Chapter Nine #2
“Keep going,” he said, “past the house. There’s a turnout on the right. Supposed to be a good view of the river.”
We rolled past the mansion, its windows glinting coldly at us. I caught Carter’s reflection in the glass, pale and sharp, and for a second I wanted to turn around, drive straight back to our side of the county line, where the world made more sense.
Instead, I did as he said, following the drive as it wound away from the main buildings, past a row of empty stables, and into a stand of ancient cottonwoods.
At the end of the lane was a circle of crushed stone, with just enough room to park and look down on the river, which, from here, looked almost wild.
Carter reached for the door handle before I’d even killed the engine. “Can you help me down?”
“Yeah,” I said, already moving. I caught his elbow as he eased himself out of the truck, steadying him with a hand on his lower back. He exhaled, relief or maybe just gratitude, and straightened to his full height.
He stood for a minute, hands on hips, eyes closed, just breathing in the morning. Then he started toward the edge of the overlook, one hand automatically cradling the underside of his belly.
I hovered close, not crowding him, but ready if he needed me. The wind coming off the river was colder than I’d expected; it cut right through my shirt and made the hair on my arms stand up.
Carter stopped at the edge of the drop, toes inches from the break in the earth. From here you could see everything: the slow green ribbon of the river, the patchwork of fields on both sides, the ghost-line of Rawley’s property running parallel on the far bank.
“This is it,” Carter said, voice barely above the wind.
He didn’t turn around. I could see the muscles working in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He stood silent for a long stretch, watching the water move. I waited, because I knew whatever came next needed space to grow.
Finally, he spoke. “I always thought,” he said, “that if I ever got away from my family, from that old life, I’d end up somewhere like this. Big sky. Open. No one telling me how to breathe.”
He wrapped both hands over his belly, almost protectively, and let his head hang forward. “But I was scared. Always scared. I thought it was safer to just… keep moving, keep hiding. Never let anyone close enough to want something from me.”
I listened, not trusting myself to speak.
He glanced back, finally, and his eyes were bright—not sad, not exactly, but alive in a way I’d never seen. “I want this,” he said, and the words cracked a little. “I want it for us. For the baby. Not the house back there. This.” He gestured wildly at the river, the trees, the empty sky.
I stepped closer, close enough to feel the shiver of him. He didn’t flinch away.
“I want a house with a porch,” he said, “big enough to sit outside and watch the sun come up. I want a yard for the goats to wander around in, and maybe a dog. I want a place where our kid can run without anyone telling them to sit still or stop dreaming.” He laughed, a wet sound, and ran the back of his hand across his cheek.
“God, listen to me. I sound like one of those idiots on HGTV.”
I shook my head, grinning. “You sound like a man who knows what he wants.”
Carter looked at me—really looked—and there was no fear in it. “You think we can do it?” he asked.
I closed the last bit of distance, slid my arm around his waist, careful of the baby. My other hand came up to cup the back of his head, fingers threading into his hair. “I know we can,” I said.
He let himself fall against my chest, face buried in my shirt. I felt his shoulders shudder, then go still.
After a minute, he pulled back, wiped his face, and laughed again. “Sorry,” he said, “hormones are like—”
I kissed him before he could finish. Slow and deliberate, not asking, just answering.
When we parted, he was smiling. Not the fragile, maybe-this-is-a-mistake smile, but something bigger, something that made my own bones feel light.
“Let’s build it here,” I said. “On this rise. We’ll put the house facing the river. Make a fence for the goats. I’ll build the porch myself.”
He nodded, and for a second I thought he might start crying again, but he just took a deep breath and let it out slow and then said, “I’d like that.”
We stood there a while longer, watching the water move. When the wind got too sharp, I guided him back to the truck, hand never leaving his side.
Before we climbed in, he turned to me, serious. “You sure?” he asked. “About all of it?”
I kissed him again, just to make the point. “Never been more sure of anything,” I said.
He smiled, wide and easy, and for the first time since the world went sideways, I knew we were going to be okay.
The world had just started to settle under my boots again when Carter’s phone chirped, that synthetic triple tone he refused to change because it “reminded him to not care.” He didn’t reach for it right away.
The first buzz, he ignored. The second, he grunted, dug the thing out of his hoodie, and thumbed the screen with the grim focus of a man opening a ransom note.
I saw the color drain from his face before I saw the message. The top of the screen read: “Barrett S.” The text was three words: “Lunch. Diner. One o’clock.”
Carter showed it to me, his jaw set, eyes hard as flint.
“Your brother?” I asked, just to be sure.
He nodded, then flicked the phone shut with more force than necessary. For a long moment, he looked out at the river again, back straight, hands braced on the small of his back like he was afraid his body might betray him.
“You don’t have to go,” I said. “Not if you’re not ready.”
He shook his head, chin high. “If I don’t, he’ll just come here. Or worse, he’ll send Dad.”
He was right. But I hated that he was right.
Carter must’ve seen the shift in my posture, because he sidestepped closer, shoulder pressed against mine, the way people in crowds sometimes touch so they know they’re not alone. He took a breath, and it steamed in the cold.
“It’s fine,” he said. “It’s just lunch. Not an ambush.”
I grunted. “You ever hear of a peaceful lunch with a Steele?”
He snorted, but there was no real humor in it. “No, but I’ve never gone into one with an alpha at my side, either.”
Something in my chest responded to that. Maybe not pride, exactly—more a sense of gravity, like the planet had finally spun into the right axis. I watched the tension in his neck, the way his hands were suddenly too still.
He turned, and for the first time all morning, looked scared. Not for the land, or the house, or even the baby—for me, maybe, or for himself, or for the version of Carter Maxwell Steele that had never stood up to anything in his life.
“Do you want to leave now?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yeah. But—” He faltered, glanced at the cab of the truck. “Not yet.”
I followed his gaze, understanding dawning with a force that bordered on hunger. The space between us crackled. I took his hand, palm rough, and pulled him into me.
He didn’t resist. Just melted into my chest, his lips finding mine before I could even get a full breath in.
The kiss was rough, messy, too much teeth and not enough air, but it was perfect.
I pressed him back against the side of the truck, body caging his, one hand locked on his hip, the other cradling the back of his neck.
Carter moaned, deep in his throat, the sound going straight to my gut. I wanted to map every inch of him, but I was too starved for it, too desperate to let go of even a fraction.
He broke away first, breathless. “Cab’s more private,” he said, voice shaky but sure.
“Not if you scream,” I shot back, and he laughed, short and wild.
He opened the door, climbed in, and I followed, the cab instantly thick with the scent of us—salt and heat and that unmistakable undercurrent of his arousal.
Carter fumbled with his sweatpants, yanked them low enough for me to see the curve of his ass.
He sprawled across the bench, legs spread, thighs quivering with anticipation.
“Close the door,” he said, “unless you want to be arrested for public indecency.”
I grinned, shut it, and slid in beside him. The windows immediately fogged, turning the world outside to white noise.
He climbed onto my lap, careful with his belly, and ground down until our cocks aligned, both already leaking. I palmed his ass, feeling the give of his flesh, the way he shivered under my touch.
“You sure?” I said, one last chance to slow it down.
“Stop asking,” he growled, and bit my lip.
I slicked my fingers with spit, found his hole, and worked him open with slow, careful strokes. He bucked against me, greedy, needing more. When I was sure he could take it, I lined up and pushed in, the stretch making his mouth go slack, eyes half-lidded and shining.
I started to move, slow at first, then faster as he adjusted, the rhythm building until he was riding me in hard, frantic thrusts. The baby pressed between us, a warm, constant presence, and I anchored my hands on his hips, holding him steady.
He kissed me, open-mouthed and wet, tongue tracing the seam of my teeth. The cab rocked with our motion, suspension creaking in time with his moans.
“Fuck, Macon,” he gasped, nails digging crescents into my shoulders. “Harder.”
I obliged, hips snapping up, cock buried to the root. He came first, a shudder rolling through his body, come splattering my shirt and his own belly. His hole clamped down, and that was it for me—I shot deep inside him, the orgasm so strong I saw stars.
He sagged against me, chest heaving, sweat gluing us together in the cold. I held him, not moving, for as long as he’d let me.
Eventually, he slid off, settling beside me. I cleaned him up with the napkins from the glove-box, then helped him back into his sweatpants.
“You’re a mess,” he said, voice softer now, but more alive than I’d ever heard it.
I grinned. “You love it.”
He rested his head on my shoulder, eyes closed, a smile flickering on his lips. “Yeah,” he said. “I really do.”
We sat in silence, letting the world creep back in. When the windows cleared, the river was still there, but the sun had risen higher, burning away the last of the mist.
Carter’s phone buzzed again. He didn’t look at it this time, just turned to me. “Let’s go,” he said. “I want to get this over with.”
We buckled in, and I started the truck, the engine rumbling back to life. He fiddled with the radio, skipping stations until he landed on one playing old country, the kind his father would have mocked him for.
Halfway back to town, Carter startled me. “Can you hand me your phone?” he asked.
I did, one-handed, eyes on the road.
He thumbed through the contacts with that same focus, then dialed a number. I heard him say, “Hi, this is Carter Steele. I’d like to book a consult for a rural build—yes, with full sustainable options. Next week? Perfect.”
I caught his reflection in the rearview mirror. He looked proud, maybe even a little defiant.
When he hung up, he grinned at me, sheepish. “I figured we should get ahead of it. The house, I mean.”
My heart did something funny, something that felt too big for my ribcage.
“Good call,” I said. “We’ll build it right.”
He nodded, satisfied, and rolled down the window, letting the wind whip his hair.
We hit the outskirts of Black Butte ten minutes early. The diner was already busy, pickup trucks and two old Suburbans crowding the lot. I pulled into the spot near the door and killed the engine.
For a second, neither of us moved.
Carter looked at me, uncertainty flickering.
“You ready?” I asked.
He took my hand, squeezed it, then laced our fingers together.
“With you?” he said. “Yeah.”
We got out, boots crunching the gravel in unison. Carter squared his shoulders, ran a hand over his belly, then marched toward the door. I followed, close behind, ready to shoulder the next fight, whatever shape it took.
And as we walked inside, the old world waiting to take its shot, I knew exactly who I was fighting for.