Chapter 11-Sloane
I can't breathe.
Not because I'm hurt.
Not because my asthma is acting up.
Because I can't believe what I just saw.
The bar looks like a tornado ripped through it.
Broken bottles glitter across the floor.
Two tables are overturned.
One chair is missing a leg.
Beer drips lazily off the edge of the counter where somebody's face had apparently met solid oak with enough force to crack the finish.
Four grown men.
Four huge men.
Men I'd been absolutely certain were about to...
I shove the thought away before it can finish.
But then he came.
Micah.
Like some beautiful and deadly avenging angel and he—he saved me.
More than that.
Micah had taken them apart with his bare hands.
It didn’t look wild or reckless.
No.
His moves were methodical, clinical.
Every hit and block had been precise.
Deliberate.
Terrifying.
He hadn't even looked angry.
Not really.
He'd looked certain.
Like he'd done it before, and he was resigned.
Like violence wasn't something he enjoyed.
It was simply another tool in the toolbox.
One he knew exactly how to use.
The realization sends a little shiver through me.
Not of fear.
Something else.
Respect.
Relief.
A tiny part of me—one I don't entirely understand—feels safe.
The four men were groaning and cursing when he’d kicked them out.
One had been clutching his knee.
Another kept spitting blood onto my floor—so gross.
But I’m glad.
I mean, I hope everything he did to them hurts.
A lot.
They leave, and Micah turns toward me.
The transformation is almost impossible to comprehend.
One second he's a force of nature.
The next?
He's looking at me like I'm made of spun glass.
Like one wrong move might send me shattering into a thousand pieces.
His shoulders lower.
His breathing steadies.
Even the hard lines around his mouth soften.
“Sloane?”
His voice is quiet now.
Gentle.
“Are you okay?”
I nod automatically.
“I...” My throat feels thick. “I think so.”
He takes one cautious step closer.
Stops.
Giving me space.
Always giving me the choice.
“I'm sorry you had to see that.”
I blink.
“What?”
“I don't want...” His jaw works for a second before he continues. “I don't want you to be scared of me.”
The words catch me completely off guard.
Scared?
Of him?
After what he'd just done?
“Micah...”
He looks away.
“I used to be in the military.”
He says it like that explains everything.
Maybe it explains some things.
The way he moves.
The way he never seems to waste a step.
The way his eyes sweep every room before he fully walks into it, cataloging exits, people, problems.
The quiet awareness that's become as much a part of him as those broad shoulders or the faded tattoos disappearing beneath the sleeves of his T-shirt.
It explains why he stayed so calm while everyone else panicked.
Why he never seemed surprised by violence.
Why he knew exactly what to do.
But it doesn't explain him.
Not really.
It doesn't explain the man behind those startling blue eyes.
Eyes so bright they almost don't seem real until they're fixed on me, and then they're all I can see.
They're watchful.
Intelligent.
Gentle.
Like he's always thinking three steps ahead while somehow still noticing the smallest things.
He notices when I cough.
When I'm tired.
When I'm pretending I'm fine.
Even when he thinks I don't catch him looking...
I do.
I always do.
Across the bar.
From his usual stool.
His attention drifts back to me over and over again, never in a way that feels invasive.
More like...
Like he's making sure I'm okay.
I used to think maybe I imagined it.
Now I know I didn't.
My gaze drops to his mouth.
Those full lips spend more time pressed into a thoughtful line than smiling, but when he does smile...
It changes his whole face.
Softens him.
Makes him look younger somehow.
Hopeful.
And God help me, I want to be the reason he smiles more often.
Then there are his manners.
Who even stands when a waitress walks over anymore?
Micah does.
Every single time.
He holds doors without making a production of it.
Says please and thank you.
Leaves tips big enough to make me argue with him if he ever stuck around long enough for me to catch him.
He treats everyone with the same quiet respect.
The dishwasher.
The cook.
The little old couple who come in every Thursday.
Me.
Especially me.
He isn't loud.
He doesn't flirt.
He doesn't fill every silence with chatter like so many men seem compelled to do.
He listens.
Really listens.
Like what another person has to say matters.
That's rare.
Maybe rarer than good looks.
And while his looks could stop traffic...
It's his heart that's sneaking up on me.
The quiet, steady soul beneath all that muscle and military discipline.
The man who changed the filters in my van because he noticed I was wheezing.
The man who carried my trash without making me feel incapable.
The man who somehow always appears exactly when I need him.
It doesn't explain the cowboy who kissed me like I was something precious.
It sure as heck doesn't explain the man who'd thrown himself between me and four dangerous strangers without a second's hesitation.
“Sloane?”
“What?” I whisper. “Oh, no, Micah, I'm not scared of you.”
His gaze snaps to mine.
“You're not?”
I shake my head.
“Nope.”
Not even a little.
“If anything...”
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
“I think I'm starting to understand why everyone at the Jersey Iron Ranch seems to trust you so much.”
He stares at me for a long moment, almost like he doesn't know what to do with those words.
Then he looks away.
His ears turn just the slightest bit red.
And somehow, that shy little crack in all that stoicism makes him even more handsome.
“So, that’s my answer,” I say softly, taking one careful step closer. “I'm not scared of you, Micah. In fact, I'm glad you're here.”
“You sure you’re okay with this? I mean, with all the violence?”
His pale blue eyes search mine.
Like he's looking for the lie.
“There isn't anything about what you just did that scares me.”
I take one slow step toward him.
“You protected me.”
His throat works.
“I had to.”
“No.”
I shake my head.
“You chose to. And, I mean, I have questions. Like, why did you interfere? How did you even know I was in trouble?”
Something flickers across his face.
Gone before I can name it.
A low groan cuts through the silence.
Patrick.
I whirl around, and a myriad of emotions hit me.
Worry.
Fear.
Anger.
Disappointment.
He's still crumpled near the broken barstools, one arm wrapped around his stomach.
Blood streaks the corner of his mouth.
His face has already started swelling.
My heart sinks.
He's still my brother.
No matter how angry I am.
“Patrick...”
I start toward him.
Micah gently catches my wrist.
Not hard.
Just enough to stop me.
“I got him.”
His thumb brushes lightly over the bruise already blooming where that awful man grabbed me.
“You sit down.”
“I'm fi—”
“Ice that.”
His tone isn't harsh.
It's simply certain.
“Please. Ice that for me, Princess. I can’t bear to see you hurt.”
Something about his words melts every argument before it reaches my lips.
I nod.
He disappears toward the freezer behind the bar while I lower myself onto one of the stools with legs that suddenly feel suspiciously like Jell-O.
A moment later he presses a clean towel wrapped around a bag of ice into my hands.
“Hold that there.”
I obey.
Without even thinking.
Then I watch as he bends, slides one arm beneath Patrick's knees and another around his back.
Then changes his mind.
Instead, he simply hoists my brother over one broad shoulder like Patrick weighs no more than a sack of grain.
I blink.
Good Lord.
Micah carries him down the hallway toward my office without so much as a grunt.
The manager's office door closes behind them.
Muffled voices drift through the wall.
Patrick sounds defensive.
Micah?
Micah decidedly does not.
His voice is calm.
Low.
Controlled.
I can't make out the words.
Only the tone.
Whatever he's saying, Patrick isn't arguing very much.
Five minutes later the office door opens.
Micah steps back into the bar alone, and for the first time since the brawl I take him in.
His shirt's wrinkled. It’s torn a bit at the collar where some idiot grabbed him, probably trying to save themselves.
One knuckle is split open.
There's blood on his forearm that definitely isn't his.
But other than that?
Not a scratch.
He walks back over to me.
Stops just within reach.
“Do you want to talk to him?”
I look toward the hallway.
Toward my office.
Toward my brother.
Patrick is older than me. We’re the only family we have left.
But still, I slowly shake my head.
“No.”
My voice cracks.
“I think...”
I swallow.
“I'm too angry right now.”
And I am. Angry. Disappointed. I just feel so let down.
And I don’t think I can listen to his explanations and excuses right now.
Micah nods once.
Like that's a perfectly reasonable answer.
Maybe it is.
Maybe I'm finally allowing myself to feel things I've spent years pushing down.
The lies.
The guilt.
The way Patrick always made me feel responsible for everything.
I let out a shaky breath.
“Micah?”
“Yeah?”
“I...”
The words stick.
I hate admitting weakness.
Always have.
But tonight changed something.
“I don't want to go home alone.”
I laugh once, though it sounds more like a hiccup.
“It's stupid.”
“You’re not stupid,” he answers quietly.
“It’s just, I'm scared.”
My voice is barely a whisper, but the admission hangs between us like I used a bullhorn to shout it.
But Micah? He doesn't hesitate.
Not even for a heartbeat.
“Good.”
I frown.
“Good?”
“Because you're not going home.”
“What?”
“You're coming with me.”
The certainty in his voice steals every objection before I can make one.
Not a question.
Not an offer.
A decision.
Like somewhere in his mind it was never going to end any other way.
And hearing him say that? It settles my nerves and anxiety.
For the first time since those men walked into my bar, I feel myself breathe.
Really breathe.
Because somehow, standing beside Micah Fiero feels as natural as breathing.
And suddenly, the whole world feels a little less frightening.