Page 33 of Stealing the Runaway Bride

His jaw tightens. He drops the axe and starts toward me, his stride long and purposeful. He looks like a predator who just found something he didn't know he was looking for.

"The ground’s full of rocks and burrs, Juliette," he says, stopping just inches from me. He smells like sweat, cut wood, and the saddle oil that seems to live in his skin. "You shouldn't be out here without protection."

"I have you for protection, don't I?" I challenge, tilting my head back.

The sassy remark is a reflex, a way to keep from drowning in the sheer intensity of his gaze. But as soon as the words leave my mouth, I see something flicker in his eyes. It’s not just desire. It’s a raw, terrifying vulnerability.

"You do." He forces the words out slowly. "But you don’t know what that means yet. You don’t know what it costs to belong to a man like me."

"I know what it costs to belong to a man like my father," I counter, my humor fading into something sharper. "It costs everything. My voice, my choices, my soul. He sent a letter, Cag. Hand-delivered, like a summons. He wants me back. He thinks he can forgive me into submission."

Cag’s entire body goes rigid. His hands, large and scarred, clench into fists at his sides. The dangerous energy I’ve sensed in him since the moment I climbed into his truck surges to the surface.

"He isn't taking you," Cag growls. It’s not a statement. It’s a vow. "I don't care who he is or how much money he has. He doesn't get to touch you. He doesn't even get to think your name."

"I know," I say softly. I reach out, my fingers trembling just a little, and lay my hand against his bare chest. His skin is hot, his heart thudding a frantic, heavy rhythm against my palm. "That's why I’m here. Barefoot. In your pasture. I’m choosing this, Cag. I’m choosing the dirt and the hard work and the man who whittles birds because he’s afraid to finish a house."

He flinches at that, a small, subtle movement that tells me I hit the mark. His trauma is a physical thing, a weight he carries in the curve of his spine. Being left at the altar didn't just break his heart; it broke his belief in completion.

"I finished the workshop," he says, his voice thick.

"You did. For me. Now finish the rest. Finish us."

He lets out a breath that sounds like a groan. He reaches up, his hand tangling in my hair, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw with a reverence that makes my knees weak. He’s looking at me like I’m a miracle he doesn't deserve, a piece of high-fashion silk that somehow survived a windstorm.

"I’m not a good man, Juliette," he murmurs, his forehead dropping to rest against mine. "I’m possessive and I’m stubborn and I’m probably going to ruin your life with this war your father is starting."

"My old life was built around choices other people made. You gave me room to start making my own."

I lean into him, the heat of his body soaking into mine. Out here, in the middle of the back pasture, with the water rights being stolen and the corporate sharks circling, everything feels incredibly simple. There’s the land, there’s the family, and there’s the man holding me like I’m the only thing keeping him grounded.

The trauma of my past—the years spent as a "transaction"—feels like a distant, fading bruise. With Cag, I’m not an asset. I’m a person. A woman who gets to walk barefoot through the grass if she wants to. A woman who gets to fight for the home she’s finally found.

"Don’t leave," he says, the words slow, carved out one at a time. It’s not a request. It’s a command, wrapped in a plea.

"I’m not going anywhere, cowboy."

I look past him at the unfinished cabin. The beams are silvered by the sun, the structure open to the sky. It looks lonely. It looks like a promise that was broken before it could be kept.

"We should finish it," I say, my voice gaining strength. "The cabin. Not for the wedding you didn't have. For the life we’re having now."

Cag pulls back just enough to look me in the eye. The darkness is still there, the obsession and the territorial fire, but there’s something else now. A glimmer of hope. He looks at the cabin, then back at me.

"I’ve spent three years avoiding this spot," he admits, his voice raw. "Every time I looked at those beams, I saw a failure. I saw a man who wasn't worth staying for."

"Look again," I say, taking his hand and pulling him toward the structure. "I see a foundation. I see a place where I can design dresses that actually mean something. I see a home where no one ever has to open a letter like that again."

He follows me, his hand gripping mine so tight it almost hurts. We walk to the center of the unfinished floorboards, the wood creaking under our weight. The air smells like pine and the coming evening chill.

He pulls me into his arms then, a sudden, desperate movement that knocks the breath out of me. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my skin. He’s shaking. Just a little. The big, tough cowboy who stares down Black Aspen surveyors is trembling because I’m standing in his house.

"Here," he says into my skin, the word carved out of him slow. "God help me, stay here."

"I am," I agree, closing my eyes and breathing him in.

I think of my father, back in his high-rise office, probably checking his watch and waiting for his "forgiven" daughter to crawl back. He thinks he knows power. He thinks he knows how to break people.

But he’s never met a Kramer. And he’s never seen a runaway bride who decided to stop running and start building.