, and presses her forehead into my chest. Sweat soaks through her collar.
The security detail is finally swarming, doing slow-motion clearances like it’s a staged event. The sniper is gone or hiding, and the press is scattered in a panic. The senator’s chief of staff is yelling something into a walkie, but no one’s listening. For the first time, I feel my own pulse, heavy in my throat. I almost lost her.
I pull out my phone and text our driver to bring the SUV up now. I look at Delilah again, and she’s watching me. Eyes wide, every wall torn down.
“You’re not getting back on that horse,” I say.
She manages a smile, sharp around the edges. “Was hoping you’d say that.”
“Can you walk?”
“Do I have a choice?”
I haul her to her feet. One hand around her waist, the other sweeping the area. I get her moving, keeping my body between her and the line of fire. For the first five steps, she limps. She must have hit hard when I yanked her. I want to check her right there. But I know we’re still in the zone. When the SUV screeches to a halt at the end of the drive, I all but toss her in the back seat.