Chapter 8
Sierra
The next time it feels like I actually have a body again, the sun is higher and I’m standing in the middle of The Ranch with my hair in a messy knot, yesterday’s reality still sitting heavy in my bones.
We brief Gray in his office first.
I tell him everything I didn’t say last night. My father’s box. The photo frame. The hidden compartment. The flash drive. The break-in.
The rest, he already knows.
Gray’s office isn’t sleek or shiny. It’s functional. Maps on the wall. A couple of monitors. A locked cabinet. A desk that looks like it’s been through a few wars and won. Gray sits behind it like he was born there, coffee in hand, eyes sharp enough to cut.
Knox stands behind me, close but not crowding. That’s his thing. Presence without noise. Like a shadow with a pulse.
When I finally pull the drive from my bag, my fingers shake. I hate that. I hate that my hands can’t keep a secret even when my mouth does.
Gray doesn’t take it right away.
He studies it first, expression going flat in that focused way.
“This isn’t a regular flash drive,” he says, turning it carefully in his hand. “It’s encrypted, and it’s the kind that can punish you for being careless.”
My stomach drops. “Punish me how?”
“By lighting up your location if you plug it into the wrong machine,” he says.
Knox’s voice is low behind me. “So, we don’t do it on a normal laptop.”
“No,” Gray agrees. “We do it on mine.”
He stands and crosses the room to a metal cabinet that requires a code. The lock clicks. The door swings open. Inside are a few pieces of equipment that look like they belong in a movie, but nothing flashy. Just… serious. Purpose-built.
He sets a small laptop on the desk, the kind with no logo and a matte black shell. He flips it open, plugs a cable into a compact device the size of a deck of cards, and then plugs that into the laptop.
“Air-gapped,” he says, like he’s answering my unspoken question. “This computer doesn’t touch the internet. Not ever.”
My chest tightens, like something bad is about to jump out of the screen and bite me.
A folder opens. Numbers and letters. No names. No explanations. Another password prompt stares back like an unblinking eye.
Gray tries a few things, fast but controlled. His jaw tightens, then he leans back.
“I can’t crack it like this,” he says. “Not yet. It’s layered.”
Knox’s voice is low, steady. “What do you think it is?”
Gray pulls the drive and seals it in a small evidence bag like it’s a live grenade.
“I think it’s information,” he says. “The kind that gets men killed. The kind that gets daughters hunted.”
My throat tightens.
Gray finally looks at me. There’s no softness in his expression, but there’s something careful there. Like he knows exactly how fragile people can be and refuses to treat anyone that way.
“I’m sure your father never intended you to have it,” he says.
Knox goes still behind me. I feel it, like a shift in the air.
Gray continues, “I’ve got people I can call. Former Secret Service. Not the ones who sold their souls. The ones I’d trust with my kid. I’ll ask questions quietly, and I’ll do it fast.”
I nod, because it’s all I can do.
“In the meantime,” Gray says, tapping the evidence bag, “this stays here. Locked up. Off-grid. If that’s okay with you.”
Relief hits so hard it’s almost dizzying. “Of course,” I whisper.
Gray’s gaze shifts to Knox. “And you?”
Knox doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll stay with her.”
Gray studies him for a beat, then gives a single nod like that’s the only answer he expected.
“Good,” he says. “You’ve got the day. Give her a tour. Keep her busy. Keep her on property.” His eyes sharpen. “And Sutton?”
“Yeah.”
“If I call, you pick up.”
Knox’s mouth twitches. “Always.”
We’re dismissed like that.
Not unkindly.
Just efficiently. Like danger doesn’t wait for anyone to feel ready.
Outside, The Ranch is a different kind of alive than Austin.
It’s bigger. Louder. Dust in the air. Fences stretching forever. A few men on horseback moving like they’re part of the land. Somewhere in the distance, I hear a lowing cow and the metallic clank of a gate.
Knox falls into step beside me. “You hungry?”
“I’m fine.”
His gaze flicks over me once, like he’s taking inventory. “You’re not fine. You’re running on adrenaline and stubbornness.”
I should be offended.
I’m too tired to be offended.
He drags me into the kitchen and gets two sandwiches together, hands moving like muscle memory. He presses one into my palm before I can argue. I eat mine slowly. He demolishes his in two bites like food is just another task.
When we’re done, he tips his head toward the barns.
“Come on, college girl. I’m gonna show you something useful.”
“Useful,” I repeat.
His mouth quirks. “Yeah. So you don’t fall apart the first time you’re without your fancy coffee shops and hotdog stands.”
“My coffee shops are not fancy,” I mutter, walking anyway.
He hums like he doesn’t believe me.
We end up in a barn that smells like hay and warm animal and something honest. The kind of smell that makes me think of childhood road trips and stopping at petting zoos, except this isn’t cute. This is work.
A couple of cows stand in their stalls, calm and huge, chewing like they have all the time in the world.
I stop short. “Those are… big.”
Knox looks amused. “That’s generally how cows work.”
He grabs a metal stool and a bucket like he’s done this a thousand times.
“Knox,” I say slowly. “Are you about to make me milk a cow?”
His grin is lazy. “I’m about to teach you to milk a cow.”
I stare at him. “I have a marketing degree.”
“That’s adorable,” he says. “Cows don’t care.”
He steps behind me and positions me near the stall. He’s close enough that I can feel the heat of him, close enough that my brain briefly forgets we’re in a barn with a cow staring at my soul.
He points. “You see that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Now you grip here.”
I do, awkward as hell.
“Not like you’re trying to strangle it,” he says.
“I’m not trying to strangle anything.”
He makes a sound like a laugh swallowed down. “Sure.”
He demonstrates, hands steady and competent. I hate how attractive competence is.
“Now you,” he says.
I try.
Nothing happens.
Knox watches my hands for a beat, then says, “You’re thinking too hard.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he says. “You’re treating it like a spreadsheet.”
I glare. “I do not treat things like spreadsheets. I don’t even like spreadsheets.”
He looks straight at me. “Darlin’, you told me yesterday you like stories and choices and marketing campaigns. That’s a polite way of saying you like control.”
My face heats. “I do not.”
He leans closer, voice lower. “You do.”
The cow shifts. I flinch like it’s going to kick me into another dimension.
Knox’s hand comes up, not touching me, just hovering at my back. A silent steadying presence.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “She’s calm. You’re the one acting like you’re about to defuse a bomb.”
“I have defused a bomb,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
His brow arches. “You have not.”
“Emotionally,” I clarify.
His mouth twitches. “That I believe.”
He guides my hands again, this time closer, and finally the milk hits the bucket with a soft, embarrassing sound.
I freeze. “Oh my God.”
Knox’s voice is pure satisfaction. “There you go.”
I do it again. And again.
I’m absurdly proud of myself for something I will never put on my resume.
After a few minutes, my arms start to ache. Knox takes over without comment, like it’s nothing. Like this is just another way he keeps the world from falling apart.
I watch him work, then realize I’m watching him like a fool.
I clear my throat. “So this is your life.”
He glances at me. “Part of it.”
“And the other part is… bodyguard.”
“Cowboy bodyguard,” he corrects, like it matters.
I roll my eyes. “That is not a real category.”
He looks offended on purpose. “It’s absolutely a category.”
I point at him. “You cannot be a cowboy and a secret agent.”
His stare drifts over me, slow. “Watch me.”
My stomach flips, traitorous.
I look away first, because if I don’t, I’ll start thinking about him pressing me against the counter again, and I’m trying to be a functioning human being today.
When we’re done, my hands smell like barn and effort. My hair is probably a disaster. My bag is still strapped to my body like I’m afraid it’ll evaporate.
Knox doesn’t tease me about that. Not directly.
Instead, he says, “You wanna wash up?”
“I want a shower,” I say. “A real one.”
He glances at the sun, then back at me. “Too hot for a shower.”
“That makes zero sense.”
“It makes Ranch sense,” he says. “Come on. I’ll show you Mesquite Creek.”
My pulse jumps. “The swimming hole you mentioned at the Grill?”
His eyes flash. “Yeah.”
I hesitate, because my brain immediately supplies danger. Open water. Open space. No walls.
Knox reads it anyway. He lowers his voice. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be right there.”
Right there.
Like that’s enough to make the world safe.
It shouldn’t be.
It is.
Mesquite Creek is exactly what he promised to be.
Clear water, cool and inviting, edged with smooth rocks and cottonwoods that throw shade like a gift. The air smells like sun-warmed leaves and clean earth.
I toe off my shoes and stare at the water like it might bite.
Knox is already unbuttoning his jeans. “You look like you’re thinking too hard again.”
“I didn’t bring a swimsuit,” I say, folding my arms.
He grins, wicked and lazy. “That’s not a problem unless you want it to be.”
“You’re just going to skinny dip? In broad daylight?”
“There is no one here, and I just taught you how to milk a cow. You’ve earned a reward.”
I narrow my eyes. “That’s what this is? A reward?”
He kicks off his jeans and briefs and walks straight into the creek, bare and unashamed. Sunlight spills over him, turning his skin gold as the water climbs his thighs, slicking over muscle and scars and strength.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t hide. Just moves through the current with that quiet confidence that says he knows exactly how he looks, exactly what he’s doing to me, and he’s letting it happen anyway.
When he glances back and catches me staring, he lifts a brow. “Still worried about that swimsuit, darlin’?”
I huff and peel off my shirt. “Turn around.”
“I’ve already seen it all.”
“If you don’t turn around, I’m not coming in.”
He smirks but obliges, facing the trees. “You’ve got thirty seconds before I forget my manners.”
I strip fast, heart racing. The water should be cold—it is—but it doesn’t register once I’m under. The shock steals my breath, but the laugh that follows feels so real it almost scares me.
Knox turns around. Sees me. And whatever he was about to say dies in his throat.
I’m floating, just far enough away that he can’t touch me unless I let him. My hair slicked back. Breasts barely above the surface. The current nudges me gently, like the water itself wants to show me off.
His eyes darken. “Jesus, Sierra.”
“What?” I ask innocently. “I’m just cooling off.”
“You’re gonna kill me.”
He moves through the water like it was made for him. Slow, sure, hungry. And when he reaches me, it’s not with urgency. It’s with reverence.
His hands find my waist beneath the surface, pulling me closer until I can feel every inch of him. We’re both bare. Skin to skin. Breath to breath.
“Are you trying to ruin me?” he asks, voice low, lips brushing my jaw.
“I think I already did,” I whisper.
His mouth finds mine in the next heartbeat.
This kiss is deep. Slow. The kind that sinks its teeth into your soul. His tongue strokes mine in a rhythm that feels like a promise.
He lifts me gently, wrapping my legs around his waist, my back braced by his arms and the water holding us up.
“You feel this?” he murmurs against my mouth. “How good we fit?”
I nod, shivering with more than cold.
He adjusts his grip, one hand sliding between us, guiding himself to my entrance. He doesn’t rush. Just teases, the head of him sliding against me, making my breath hitch.
Then, slowly, he pushes in.
The stretch is familiar now, but different out here. Surrounded by sunlight and birdsong and the soft ripple of the creek.
“Knox,” I breathe, sinking my hands into his hair.
He groans as he fills me, hips rocking forward in a smooth, deep thrust that makes my whole body shudder.
“You feel like sin,” he says, voice wrecked. “Sweet, warm sin I never want to live without.”
The water moves around us as he finds a rhythm, slow and sensual, each thrust measured and maddening. The wet slap of skin echoes off the trees, obscene and beautiful.
My head falls back as pleasure builds sharp and slow, like waves rolling in one after another.
He kisses my throat, my collarbone, the edge of my jaw. His hands never stop moving, stroking, holding, worshipping.
I tighten around him and his rhythm stutters.
“Come with me, darlin’,” he whispers. “Let go. Right here. Just us and the water.”
And I do.
We break together, gasping, clutching each other in the middle of the creek like nothing else exists.
He holds me after, my cheek pressed to his shoulder, heart still racing.
Neither of us says a word.
We don’t need to.