4. Angus
Chapter 4
Angus
I don’t sleep much. Not since Afghanistan. Notsince Mom died.
But the last three nights, I’ve slept worse than usual, and I blame the woman sleeping across the hall.
Luna Monroe.
She stepped off that bus carrying nothing but a beat-up duffel and a quiet stubbornness that sucker-punched the breath right out of my chest.
Heart-shaped face. Big brown eyes. Honey-blonde hair. Curves for days. When our gazes locked, something molten coiled in my gut. I had to clench my jaw against the unwanted reaction.
Her small hands clutched that duffel bag like it was the only thing tethering her to this world.
I expected someone tough, loud, sharper around the edges. But Luna is something much more dangerous. A woman strong in ways that can't be measured at a glance. Strength that comes from surviving when the world tries to grind you down.
One look at her and every broken, buried thing in me wanted to reach out. Hold her. Shelter her.
Which is odd because soft and gentle aren’t in my wheelhouse. I'm better at the hard things—fighting, fixing, bleeding and getting back up.
But looking at Luna was like standing barefoot at the edge of a frozen river, knowing damn well the ice could crack—and stepping forward anyway.
And now she’s here. Sleeping under my roof. Tied to me by a contract and a ticking clock.
And God help me, I already want more than I should. Fuck, I even jacked off in the shower last night, imagining her full lips and soft curves.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been intimate with a woman—years, not since before I was injured in Kandahar. And even then, my liaisons were few and far between. I’m no virgin, but I’m no lothario either. Besides, the scars riddling my body would be enough to scare off most women, even if the trauma from my time in Afghanistan didn’t.
I shove the covers off with a growled curse and swing my feet onto the cold floor. The bite of winter against my skin is a welcome distraction from the heat pooling low in my gut.
No use trying to sleep now. I have fences to mend. Feed to haul. Things that require strong hands and no thinking. Exactly what I need.
I grab my boots, moving quietly, but when I step into the hallway, I catch it—the soft creak of floorboards.
Her door stands cracked open an inch—just enough.
Lunastands with her back to me, morning light turning her sleep-tousled hair to gold.
She’s pulling on one of her new sweatshirts—Shay took her clothes shopping in town yesterday—the hem riding up over curves way too dangerous for a man trying to keep his damn head straight.
Soft hips. Bare legs. Those smooth thighs disappearing under fabric. I should look away. Should turn around. Should remember why she's here and why wanting her is the worst mistake I could make.
The floorboard betrays me with a creak. She turns, slow and easy, and our eyes lock.
Everything inside me goes very, very still. Apart from my cock. That fucker inflates like a life raft on the Titanic.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t scramble for cover. She just stands there, breathing harder, nipples pressing against her sweatshirt as if she feels it too. I tear my gaze away first. Like a coward. Like a man one heartbeat away from doing something real stupid.
I head downstairs, putting distance between me and my tempting mail-order bride.
In the kitchen, I pour black coffee into a tin mug and lean against the counter, looking out the window. It’s the kind of morning when the frost still bites, and the sun is pretending spring might eventually show up.
Shay hums behind me as she scribbles on the chore board. She’s already made cinnamon rolls and declared herself “lightly possessed by domestic witchcraft.” Her words, not mine.
I sip and wait for the house to shift.
And right on cue, I hear the creak of the stairs and soft footfalls on wood. Luna.
She walks into the kitchen like she’s always belonged here. Hair now in a loose braid that somehow highlights her high cheekbones and the scattering of freckles across her nose. Faded jeans and scuffed boots added to the sweatshirt. The old coat she came in with folded over her arm. Eyes calm but alert, as if she’s still waiting for the moment someone tells her to go.
“Morning,” Shay chirps. “Sleep well?”
“Well enough,” Luna replies, her voice quiet but not meek. It’s measured. I like that about her already. She doesn’t waste a word.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel and jerk my chin toward the pot. “Coffee’s hot.”
She nods once, avoiding my eyes as she crosses to the coffee pot. But I see the blush bloom on her cheeks—soft and rising, like a ripple in still water.
Is she remembering that moment in her room? Because I sure as hell am. The vision of her standing by the window is etched into my retinas.
Luna pours her coffee with steady hands, but I notice how she stands—shoulders a little straighter, chin a little higher. Like she’s daring the world to notice her without making a scene.
And I do.
I notice everything.
The way her braid brushes the dip of her back. How her lips part slightly before she speaks. How she doesn’t flinch or fuss or fill the silence with noise.
She’s calm in a way that rattles me. Like she’s not scared of me. As if she’s already figured me out and decided to stay anyway.
Which is… dangerous.
Because I don’t do soft. I don’t do close.
I do protection. Provision. Pragmatics.
Not want.
And definitely not need.
But when she turns, mug in hand, and gives me that small smile like it’s the only thing she has left to offer, something inside me tugs tight.
Like a rope pulled too fast through calloused hands.
I nod toward the table, my voice rougher than it needs to be. “Sit. Eat something.”
She hesitates. Then sits.
And I go back to my mug like I haven’t already memorized every damn line of her.
It hits me, all at once, how strange it is to have another person here. Not a ranch hand. Not family. Not someone passing through.
Someone I asked for. Someone who answered.
I set my mug down a little harder than I meant to and grab my coat. “South fence needs a check,” I say to no one in particular.
“I’ll come,” Luna says.
Her reply is automatic. No hesitation.
I blink. “You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
And that’s it. No fuss. Just two virtual strangers about to become husband and wife heading out into the chilly morning.
We don’t talk much as we walk, but it’s not uncomfortable.
As we pass the horse paddock, her boot catches on a loose rock. She stumbles and inhales sharply.
I move on instinct, one arm circling her waist, the other catching her elbow. She collides against my chest, solid and warm and soft in all the ways that make my pulse hammer. Her fingers clutch my forearms, grip tight enough to bruise.
"I got you," I murmur, my voice a rough scrape I barely recognize.
She looks up, brown eyes wide, lips parted. For one dangerous moment, we stay like that. Her scent—vanilla and sunshine—fills my senses.
"Angus," she whispers, my name a question I don't know how to answer.
I release her and step back. “Ground's uneven,” I say, trying to recover. “You'll get used to it.”
She nods, a flush creeping up her neck. “I'm sure I will.”
I turn away before I do something stupid, like touch her again. Or worse, pull her close and see if she tastes as good as she smells.
Christ, what's wrong with me? She's here for a business arrangement, not whatever my half-hard cock wants.
We continue walking along the trail that edges the south pasture. She’s not chatty. Luna doesn’t speak unless I do. It should be awkward, but it’s not. It’s calming walking beside someone who respects silence the same way I do.
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye.
She’s tall for a woman and walks like someone who’s had to hold her ground more than once. No flinching at the cold. She comments on things intermittently—the fence post nearest the ditch, which is newer than the rest. How the crows in the trees go quiet all at once. How the clouds have a greenish tinge that might mean sleet by nightfall.
When we reach the sagging fence line, I see it immediately—one of the posts is crooked. The wire’s been pulled, not by livestock. It’s too clean. Too intentional.
I crouch beside the post and run gloved fingers along the wood. It’s been cut like all the others. Fresh nicks. Clean slice. It’s not rust or wind damage.
It’s sabotage.
Again.
I don’t say it out loud, but I know she sees it too.
“That wasn’t caused by the weather,” Luna murmurs.
“No,” I agree. “It wasn’t.”
I look toward the tree line. Nothing moves. No tire tracks or footprints. Whoever it is, they know the land. They know where to strike.
Luna tugs her collar up against the wind. “Shay mentioned the weird stuff going on. Do you think it’s someone local?”
I do, but I don’t answer right away. I think it’s someone who wants us to fail. Someone who has a reason for poking holes in Havenridge’s foundation.
“I think it’s someone who knows exactly what they’re doing,” I say finally.
Luna studies me for a second, then nods.
She doesn’t ask questions or offer theories. She simply absorbs and accepts.
“You think something’s coming?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Our eyes lock, and heat crackles in the space between us—nothing to do with busted fences and everything to do with the way her pulse jumps at the hollow of her throat.
She holds my gaze, steady and fierce. “I think something already has.”
I don’t know if she means the mess we’re in or whatever this is crackling between us.
All I know is I'd walk through fire to keep her safe—this woman who’s barely been in my life a week.
A woman who's already under my skin so deep, I’m not sure I’d survive pulling her out.