Chapter 17 #2
He didn’t say much, not at first. He let the engine do the talking; the faint rattle of loose gravel, the heavy thunk of a tire meeting a pothole.
The air in the cab was thick with the ghost of Lysander’s cologne, or maybe just the aftertaste of all those unsaid words.
I wanted to break the silence, but the only thing I could think to say was, “You okay?” and I was pretty sure he’d lie.
So instead I watched the lightning stutter along the far horizon, counting the seconds between each white-hot strike and the slow roll of thunder behind it. I curled my fingers in my lap and tried not to fidget. Gunner never took his eyes off the road.
When he finally spoke, it was almost a relief. “You got a lot on your plate, Maverick. I just want to make sure you’re not burnin’ out.”
I let out a shaky breath. “I’m not. I mean, I am, but not in a way that’s going to break me. I’m… okay. Or I will be.”
He nodded, jaw working. “You ever wish you could just turn it all off? The work, the planning, the people?”
I didn’t even have to think. “Not really. It’s the nothing that scares me.” I stared out the window at the endless fields. “If I’m not moving, I start to feel like I’m disappearing. Like I was never really here at all.”
He digested that, the way he did with every hard truth I handed him. “Guess we’re opposites, then,” he said, voice soft. “I could sit in the same patch of dirt for a hundred years and never get bored.”
I smiled, reaching for his hand. I found it, squeezed. He squeezed back, and for a second, it was enough.
The rest of the drive passed in that hush. The storm crept closer; the old truck rocked in the wind. At some point, he started humming along to the radio—a low, familiar country ballad—and the sound smoothed out the sharp edges in my chest.
When we got home, the world felt wrapped in cotton. Rain tapped the porch roof, steady and slow, and the lights inside glowed yellow against the night. Gunner killed the engine, the cut through the silence. “You coming in, or you want to sit a while?”
I thought about it. “I want to be where you are.” Because it was was the first thing that came to mind, and because it was true.
He smiled, just a little. “That’s easy, then.”
We walked in together, shoulders brushing, the comfort of routine slotting over us like a soft quilt. I dropped my bag by the door and toed off my boots. Gunner hung his hat on the hook and grabbed me by the wrist, spinning me into a gentle hug.
I buried my face in his chest. I could smell the leather of his belt, the soap he used (always the same, always the cheap kind), and underneath it all, the clean spice of his skin.
He held me there, arms around my waist, chin resting on top of my head.
For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of our breathing, in and out, the perfect rhythm of two animals content to be alive.
We changed for bed in the low-watt bathroom light.
I watched him move, the solid lines of his back, the way he took care with the buttons on his shirt, how he folded his jeans before setting them aside.
I pulled on one of his old t-shirts and brushed my teeth with the high-quality toothpaste he always bought; you only get one set of teeth after all.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, hair wild, face pale and splotched, but my eyes—my eyes looked brighter than they had in years.
He met me in the bedroom, already under the covers, reading from a dog-eared paperback he kept on the nightstand.
He set it aside when I climbed in, pulled me close, and tucked the blanket around my shoulders.
The wind rattled the windowpanes; the rain had picked up, drumming a slow rhythm against the siding.
I curled into his chest, soaking up the warmth. He traced lazy circles on my back, fingertips rough and calloused, but gentle as rain. I closed my eyes, let the comfort of him wash away the last clinging shreds of doubt.
It was in that soft darkness, with his heart thumping steady under my ear, that I started thinking about all the ways he cared for me.
Not the big, loud gestures—though he had those, too—but the tiny, invisible kindnesses.
How there was always coffee waiting for me in the morning, just the way I liked it, even if he had to set an alarm to get up before me.
How the fridge was always stocked with my favorite drinks, the lemon seltzer and the weird green juice I’d become addicted to in college.
How he’d started bringing home fresh flowers—wild ones from the ranch, or the occasional grocery store bouquet—and set them in an old glass jar on the kitchen table, because he knew I liked color in the house.
And how he’d noticed, without ever being told, that I was almost out of shampoo, and had driven all the way to Amarillo to buy the brand I used because the store in town never carried it.
The realization hit me so hard it made my throat ache. For the first time in my life, I felt completely, stupidly safe. Cared for. Loved in a way that didn’t require me to perform or impress or become someone else. Just loved.
The tears came out of nowhere—hot and silent and embarrassing as hell.
He must have felt me shaking, because he rolled onto his side, cradling my face in his big, warm hand. “Hey.” His thumb brushed my cheek. “Talk to me.”
I tried to laugh, but it came out a wet, hiccupy mess. “I’m sorry. I’m not sad. I just…” I broke off, wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. “I just can’t believe this is my life. That I get to have this. You. Us. I didn’t think it was possible.”
He looked at me like I’d told him the secret to immortality. “You deserve all of it, Brie. More than anyone I know."
I shook my head. “You don’t get it. I was always the fuck-up. Even when I was doing everything right, I felt like I was always one step away from blowing it all up. I thought that’s just who I was. But with you, it’s like—like the world finally makes sense.”
He kissed the corner of my mouth, the salt of my tears.
“You’re my mate, Maverick. There’s nothing you could do to fuck this up.
Even if you tried. You show the world the fighter you've always thought you had to be.
And yes, you can be that bratty little girl that I love.
But I see the tenderness beneath it all.
I see it in the beauty of your art. That's what is in your soul. Two things can be true at the same time. ”
I laughed, because I knew he meant it. “I'll try to balance those two better.”
He grinned, pulling me closer. “I’m serious. I thank the Goddess every damn day that she gave you to me. Even if I don’t say it.”
I buried my face in his neck, breathing him in. The mate bond pulsed between us—warmth, light, something that felt almost holy. For the first time in a long time, I let myself lean into it, let it hold me up instead of fighting to carry it alone.
“I love you,” I whispered, soft as the storm outside.
He pressed his lips to my hair, my forehead, my cheek. “I love you, too, little girl. More than anything.”
And just like that, I was whole.
I drifted off to sleep, the thunder a lullaby, his arms a fortress. For a few precious hours, the world outside could do whatever it wanted. In here, I was exactly where I belonged.
The sound of rain on the skylights was a relentless white noise that started in the ears and ended in the bones.
It was the kind of Saturday where the hours dissolved, where the storm pinned everything in place and all you could do was survive the deluge.
The gallery had become a mausoleum of unfinished dreams and the smell of wet paint.
I wandered through the main floor, arms folded tight across my chest. The temporary walls were only half-built, metal braces sticking out like broken ribs, protective mats on the ground squelching under every step.
Every surface was covered in fine drywall dust; even the exit signs looked like they were losing a slow fight with time.
The humidity made the air taste like soggy cotton.
I didn’t know why I insisted on working today.
Maybe because there was no one to talk to, no one to ask me how I was, no one to notice if I stood in the middle of the gallery and screamed until my voice cracked.
I’d sent the contractor crew home at noon because they were all but finished with everything.
Lysander was in Boston. Gunner had gone with Wrecker’s help on a short cattle haul; he texted that he’d be home by six.
So it was just me, the storm, and the unholy pile of paperwork that refused to shrink no matter how many hours I fed it.
I took the long way up to the office—through the darkened lobby, past the wall of still-unhung canvases, up the metal stairs where each footstep echoed like a hammer blow.
The glass-walled “penthouse” looked out over the whole gallery, every window streaked and rattling with the rain.
From up here, the world outside was just a blur of gray and motion.
I slumped into the cushioned office chair and pulled the laptop toward me.
The spreadsheet glared back on my large screen monitor, full of notes and reminders and cells highlighted in angry, anxious colors.
I rubbed my eyes, scrolled through the numbers, and tried not to think about how I couldn’t remember entering half of them.
My body felt like it was made of old bread; every joint was stiff, every breath sticky in my lungs.
I rolled my shoulders, cracked my neck, tried to blink the fatigue away.
I’d been fighting it all day—the slow pull of sleep, the leaden sense that the real world was a few feet behind me and catching up fast. I couldn’t keep my focus; the numbers on the screen squirmed, doubling and then snapping back into place.
The HVAC kicked on. The hum was deeper than usual, more of a shudder. It vibrated through the glass walls, rattling the pens in their cup, making the shadows twitch. Thunder rolled overhead, low and predatory.
My wolf stirred in my gut, uneasy.
I looked up, half expecting to see someone standing in the gallery below. Empty, except for the shifting shapes the rain made on the polished floors. I exhaled, looked back at the spreadsheet, and tried to concentrate.
But then the air changed.
The temperature dropped, sharp as sleet. Something in the pressure—an old, animal sense—told me I was being watched. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I could feel it: the weight of eyes, the steady, hungry gaze of something that did not belong here.
I reached for my coffee mug, hand shaking a little, and the spreadsheet flickered.
The pixels rippled, like a rock had been thrown into the digital pond.
For a split second, the cursor moved by itself—skittered from cell to cell, then stopped dead center on my name.
I stared, willing myself to laugh, but the sound stuck in my throat.
A breath touched the back of my neck. Not a breeze, not the hiss of the vent—an actual, unmistakable exhale. Warm. Human, almost. Then a low, distant chuckle. Like a radio tuned to a dead channel, but the voice came through, anyway.
I whipped around so fast my chair nearly toppled. Nothing. Just the office, empty except for me and the hum of the storm. I stood, fists balled at my sides, and scanned every inch of glass, every reflection. My heart was going so hard I thought it might shake itself apart.
Then, as I turned back to the monitor, I saw it: a reflection in the corner of the darkened screen. Just for a second—a dropped frame, a glitch—there was a tall, sharp figure at the office door. It was gone before I could fully register it. I whipped my gaze to the doorway. No one.
But the sense of wrongness only grew.
I pressed my palm to the glass wall, peered down at the gallery below. At first, I saw nothing. But then a shape moved—subtle, a smudge of deeper black drifting between the unfinished walls. It was walking. It stopped by a canvas, leaned in as if to study the work, then melted into the gloom.
“Fuck this,” I whispered and started for the stairs.
But as I reached the top step, the voice came again, right behind my ear. This time, it was perfectly clear.
“Soon.”
I turned, heart in my throat, and for a second I thought I saw a shadow stretched against the glass wall. Not a person, not a thing—but the absence of both. My stomach cramped. My wolf shrank into the smallest, coldest place inside me.
I stumbled down the stairs, every step jarring my teeth. The gallery was empty, silent except for the wild percussion of rain on the roof. I forced myself to walk the perimeter, check every exit, every room, every broom closet. Nothing. Not even a hint of footprints on the mats.
When I got back to the office, I realized I’d left my phone behind.
I grabbed it off the desk, and as I did, I caught sight of my forearm—streaked with a black smear, like soot or ash.
I wiped it on my shirt, and it disappeared.
For a moment, I wondered if I’d imagined it, if this was all just a side effect of too much caffeine and not enough sleep.
But the terror wouldn’t leave.
I sat back down, breathing slow, trying to steady my pulse.
The rain outside sounded like it was trying to carve its way into the building.
My hands shook as I checked the laptop—everything normal, no sign of the flicker, no weird cursor movement.
The spreadsheet was right where I’d left it, my name highlighted in calm, professional blue.
I looked out the glass wall again. The gallery was as it should be. Empty. Still.
But I knew I wasn’t alone.
My first instinct was to call Gunner, to hear his voice, to let it anchor me back to reality. But I couldn’t bear the thought of him hearing the fear in mine.
Instead, I typed out a text: You coming soon?
A minute later, he replied: Wasn’t planning to come for a couple hours. You okay?
I looked at the empty gallery, the storm outside, the glass that could shatter with the right pressure.
I typed: I just miss you.
He sent back a heart emoji, then: I’ll head over now. Lock the doors. Don’t open for anyone but me.
I watched the dots pulse in the reply field, his presence almost a force in itself. My wolf uncurled a little, enough for me to breathe.
I shut the laptop, wiped my hands on my jeans, and turned on every light in the gallery.
Outside, the thunder came closer, rolling in like a tide.
Whatever was out there, I knew it would find me.
But not tonight.
Not if I could help it.