Page 6 of Stealing the Runaway Bride

I walk toward her. I can't help it. I’m like a moth to a flame. "It’s just a room."

"No," she says, turning to face me. "It’s yours. I can feel it."

She reaches out, her hand hovering over the scar on my jaw. I don't flinch. I want her to touch it. I want her to know every mark on my body. Her fingers graze the rough skin, and a jolt of electricity shoots through me.

"How did you get this?" she asks.

"A calf-rope," I say. "Ten years ago. I was stupid. I didn't let go when I should have."

"And now?"

"Now I know what's worth holding on to," I say.

I step into her space, my chest brushing against the bodice of her dress. I can hear her heart racing. It’s a frantic, beautiful sound. She’s looking at my mouth, her lips parted. I want to ruin her. I want to strip that dress off her and show her what it’s like to be wanted by a man who doesn't care about her bank account or her father’s name.

But I wait. Tension still sits beneath the hope in her eyes, and her hands remain twisted in the ruined silk. She’s been handled her whole life. She’s been told where to go and who to marry. She’s been treated like a piece of fine art to be traded.

Not here.

On Pine Ridge, she’s just a woman. And I’m just a man.

"You should get some sleep," I say, the words tasting like ash. I want to keep her awake. I want to talk to her until the sun comes up. I want to know everything about her. "It’s been a long day."

"Will you stay?" she asks. She grabs my sleeve, her fingers digging into the denim. "Please. Don't leave me alone."

My resolve crumbles. I couldn't leave her if the barn was on fire. "I’m staying. I’m not going anywhere."

I guide her to the cot. She sits on the edge, the silk of her skirt spreading out like a cloud. I sit on the floor beside her, leaning my back against the frame. I reach for the half-finished hawk and my knife. It’s the only way I can stay sane, the only way I can keep from climbing onto that cot and claiming her right now.

I set the blade against one unfinished wing. Thin curls of cottonwood fall to the floor as I work, taking away everything that doesn’t belong.

‘What are you making?’ she asks softly.

‘A hawk.’

‘How long have you been working on it?’

My knife pauses against the grain.

‘Long enough.’

She watches me for another moment, but she doesn’t push. Somehow, that makes me want to tell her everything.

She watches my hands. She doesn't say anything else. After a while, I hear her breathing change. It slows down, becoming deep and rhythmic. She’s asleep.

I stop carving. I turn around and look at her. She’s curled up on the cot, her head resting on my pillow. The moonlight is streaming through the small window, lighting up her face. She looks peaceful. For the first time since I saw her, the tension has left her shoulders.

She’s here. In my room. Under my protection.

I reach out and touch the hem of her dress. It’s filthy now, stained with grease and dirt from my truck. It’s ruined. Just like her old life.

I look at the hawk in my hand. One wing is beginning to take shape, but the other still bears the rough marks of every time I put the knife down and walked away.

Not tonight.

Tonight, I make another cut. And the next one, and whatever comes after.

Because she’s mine. And I’m never letting her go.