Page 1 of Stealing the Runaway Bride

1

JULIETTE

The silk screams as it tears, a jagged, visceral sound that should hurt more than it does. I don’t care about the twelve thousand dollars’ worth of hand-stitched Mikado silk or the delicate Alençon lace I spent six months sourcing from a tiny mill overseas. Right now, the gown is just a cage, and I’m the bird who finally realized the door was never actually locked.

I stumble across the cracked asphalt of the Pine Valley gas station, my breath coming in short, sharp hitches that burn my throat. The air here doesn't smell like the expensive lilies and cloying incense of the chapel. It smells like diesel, dust, and the promise of a horizon my father can’t buy.

My ballet flats are useless on the gravel. Every step is a gamble, the heavy train of my dress dragging behind me like dead weight. I grab a handful of the expensive fabric—the fabric that was supposed to bind me to a banking heir I’ve met exactly four times—and yank. The seams give way with a satisfying pop. I cut this gown myself, for my own body, the way I cut for the women the rest of the industry never bothers with. I’m destroying a masterpiece. My masterpiece. And God, it feels better than any praise I’ve ever received in a showroom.

He’s waiting. He has to be waiting.

I told the driver to be at the pumps by two o'clock. "Black truck," he’d said over the burner phone. "Look for the dent in the tailgate."

My eyes sweep the lot. It’s midday, and the sun is a relentless hammer beating down on the valley. A dusty black heavy-duty truck sits idling near the far pump, its engine a low, guttural growl that vibrates through the soles of my shoes. I don’t look at the driver. I don’t look at the license plate. I don’t look at anything but the door handle and the safety it represents.

Conrad Marchand thinks he can sell me like a plot of land. He thinks because he paid for my education and my studio, he owns the output of my womb and the direction of my life. He’s about to find out that a designer knows exactly how to take a seam apart when the fit is wrong.

I reach the passenger side, my fingers trembling as I catch the handle. It’s hot, the metal searing my palm, but I don’t let go. I yank it open and haul myself inside, the sheer volume of my shredded skirts spilling across the cab in a ruined white cloud.

"Go," I gasp, slamming the door. The lock clicks—a heavy, mechanical thud that echoes in the cramped space. "Please, just drive. I have the cash. Just get me away from the highway."

The truck doesn't move.

Instead, a scent hits me. It’s not the cheap air freshener or the stale cigarette smoke I expected from a hired getaway driver. This is something else entirely. It’s the sharp, metallic tang of saddle oil. It’s the deep, earthy musk of a man who spends his days under the sun and his nights near a fire.

It’s the smell of Pine Ridge.

I freeze, my hand still locked on the door armrest, the bones of my knuckles showing white through the skin. Slowly, I turn my head.

The man behind the wheel isn't the nervous voice I heard over the phone. This man is a mountain. His shoulders are so broad they seem to swallow the driver's seat, his frame clad in a sweat-stained denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with thick, functional muscle. His skin is weathered dark by the sun, seasoned by wind and grit.

And his eyes.

They aren't looking at the road. They’re looking at me. They’re a deep, turbulent brown, framed by thick lashes and a brow that’s currently furrowed in a mix of confusion and something far more predatory. There’s a scar cutting through his jawline, a silver jagged line that disappears into a short, dark beard. He looks like he’s been carved out of the very landscape I’m trying to flee.

"You're in the wrong truck, darlin'."

His voice is a low, gravelly rumble that settles right in the center of my chest. It’s not a question. It’s a statement of fact, delivered with the kind of calm authority that makes my frantic heart stutter.

"I... the black truck," I stammer, my tongue feeling two sizes too big for my mouth. "The dent in the tailgate."

He shifts, his leather work boots creaking against the floorboards. The movement brings him closer, invading my space with a heat that has nothing to do with the summer weather. He reaches out, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, I think he’s going to touch me. Instead, he picks up a small, whittled cottonwood bird from the dashboard, turning it over in his large, calloused fingers.

"Tailgate’s fine," he says, his gaze dropping to the ruined lace of my bodice. His eyes linger on the curve of my neck, then lower to the place where I’m clutching the torn fabric over my chest. "But you’re sure as hell not."

I swallow hard, my pulse hammering against my ribs. I should get out. I should apologize and run back into the heat and find my actual driver. But I can hear the distant, faint wail of a siren from the direction of the chapel. My father’s security team. They don't use sirens for emergencies; they use them to signal that the asset has been misplaced.

I’m the asset.

"Please," I say, and my voice cracks. I hate that it cracks. I’ve spent twenty-seven years being the perfect, composed Marchand daughter. "I don’t care if it’s the wrong truck. I’ll pay you triple. Just drive. Anywhere but back there."

The man’s grip tightens on the whittled bird. He looks at the side mirror, then back at me. The predatory edge in his eyes sharpens, a dark, possessive flicker that makes the hair on my arms stand up. He isn't looking at me like a stranger. He’s looking at me like I’m something he just found in his pasture and has no intention of giving back.

"You're running," he notes.

"Observant. Is the cowboy hat for show, or do you always state the obvious?" The sass comes out before I can stop it—a defense mechanism I’ve honed in a thousand boardrooms and gala events.

A ghost of a smirk touches his lips, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I’m Cag," he says, shifting the truck into gear. "And I don't take money from women in shredded dresses."