Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ASHA
Iwake to cold sheets. The space beside me is already empty, the indentation in the mattress the only proof Trigger was ever there.
It's been like this ever since we kissed.
Ever since I not only asked him to kiss me but let him into my bed—with conditions, of course.
No touching and no crossing the wall of pillows.
He's honored those conditions religiously. Perhaps to a fault.
I'd extended the olive branch after hearing Santiago mention wanting to see him ride.
There was no way I was going to let him continue sleeping on the couch, not when I know how brutal bull riding is on the body.
I didn't want him climbing onto two thousand pounds of rage already wrecked because he got shit sleep on a decorative couch.
Honestly, I expected I'd be kicking him out, peeling him away from my space.
Instead, he arrives after I've gone to sleep and leaves before I wake, leaving his avoidance unmistakable.
A muffled shout shatters the silence, and then I hear Santiago's gravelly voice carrying through the air. I throw off the covers and cross to the window. When I wrench open the thick curtains, sunlight floods in, and my stomach knots.
The training pen sits halfway up the hillside, a circle of weathered wood fencing.
I squint as my eyes adjust to the sunlight, and sure enough, it's him. Trigger is in the pen with a bull, a massive black beast with horns that could gore a man in half, but this time, he’s not on his back.
No, this time he's on foot, planted in the center of the ring with nothing but a red cape between him and two thousand pounds of pure muscle and fury.
Shit. I don't remember moving. One second, I'm at the window; the next, my lungs are burning as I stomp up the hill.
When I finally reach the pen, I'm ready to tear into him, to scream until my throat is raw about his recklessness, his stupidity, his apparent death wish.
However, when I reach the fence, the words die on my tongue.
He's...beautiful.
Trigger moves with grace and precision. The bull charges, and he pivots, the cape sweeping low.
Every muscle in his body is tensed, but he’s ready and more alive than I've ever seen him.
The bull thunders past, close enough that its horn tears through the cape's edge, and Trigger doesn't even flinch.
He's going to get himself killed, and he looks more at peace than I've ever seen him.
"He's a natural, huh?" Santiago appears at my side, one weathered boot hiked up on the lowest fence rail.
"He's insane," I mutter, unable to look away.
We watch in silence as Trigger executes another pass and then another. The bull tires, but he’s still no less deadly.
"How does this end?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
Santiago doesn't look at me. "You know how it ends, mija."
"He's going to kill it?" My stomach drops. "Trigger, stop!" The words rip out of me before I can stop them.
His head snaps toward me, those stormy eyes finding mine. For one suspended heartbeat, the world narrows to just us. Then the bull moves.
It happens so fast. His massive head twists, and the horn slices through the air where Trigger's ribs were a fraction of a second before.
He throws himself backward, stumbling, eyes wide as saucers.
Then he's running, cape forgotten in the dirt, scrambling for the fence.
His boots find the rails, and he vaults over, landing on the other side just as the bull slams into the wood hard enough to make the whole structure shudder.
I'm already moving, rounding the pen at a dead sprint. He's standing when I reach him, chest heaving, hand braced against the fence. There's a wildness in his eyes that hasn't faded yet, that primal rush of surviving something that should have killed him.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I shove him, hard, and he barely moves.
He's breathing fast as adrenaline floods his system. "What does it look like?"
"You were about to kill it!" I punch his shoulder, needing to feel something solid, needing to confirm he's real and whole and still breathing. "That's what you wanted? To slaughter something for sport?"
Something shifts in his expression. "Glad to know where your concern lies." He shakes his head, jaw tight, and starts toward the barn. Just...walks away, like I'm not worth the argument. Like the past few days of carefully constructed distance has turned into something permanent.
"You're not getting back in there." I follow him, my boots kicking up dust with each step.
"That's not your call to make." He doesn't slow down, doesn't look back.
I pick up my pace and cut him off, planting myself directly in his path.
He pulls up short to avoid colliding with me.
We're so close I can smell him. His sweat and earth and that cedar soap Dar keeps in all the bathrooms. I can see the pulse hammering in his throat, the green flecks in his dark eyes that I've cataloged against my will during too many sleepless nights.
"I'm your wife." The words come out louder than I intended, sharp enough to echo off the barn walls, gaining a few looks from farmhands.
Our eyes lock in challenge. He doesn't hate the claim I just made, but he's not happy about it either. The emotion flickering across his face is something darker, more complicated. Hunger mixed with resentment. Want twisted up with frustration. Why?
He's the one who's been telling me he'll prove me wrong.
Who swore he'd show me this marriage could be more than a business arrangement.
However, if the last few days have proven anything, it's that letting people in never works out for me.
I kissed him, opened myself up for one reckless moment, and then he iced me out so thoroughly I might as well be living alone.
"Yeah, you're playing the part perfectly." His voice drips with contempt.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Another backhanded jab. He agreed to stay longer so I could get to know my family, which has meant helping Dar prepare for the festival this weekend.
Prepping recipes handed down for generations and hanging paper lanterns in the courtyard.
I've put everything else on mute so I could have this, but not him.
"It means exactly what I said." He runs a hand through his hair. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm actually out here working."
"Is that what this is about?" my voice rises. "Is this why you've been acting like this? Because of the contract? If you're worried about it, let's sign it today. Right now. We can drive into Granada, find a notary, and get it done."
Something flashes across his face. "It's not about the contract." He tries to step around me, but I grab his wrist. Touching him sends heat spiraling through my veins. I miss him. The realization hits with devastating clarity. I miss what we had that night.
I feel the exact moment he registers my touch.
His whole body goes taut, every muscle tensing like I've put my hand on a live wire.
I see the way his jaw sets, that familiar stubborn clench that means he's fighting something internal.
But I also feel the way his pulse kicks up beneath my fingers, betraying everything his expression is trying to hide. That has to mean something.
"It doesn't matter." His voice comes out rough, strained.
"Trigger!" Santiago's shout cuts through the moment.
We both turn, my hand still wrapped around his wrist, to see him waving from another pen on the opposite side of the barn.
He's standing with two of his most experienced hands, and even from this distance, I can see another bull, this one brown and rangy, pawing at the ground.
Trigger pulls his wrist from my grasp. "Go put some clothes on.
" His eyes drop briefly to my chest, and I suddenly remember what I'm wearing—or rather, not wearing.
The thin silk of my sleep dress does nothing to hide the way my body has reacted to this confrontation—to him.
My nipples are clearly visible through the pale fabric, hardened and practically on display for him and every single farmhand within eyeshot.
I cross my arms over my chest, catching a fleeting second of what looked like satisfaction on his face, knowing how my body reacted to him that way, and then it’s gone.
"Don't worry." He puts deliberate distance between us.
His eyes are hard again, that brief moment of vulnerability gone.
"None of your precious bulls die today."
Then, turning on his heel, he walks away, his stride long and purposeful across the dusty yard.
The farmhands scatter like birds, suddenly very interested in their work.
Santiago claps Trigger on the shoulder when he reaches the pen, already talking animatedly as I stand there in my nightgown and boots, my wrist still tingling from his touch.
If he wants to ice me out, fine. I'll remind him who he's playing with. I agreed to play the role of wife to help him land this merger. It doesn't mean I have to make it easy.