Chapter 35
thirty-five
The ride back to Valor Ridge passed in a companionable silence. Naomi could still taste him on her lips, could still hear his soul-deep groan as he’d come, spurting into her mouth. She’d every drop like it was sacred, like she could consume the darkness he’d revealed and transform it into light.
She’d never been the kind of woman who enjoyed giving oral sex—it had always felt like a chore, something men expected but she merely tolerated.
With Owen, everything was different. The taste of him, the sounds he made, the way his fingers had trembled in her hair—it had awakened something primal in her.
She’d made Owen Booker lose control, and her body hummed with satisfaction even as it ached for more. The way he’d looked at her afterward, with wonder and vulnerability and something that might have been love, had stolen her breath.
She desperately wanted to get him home and make him lose control again.
She wanted to ride him, using that beautiful cock to ease the ache blooming between her legs, but Lazy Susan didn’t seem to understand the urgency.
She plodded at the same glacial pace as always, occasionally stopping to investigate something only she found fascinating.
Owen rode beside her, his face softer than she’d ever seen it. He almost seemed… at peace. She was glad she could give him that.
The corner of his mouth curled up in a smile that sent warmth cascading through her body. “Penny for your thoughts?”
“I’m thinking Lazy Susan might be the worst getaway vehicle in history,” she said, trying to sound light despite the heavy pulse of need still throbbing between her thighs and the maddening scrape of her pebbled nipples against her bra.
“We could be robbing banks right now, and she’d stop to smell the flowers during the escape. ”
Owen chuckled, the sound so rare and precious it made her heart squeeze. “That’s her superpower. Complete immunity to urgency.”
Naomi shifted in the saddle, acutely aware of how the leather pressed against her core with each plodding step. The ache in her ribs had faded to background noise, replaced by a different, more insistent kind of pain—the need to feel him inside her, to finish what they’d started in that meadow.
“I don’t suppose there’s any way to convince her to hurry?” She tried not to sound as desperate as she felt.
Owen’s eyes darkened, catching her meaning immediately. “Not unless you’ve got a time machine. Or maybe an act of God.”
“I’ll work on the act of God.” She ran her tongue over her bottom lip, watching his eyes track the movement. “Because I have plans for you when we get back.”
“Is that right?” His voice dropped to that dangerous register that made her insides liquefy.
“Very specific plans involving very specific plans involving you naked in your bed. Or on the floor. Or against the wall. I’m not picky about location.”
His expression turned predatory, sending a delicious thrill down her spine. “That so?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She held his gaze, heat rising to her cheeks at her own boldness. “I’ve been thinking about riding you since that day in your truck. Straddling your hips, taking you deep inside me.”
His jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening on the reins as Coyote sensed the shift in his rider’s mood and pranced sideways. “Christ, Naomi.”
She smiled, enjoying the effect her words had on him. “Too much?”
“Not enough,” he growled. “And we’ve still got at least twenty minutes at Her Majesty’s pace.”
Naomi sighed dramatically, patting Lazy Susan’s neck. “Hear that, girl? You’re officially a cockblock.”
The mare flicked an ear back in apparent agreement, then stopped completely to examine a particularly fascinating patch of dirt.
Owen made a sound that was half laugh, half groan. “This is torture.”
She laughed and tried to nudge Lazy Susan to move faster. The horse ignored her, and it took more like thirty minutes before the ranch buildings came into view.
“Thank you,” Owen said suddenly, breaking the easy silence.
“For what?” She glanced over, caught by the unfamiliar vulnerability in his voice.
“For not...” He struggled with the words, his jaw working. “For seeing me.”
The simplicity of it squeezed her heart. She understood what it cost him to admit that need—to be seen, to be known. For a man who’d survived by being invisible, it was perhaps the bravest thing he could say.
“I always saw you,” she admitted. “When I walked into Nessie’s that day, you were the first thing I saw. You were never a ghost to me, Owen.”
“Still…” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Valor Ridge came into view, the familiar buildings a welcome sight after the emotional intensity of their ride. Owen guided Coyote toward the stables, and Lazy Susan, sensing home and possibly food, finally picked up her pace to something approaching normal horse speed.
As they dismounted in the yard, Jax appeared from the barn, wiping his hands on a rag. His eyes flicked between them, a knowing look passing over his face that made heat rise to Naomi’s cheeks.
“Brandt’s looking for you,” Jax said to Owen. “Said he’s got some intel on the trafficking ring.”
Owen’s expression immediately shifted, the soft openness from the meadow replaced by the sharp focus she recognized from their first meeting. Ghost was back, the mask sliding into place with practiced ease.
“Where is he?” Owen asked, his voice flat.
“Main house with Walker.” Jax took Lazy Susan’s reins from Naomi. “I’ll take care of the horses.”
Owen nodded once, then turned to Naomi. His eyes softened just for her, a private moment in a public space.
Her mouth went dry. “Who’s Brandt?”
“U.S. Marshal.”
“You don’t like him,” she observed, studying the hard set of Owen’s mouth.
“I don’t like federal law enforcement.”
Given what he’d just told her about his past, she understood that wariness.
She touched his cheek and waited until he met her gaze. She smiled, trying to lighten the mood. “Guess it’s a good thing I’m not FBI anymore, or what we just did back in that meadow would be awkward as hell.”
He exhaled a short laugh and closed his hands around hers, giving her fingers a squeeze. “Yeah, good thing.” He looked toward the house, and the tension returned to his shoulders. “You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to.”
She followed his gaze and spotted the dark SUV with government plates. Nerves fluttered in her belly, but she tamped them down. “No, if he can help catch the bastards, I want to talk to him.”
He lifted their joined hands to his lips, and his smile returned. “All fury, no sense.”
“You know it.”
They crossed the yard together, Owen positioning himself slightly ahead of her like a shield. She understood the instinct—he was protecting what was his—but she deliberately stepped up beside him, refusing to be sheltered.
The main house door opened before they reached it, and a man stepped onto the porch—tall and lean in a crisp white shirt, dark tie, and pressed slacks.
No jacket, leaving his shoulder holster visible.
His dark hair was neatly trimmed, his face all clean angles, and he had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.
He carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone accustomed to authority, who rarely needed to raise his voice to be heard.
He held out a hand when they reached him. “Marshal Corbin Brandt. It’s nice to meet you, Agent Lefthand.“
“Please, just Naomi,” she said and accepted the handshake. His hand was warm and calloused, with long, elegant fingers that seemed better suited for a pianist or artist.
His smile was genuine. “Naomi, then.” His attention shifted to Owen, and something unspoken passed between the two men—a mutual recognition of predators sharing the same space, assessing threat levels, establishing boundaries.
“Ghost,” Brandt said with a slight nod.
“Brandt.” Owen’s voice gave nothing away, but his body had coiled tight, ready for anything. “What brings WITSEC to our doorstep?”
“Let’s talk inside,” Walker suggested from the doorway, his weathered face giving nothing away. “Coffee’s still hot.”
The marshal held Owen’s gaze a moment longer, then stepped back, gesturing for them to precede him into the house. The gesture wasn’t courtesy—it was tactical. Brandt didn’t want either of them behind him.
In the office, Brandt took the seat facing the door, leaving Naomi and Owen the couch against the wall. Owen positioned himself at the end nearest Brandt, his body angled to keep both the marshal and the door in his line of sight. The room hummed with unspoken tension.
“I appreciate your time,” Brandt began, accepting coffee from Walker. “I understand you’re still recovering, Naomi.”
“I’m fine,” she said automatically. Her ribs twinged in silent protest at the lie, but she ignored them. “Why don’t we skip to the part where you tell me why you’re here? I have no intention of going into WITSEC.”
Brandt’s mouth quirked slightly. “Direct. I like that.” He set down his coffee and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’m heading up an expanded federal task force investigating the trafficking operation that targeted you and the two girls you were found with.”
She sat back in shock. “A… taskforce?”
“A long overdue one,” Brandt confirmed. “It’s a joint operation now.
FBI, Marshals, Tribal Law Enforcement, with support from State Police.
We’ve identified similar patterns across three states—young women, predominantly Native, disappearing with minimal investigation.
Some found dead, most never found at all. ”
Oh, God. It was happening. Finally, someone was paying attention.
Tears threatened, but Naomi blinked them back. This was what she’d been fighting for since she’d first seen the pattern. What Mary Rose deserved. What Leelee deserved.
“You think this is connected to Leelee Padilla’s disappearance,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “And to my cousin’s.”