4. Henry
Chapter 4
Henry
The smell of sawdust lingers in the air, mixing with the scent of fresh paint and the hearty aroma wafting from the kitchen. I swipe a hand across my forehead, leaving a streak of white amidst the grime.
Two weeks. It’s been two weeks since The Demons growled up to Ember’s place, their bikes snarling like chained beasts. I’ve barely let my guard down since. I half-watch the door, half-focus on the next coat of paint we’re planning to add, all the while reminding myself that my purpose here is to keep her safe—not to get too comfortable.
“Careful, you’ll turn into a ghost before we even get to the painting,” Ember teases, her voice a soothing balm against the rawness of my thoughts.
I can’t help the grin that tugs at my lips. She has this way of breaking through my defenses, of making me think things could be good again. Like I could have a life that’s more than cattle and fences and guarding against danger.
I force out a chuckle, setting the sander aside. “Guess that would make me a poor excuse for a guardian angel.”
She doesn’t know how seriously I take that self-appointed role. Since the day those leather-clad messengers of chaos turned up to terrorize her, I’ve found every excuse under the sun to hover near her borders. It’s become a compulsion, this need to keep her safe from any and all danger, to be her silent protector, even if it means putting my sanity at risk.
“Speaking of poor excuses,” she says, her tone light but eyes clouded as she hands me a plate of food, “someone decided to give my mailbox a makeover with fire.”
We sit at her pine table, its surface shiny from the stain we applied yesterday. The simple meal she prepared—a casserole of some sort, comforting and warm—sits between us, steaming softly in the quiet of her kitchen. We eat in companionable silence, though the unspoken weight of the recent harassment simmers between us.
“It’s childish,” she continues, stabbing at a piece of broccoli. “But I guess it’s better than them going after the house.” Her words are casual, but her tone tells me she’s trying to downplay the anxiety gnawing at her.
“Ember…” I start, but what can I say? That I’ll watch over her property like it’s my flesh and blood? That my cattle can fend for themselves better than she can against men who don’t fear the law? Instead, I reach for my fork, letting the metal clink against the ceramic as a fill-in for the words that won’t come.
“Hey, it’s okay, Edward.” She gives me a soft smile that doesn’t quite meet her eyes. “I know you’re doing your best. Plus, I’m getting pretty handy with the shotgun with the help of your lessons.”
“Doesn’t mean you should have to,” I murmur, my appetite waning despite the delicious flavors. This isn’t about fixing up an old farmhouse or guarding against vandals. It’s about safety, about peace. About the creeping realization that my reasons for being here are starting to blur the line between duty and desire.
“Let’s enjoy dinner,” she suggests, but the tension hangs between us, unspoken and as heavy as the evening shadows stretching across her lawn.
And so we eat, exchanging small talk that doesn’t entirely mask the concern in her gaze or the resolve in mine. After all, when you live next door to someone whose life has become a game for dangerous men, neighborly duties take on a whole new level of commitment, even if it means painting walls by day and watching windows by night.
But there’s more to it than that. Each time her eyes meet mine, she pulls me in. The attraction is overwhelming. Unsettling. Irresistible. She’s all softness and warmth, yet she has a strength that calls to something buried deep within me, something I haven’t let surface in years.
My cock knows it too. I’ve had a two-week erection that jacking off in the shower has done nothing to diminish. It’s a visceral thing, this need for Ember. It goes beyond anything I felt for Rebecca. And that scares the shit out of me.
I stare at my half-empty plate, the food barely registering on my taste buds. “I’ve been racking my brain, trying to come up with a way to keep The Demons at bay,” I confess, glancing across the pine table at Ember. Shadows play across her face, cast by the dim kitchen light, emphasizing the worry that’s become too familiar in her eyes.
“Have you thought of anything?” Her voice is hopeful, but it’s a hope tempered with reality.
“Nothing that doesn’t involve more trouble.” My hand tightens around the fork as frustration simmers beneath my calm exterior. I can handle cattle and mend fences, but this—this is a different beast entirely.
“Thanks for trying, Edward. It means a lot to me.” She gives me a faint smile, and I force myself to return it.
“Of course,” I say, though what I don’t tell her is how every night I watch over her from my bedroom window, ensuring she’s safe. I’m not there to catch another glimpse of her slipping out of those yoga pants that hug her curves a little too well. Not there to salivate over her smooth skin and lush breasts.
Yeah, right.
But as the nights grow colder and longer, so does my yearning for her warmth, her laughter, and the way she looks at me like I’m more than the stoic farmer next door. Desire coils within me, an uninvited guest that refuses to leave.
But something lurks behind her eyes tonight, a shadow she can’t quite hide. It’s been there before, but now it feels closer, more present. I know the look. I’ve seen it enough in the mirror—she’s holding something back.
“Why’d you leave Vegas?”
Her fork stills on her plate, and for a second, I regret asking. But then she sets it down and meets my gaze, her expression soft but guarded. Whatever she’s about to say, it isn’t easy for her. I lean back in my chair, giving her the space she needs to find her words.
“My neighbor,” she begins, her voice quiet. “He was always a bit of a mystery. Coming and going at odd hours, never saying much. I didn’t think much of it at first.”
Her voice hitches, and my chest tightens. Did he hurt her? The thought makes my blood boil. I sit forward, resting my forearms on the table, trying to offer her the steadiness she needs to keep going.
“One night, I heard gunshots,” she says, her voice trembling slightly. “Sounded like a war zone outside. Sirens came next, and when I peeked out the window…” She stops, swallowing hard.
My hands ball into fists beneath the table.
“He didn’t make it. They carried him out under a sheet. Turns out he was a drug dealer, and his troubles didn’t care about property lines.”
The words settle like a stone in my gut. I clench my jaw, anger sparking at the thought of her being anywhere near something so dangerous. “And you were next door.”
She nods. “I saw it all, the aftermath, the b-bodies as the cops led me from the property.” The chill of the memory flickers across her face. “They never came after me, but I couldn’t stay there. Las Vegas wasn’t home anymore—it felt like a battlefield. The glitz and glamour is a facade. I needed… I needed somewhere quiet. Safe.”
Safe. She came here for safety, and somehow, her trouble still followed. Or rather, mine. It twists something inside me that she thought this small town could offer her peace, only to end up dealing with a different kind of danger.
“That’s why you came here,” I say, though it’s more of a statement than a question.
“Yeah.” Her eyes meet mine, a vulnerability in their depths that makes me want to wrap her in my arms and promise her the safety she’s been searching for.
I reach across the table and take her hand in mine. Her skin is warm against mine, her fingers trembling slightly. “It’s not fair what you went through. But I’m glad you’re here now.”
Her eyes well with unshed tears, and for a moment, I think she might look away, but she doesn’t. Instead, she squeezes my hand and says, “Me too.”
Silence falls between us, but it’s not the kind that pushes you apart. It’s the kind that binds you closer, where every breath and every glance says what words can’t. I let my thumb trace slow circles on the back of her hand, grounding both of us in the moment.
I don’t know what brought her here or why the universe saw fit to cross our paths, but as I sit here watching the flickering light play across her face, I know one thing for certain—I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her safe. Because Ember isn’t some woman who wandered into my life. She’s become my reason to fight.
It’s a powerful thought, one that unnerves me even as my resolve to watch over her strengthens. I can’t let her in. Can I?
Pushing away from the table, I stand, and Ember follows suit. We move into a rhythm that’s almost domestic, her washing, me drying. As I slot the plates into the cupboard, I realize this farmhouse, with its creaking floorboards and the scent of fresh paint, feels more like home than my place ever has.
Suddenly, Ember steps back to reach for a dish towel, her softness pressing against me. Instinctively, my hands shoot up to her shoulders, steadying her, even as a surge of heat rushes through me. I’m rock hard in an instant, cursing silently at my traitorous body.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, clearly unaware of the storm she’s stirred up inside me.
“Uh, no problem,” I manage, my voice strangled.
She continues to clean up, and I’m left battling the urge to pull her close again, to breathe in the scent of her hair that I swear is laced with something as intoxicating as whiskey. But when she leans down to put away a pan, the fabric of her sweater stretches, revealing the gentle slope of her back.
“Edward?” Her voice snaps me out of the trance.
“Yeah?” I reply a little too quickly.
“Can you grab that bowl up there for me?”
“Sure.” My hands are less steady than I’d like as I reach for the bowl, my fingers grazing hers as I hand it to her.
“Thanks.” She smiles, and everything about this moment, the intimacy, the simplicity, makes me want to forget why I’m here. I want to kiss her until we’re both breathless, to take her right here on this newly sanded floor that still smells faintly of sawdust.
My head tells me to release her, but my body has other ideas, and my hands tighten instead. Being near her is an aphrodisiac—the fine tremor of her body, the delicate aroma of coconut from her shampoo, the curve of her neck where it meets her shoulder. God, I want to bury my face in that curve and fill my lungs with her addictive scent. With her .
Tingles bubble over my skin as if I’ve bathed in champagne. Without my permission, my hand grips her nape, tilting her head back so she can’t avoid my gaze. The yearning in those deep brown eyes and the hurried rise and fall of her breasts strike me hard and low.
“Edward?” Ember whispers, leaning toward me imperceptibly.
Hearing her whisper my name is enough to shatter my reservations. I can’t resist the lure of those soft lips any longer. I need to taste her.
Seconds after my mouth lands on hers, I realize two things: she’s inexperienced, and I’ll never get enough of her.
The first realization is evident as her plump mouth slides against mine eagerly yet awkwardly. She moans and fists my t-shirt, grinding my lips into my teeth as she kisses me with more enthusiasm than skill.
The second realization comes when, rather than turning me off, her clumsy kiss only makes me hotter. Never mind that my cock is hard enough to dent steel, her honeyed taste sends my head spinning like a kite caught in a whirlwind, dizzying and electric.
Despite my battered heart…
Despite my inbuilt caution…
Despite all the walls I’ve built around myself… I want to claim her. Hard. Deep. Forever.
Cupping her face, I take control of the kiss, my thumbs caressing her jaw. “Open for me,” I growl.
She does, and I delve deep with my tongue. Ah, God. She’s intoxicating. Her soft, slick tongue flutters experimentally before stroking mine. Her hips writhe and her hands clutch. Circle my neck. She rubs her lush breasts against my chest until I feel her nipples like little diamonds, even through layers of clothing.
Head swimming and chest heaving, I lift her and turn, placing her on the solid oak kitchen table. My hands, free to explore, grip her hips and grasp her thighs. Dig in and slide. Spread. Pull her closer.
I slide my hands up under the soft knit of her sweater, seeking the warmth of her skin. Her breath catches, and it’s all the permission my body needs to draw her closer, to lose myself in the sensation of her against me. Under the soft fabric, my fingers find the delicate warmth of her skin, tracing the contours of her body with a tenderness that betrays my rugged exterior.
I cup her breasts, hearing her breath hitch as my thumbs circle her nipples, coaxing a quiet moan from her lips. I grind my cock against her, sending quakes of pleasure radiating up my spine and into every muscle.
Heat. So much fucking heat and beauty. I’m burning in a flash fire, awash in its dancing flames. I devour her even as she devours me, meeting my tongue, stroke for stroke. My cock sets a rhythm, needing the nirvana of thrusting inside her.
She’ll be tight.
The kiss becomes desperate. Needy. It’s like touching a live wire. Electricity courses through me, setting every nerve alight. I groan into her mouth, pulsing my tongue in and out. In and out.
God, she’ll welcome me inside. I know it. Sense it. Feel it in her restless hands and eager hips. She won’t simply accept my cock. She’ll fucking claim it. Claim me .
That thought brings me back to reality. I allowed another woman to claim me, and it ended in disaster and heartbreak. Admittedly, the pull to Rebecca was nothing like whatever this is between Ember and me. But still…
My battered, wary heart can’t take the risk.
I pull away and step back, running a hand through my hair and over my beard, still tasting her on my lips. “I’m sorry,” I rasp, forcing my eyes to meet hers. “I shouldn’t have done that. It was a mistake.”
Her eyes open, locking on mine with an intensity that nearly knocks the wind out of me. Something in those russet depths flickers and dies at my words. I want to call them back, tell her that kissing her could never be a mistake, that her soft lips and honied taste are burned into my DNA.
But I can’t.
The weight of my past, the fear of repeating old mistakes, locks the words in my throat. Instead, I stand there, torn between the fire she ignites in me and the walls I’ve spent years fortifying around my heart.
Ember takes a slow breath, her eyes dropping for a moment before meeting mine again. “I see,” she whispers, her voice trembling, and those two words cut deeper than I expected.
“I didn’t mean to—” I start, but she holds up a hand, silencing me.
Her lips curve into a tight, fragile smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “It’s fine, Edward,” she says, hopping down from the table and putting distance between us. “I get it. You don’t owe me an explanation.”
Her words, spoken so quietly yet so firmly, twist something in my chest. I want to reach for her, take back what I said, make her understand that this isn’t about her—it’s about the mess I am inside.
“I’m here to keep you safe,” I murmur instead, the words like gravel in my throat. “Not to make things more complicated.”
A flicker of something crosses her expression, a mix of understanding and frustration, and she nods. Her smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes as she turns back to the sink, the water running over dishes in a soothing rhythm.
Standing there, muscles tense, I remind myself why I’m here. Danger is never far. The Demons could be closing in even now, and our little bubble of safety could burst at any second. It’s my job to protect her, to be the wall between Ember and the brewing storm. We’re becoming each other’s anchors, relying on one another more with each passing day. And hell, if that isn’t dangerous in itself.
With a heavy heart, I watch her resume washing up, her movements graceful and sure. There’s a part of me, a big damn part, that wants nothing more than to forget about duty and claim her. But I can’t let this turn into more than friendship, no matter how much it seems she wants it too.
“Ember,” I say softly, steeling myself against the pull of desire. “I’ve got your back, always. But we’ve got to keep a clear head.”
“Clear heads don’t keep you warm at night, Edward,” she replies without looking at me, but her voice is gentle, understanding.
My hands clench at my sides, the ghost of her kiss still lingering on my lips.
She turns toward me, her movements careful and deliberate, as though one wrong step might shatter her completely. “I think I’ll have an early night. Lock up on your way out, please. Goodnight.” Her hand brushes the doorframe as she leaves the kitchen, heading upstairs.
And just like that, she’s gone. The warmth of her presence, the pull of her energy, leaves the room colder than it should be. My hands clench at my sides as I stare at the spot where she stood moments ago, the ghost of her kiss still lingering on my lips.
I lean against the table, closing my eyes. “You’re an idiot,” I mutter to myself, the silence of the house pressing down on me.
But no matter how much I want to go after her, to tell her the truth, I stay rooted in place, paralyzed by the fear that loving someone again could destroy us both.