Chapter 5
Knox
The Ranch looks different at night.
In daylight it’s all big sky and bigger fences, men on horseback cutting across open land like they were born in the saddle. After midnight, the same place feels sharper. Floodlights. Cameras. Steel gates. A quiet kind of power that doesn’t need to raise its voice to be dangerous.
The gate comes into view, tall and heavy, with LONE STAR SECURITY stenciled clean on the metal like a warning. A camera pivots. A light blinks once. The intercom crackles.
“Truck ID,” a voice says.
“Knox Sutton,” I answer.
A beat.
Then the gate starts to slide open with a low grind.
Sierra’s breath catches. Her gaze flicks from the gate to the lights to the stretch of darkness beyond. I watch her profile, the way she tries to swallow her nerves like that’s something you can do.
“You’re safe here,” I tell her, low.
She doesn’t look at me. “It doesn’t feel like safe. It feels like…”
“Like a fortress,” I finish.
Her fingers tighten on the strap. “Yeah.”
I don’t blame her. Most people don’t understand that safety and danger can look the same from the outside. A fortress is built because somebody expects war.
I drive through the gates and follow the gravel road deeper into the compound. Training grounds sit quiet in the distance, shadowed shapes of obstacles and targets. A line of barns stretches beyond that. The big main building is lit from inside, yellow windows glowing against the dark.
Sierra’s eyes track everything.
Her throat works. “Does everyone live here?”
“Some do,” I say. “Some stay in town. Some go where the assignments take them.”
“And Gray?”
“He’s here.”
That makes her go still.
I pull up near the main building and park where the lights cut the shadows back. The second the truck stops, I’m already moving. I’m out and around, scanning the lot, the building, the angles between.
I open her door and offer a hand down without thinking. She hesitates, then takes it. Her fingers are cool against mine.
She steps down and keeps her bag tight to her body like it’s the only thing that hasn’t changed tonight.
The front door opens before we reach it.
Gray steps out like he’s been waiting on the other side.
He’s in jeans and a dark shirt, no jacket, no show. But the way he stands is pure command. Stoic. Controlled. A man who keeps his heart behind armor because the world doesn’t care if you’re soft.
His gaze goes straight to Sierra.
“Gray,” I say. “This is Sierra.”
That’s all it takes. Gray’s already locked on.
“You hurt?” he asks.
Sierra’s chin lifts, stubborn even in exhaustion. “No.”
Gray nods once, like he respects the spine. Then his eyes cut to me.
“Report.”
I keep it tight. “Austin apartment intrusion. Heard movement upstairs from neighbor’s place. Two males on stairwell. Used cover to exit. No police. Disposed of phone. Brought her straight here.”
Gray’s expression doesn’t change. Only his eyes sharpen.
“Did they see her?”
“No.”
“Follow?”
“Not that I caught.”
Gray’s gaze slides to Sierra’s bag for half a second, then back to her face. He’s good. He notices everything without acting like he’s looking.
Sierra shifts, like she feels the attention on her bag.
Gray keeps his voice even. “You did right calling. You’re safe here for the night. In the morning, we’ll go over everything. Start from the first minute you felt off. Every detail matters.”
Sierra nods, but her eyes are glassy with fatigue. She’s running on adrenaline and grief and sheer stubbornness. She’s going to crash hard the second she feels truly contained.
Gray looks back at me. “You staying with her.”
It’s not a question.
“I planned to,” I say.
That earns me the smallest pause. The barest lift of his brow.
It’s subtle, but I catch it. So does Sierra, I think. Her gaze flicks between us like she’s trying to read a conversation that isn’t being spoken out loud.
Gray’s voice goes dry. “Your cabin?”
I don’t blink. “Closest. Easiest to lock down. One entrance. I know the approach routes.”
“Sure,” Gray says. “And I’m a pop singer.”
Sierra’s mouth twitches, surprised by the humor.
Gray’s gaze stays on me. “You’re taking an asset to your cabin. That’s new.”
“It’s practical,” I say.
Gray steps closer, voice lowering. “We’ll do the full debrief at first light. Until then, you stay on comms. If anything feels wrong, anything, you call.”
“Copy.”
His eyes cut to Sierra again. “You need water? Food? Anything before you go?”
Sierra swallows. “I’m just tired.”
Gray nods. “Sleep. We’ll be busy tomorrow.”
Sierra’s shoulders ease, just a fraction.
Gray steps back. “Go.”
We get back in the truck and pull away from the main building. The Ranch rolls out around us, fields and fences and lights stretching like a private world.
Sierra stares out the window. “He’s intense.”
“That’s his job,” I say.
Silence fills the cab.
We pull off onto a smaller track, headlights sweeping over tall grass and fence posts. My cabin sits near the edge of the property where the land starts to feel wild again. It’s tucked back, half-hidden by a line of trees, the kind of place you don’t find unless you know where you’re going.
Sierra’s breath catches when she sees it.
It’s not fancy.
It’s mine.
I park close, angled for a fast departure if I need it, and kill the engine.
Sierra doesn’t move right away.
“You good?” I ask.
Her voice comes out thin. “This is where you live?”
“Yeah.”
She blinks. “Alone?”
“Yeah.”
Something about that makes her swallow hard. Maybe because it makes the forced proximity real now. Maybe because she realizes there’s no one else to buffer this.
I get out and come around to her door. Open it. Offer a hand again.
She takes it. Her fingers linger a second too long, then she pulls back like she caught herself.
I unlock the cabin, push the door open, and step inside first.
Lights on. Quick scan. Windows. Corners. Bathroom door. Everything is where it should be.
I let her in.
She stops just inside and stares.
The room is simple. Bed against the wall, quilt thrown over it.
Couch opposite. A fireplace for cozy winters.
A small kitchen area with a sink, a couple of cabinets, a coffee maker, and a fridge that hums like it’s tired.
There’s a worn rug by the couch. A chair in the corner with a jacket slung over it. A shotgun rack near the door.
It’s not homey.
It’s functional.
Sierra’s gaze lands on the shotgun. Then the bed. Then the couch.
Then she looks at me.
“Okay,” she whispers, like she’s trying to convince herself.
I move to the kitchen, grab two bottles of water, and hand her one.
“Drink,” I tell her.
She does without arguing, which tells me she’s past the point of fight.
I watch her swallow. Watch her shoulders ease with the water. Watch the exhaustion catch up with her in real time now that the running has stopped.
Her hands still shake.
“Rules,” I say, low.
Her eyes lift to mine.
“No wandering. No stepping outside. If you need air, you stand on the porch with me. If you hear something, you wake me. If someone knocks, you do not open the door. Not even if they say they’re LSS. You wake me.”
She swallows. “Okay.”
“Good.”
She shifts her weight, suddenly aware of herself. “I don’t have… anything. No clothes. No toothbrush. Nothing.”
I hold her gaze. “You’ll have what you need.”
Her cheeks go pink, like she doesn’t know how to accept help without feeling like she owes something.
I move to my dresser, open the top drawer, and pull out a soft shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Plain. Worn-in. Clean.
I hold them out.
“They’ll be big on you,” I say. “But you’ll be comfortable.”
She takes them carefully, like they might bite.
“Bathroom’s there,” I add, pointing. “Lock it if it makes you feel better.”
Her eyes flick to the door. “It does.”
“There are clean towels under the sink.”
She nods once, then disappears into the bathroom and closes the door behind her.
The cabin goes quiet.
Too quiet.
Until the shower kicks on.
And then my imagination betrays me.
I picture her behind that thin wall, steam curling around her bare skin, water sliding down curves I’ve been trying hard not to think about. Her hands moving over her body, unaware—or maybe all too aware—that every drop of water hitting the floor is driving me half-mad out here.
I drag a hand over my jaw, force my focus back into place.
I move through my routine on muscle memory. Check the locks. Check the windows. Shift the shotgun a little closer. Let the silence stretch.
When she steps out, my body goes still.
She’s wearing my shirt. Just the shirt.
The hem brushes the tops of her thighs. The collar slides off one shoulder, revealing a sliver of smooth skin. The sleeves swallow her hands.
She’s drowning in it, and somehow it still manages to look indecent.
Like she’s wearing a part of me.
Like she belongs in my space.
She tucks a damp strand of hair behind her ear and meets my eyes, hesitant. Bracing.
“Pants didn’t fit?” I ask, voice low.
She nods. “They’re… huge. They won’t stay up.” A pause. “But the shirt works. Thank you.”
I nod back, once, because if I open my mouth, I’ll say something I shouldn’t.
“You’re exhausted,” I manage. “Get in bed.”
“Okay,” she whispers.
She crosses the room, slow, almost cautious, like the bed might disappear if she moves too fast. She climbs in, pulling the sheets up to her chest. The shirt rides high on her thighs when she shifts.
Too high.
My gaze catches on bare skin before I look away—hard.
Teeth gritted, jaw locked, self-control stretched thin.
Because she’s here. In my bed. In my shirt.
And I’ve never wanted anything more in my life.
I drag a blanket off the back of the couch and sit down.
“You’re not going to sleep,” she says.
“I’ll rest.”
“That’s not sleeping.”
“No,” I agree.
Her lips part like she wants to say something else, something softer, something that might crack the edges of this night open.
Then her eyes flutter.
Her body gives up first.
She falls asleep fast, like her system finally believes she can.
I sit there in the dim light, listening to the cabin, to the night outside, to the soft rhythm of her breathing. The kind of breathing that says she’s not fighting anymore.
I should feel relief.
I do.
But there’s something else under it.
Something hot. Possessive. Dangerous.
Then she whimpers in her sleep.
Shifts hard. Twitches under the covers.
“No,” she gasps. “Don’t go—please—Dad—”
I’m beside her in an instant, crouched at the edge of the bed, fingers brushing her shoulder.
“Sierra,” I say, voice low but firm. “Wake up. You’re safe.”
She jolts awake, eyes wild, chest heaving like she ran a mile.
Recognition comes slow.
Then she curls in on herself. “Sorry. I just—”
“You don’t have to explain.”
She swallows. “Would you…”
Her voice breaks.
“Would you stay? Just—lie down. I feel safer with you beside me.”
I go still.
“Darlin’…”
My voice comes out low, rough, all gravel and restraint.
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
A beat.
“If I get in that bed, the last thing you’ll be is safe.”
She blinks at me, confused.
“I’m not—I don’t mean anything by it, I just…”
Her hand tightens in the sheets. “I don’t want to be alone.”
God help me.
“You think I haven’t noticed?” I murmur. “The way you smell like vanilla and trouble. The way your fingers curl when you're nervous. The way you look at me like you’re trying not to.”
She goes still.
““I’ve been trying to stay on the right side of the line since the moment I laid eyes on you,” I say, voice low. “And now you want me in that bed?”
My jaw tightens. “Darlin’, I don’t think you understand what you’re asking.”
Her voice is barely a whisper. “I do.”
I drag in a breath that burns like whiskey, slow and scalding. “I gave you my word. I’d protect you. Even if that means protecting you from me.”
A beat. Her eyes don’t leave mine.
Then—softly, like a dare—
“What if I don’t want to be protected from you?”
Every muscle in my body goes taut.
“Move over,” I growl.
She does.
I slide in beside her, every inch of me strung tight. Electric. She’s warm. Too warm. My shirt rides high on her thighs, and she knows it. She shifts closer. Bare skin meets mine, soft and dangerous.
“Jesus,” I mutter. “You tryin’ to kill me, darlin’?”
She doesn’t answer. Just looks at me, wide-eyed, lips parted, breath shallow like she’s waiting for something to break.
I lean in, my voice rough against her ear. “You don’t even know what I’d do to you if I lost control.”
She turns toward me, her breath brushing my jaw.
“Then lose it,” she whispers. “I want to find out.”
I groan into the dim glow, one hand gripping the mattress like it’ll keep me grounded.
And still, I don’t touch her.
Not yet.
Because once I do, there’s no going back.