Chapter Seven
~ Rawley ~
I woke up before the sun, same as I always did, but for the first time in years, my body didn’t immediately scan for threats. Instead, I stayed still, staring at the ceiling, and tried to process the simple fact that I wasn’t alone in the bed.
Jojo was asleep on his side, one arm curled under the pillow, the other thrown across my chest like he owned the place. Hair splayed over his face, mouth open just enough to show a hint of teeth. He made a noise every few breaths, a soft, choked whistle that would have annoyed me from anyone else.
But from him, I didn’t mind.
If I looked down, I could see where my hands had left prints on his skin—faint, but there. His scent clung to the sheets, to my arms, to the inside of my mouth. He was all over me, and I couldn’t tell if the sensation was a comfort or a threat.
Last night was still a blur in my mind. The kitchen table, the couch, the way he’d shivered when I bit him just above the collarbone. The way he’d said my name, half sob and half dare.
I’d never seen anyone look at me like that before.
Claimed. That’s what the old-timers called it. I was supposed to be the one doing the claiming, but the truth was, I felt just as marked.
I pried Jojo’s arm off my chest, careful not to wake him. His fingers tightened for a second, then relaxed. I slid out of bed, bare feet cold on the hardwood, and padded to the bathroom. The house was silent except for the ticking of the old clock in the hallway.
In the mirror, I looked like hell. There were scratches on my back that would take days to heal. My skin itched with sweat and last night’s dried oil.
I showered fast, letting the scalding water erase what it could. I scrubbed my arms, my chest, but the ache stayed underneath it all, a bone-deep thrum.
I toweled off, dressed in clean work clothes from the closet, and caught a faint trace of Jojo on the flannel—he’d started washing the laundry in his own detergent, something with lavender and oat that I never would have bought for myself.
I didn’t hate it.
I headed for the kitchen, moving quiet as a ghost. The baby chicks were awake, peeping in their box, and I scattered some feed for them before fixing coffee. The pot was already loaded, just needed water—Jojo’s doing, always thinking three steps ahead.
I poured a mug and drank it black. The caffeine hit hard, bracing me against the cool gray of dawn. I made toast, fried eggs, and ate standing at the counter, eyes on the window as the light crawled over the pasture.
I set aside a plate for Jojo, covered it with a dish towel, and left a note beside it: Eat. I’ll be outside. The letters were blocky, all-caps, and I realized I hadn’t written anything by hand since the Navy.
I hesitated at the bottom of the stairs, listening. Jojo was still asleep, breaths slow and even. The sound made something in my chest go soft and unfamiliar. My instincts wanted to keep him hidden, safe, out of sight from anyone who might try to take him away.
Stupid, but real.
I pulled on boots and went outside. The air was crisp, sun just a rumor behind the clouds. The night’s rain had left the world scrubbed clean—grass shining, dirt damp, even the barn roof steaming in the early light. The river was higher than usual, black water moving fast past the fence line.
I took a lap around the house, checking for storm damage. A few shingles were loose, but nothing critical. The garden was fine, tomatoes staked up and looking healthier than they had a right to in this climate.
I headed for the barn, the ache in my leg just a dull warning.
The horses were awake, ears pricked and eyes bright.
They stamped and snorted as I moved down the line, but didn’t shy away when I patted their necks.
I liked the horses. They made sense—power and fear, right on the surface. Nothing hidden.
I forked out feed, checked their water, then leaned against a stall and listened to them chew. The routine was calming, something I could do without thinking. But my thoughts kept drifting back to the house, to the omega asleep in my bed.
I didn’t know what the hell I was supposed to do now.
I wasn’t trained for this. My whole life had been built around orders—do the job, survive, move on to the next thing.
The SEALs had been my family, my purpose.
Then the leg, the medical discharge, and a year of drifting before my grandfather’s will dragged me up here.
Now I had a ranch and an omega who looked at me like I hung the goddamn moon.
I felt the old panic scratching at the edges of my mind. What if I fucked this up? What if Jojo realized he’d made a mistake and bailed? What if the sheriff decided he didn’t like the look of me and showed up with a handful of paperwork and a shotgun?
None of it made sense, and all of it felt like life or death.
I let out a breath and watched it cloud in the morning air.
The horses finished eating and started nuzzling each other, impatient for turnout. I opened the gate and let them into the pasture. They bolted, kicking up wet dirt and shrieking with excitement.
I watched them run, a little jealous.
I checked the fences, walked the line to the north end of the property. The riverbank was soft, but the posts were holding. In the distance, a little more down in the valley, I could see the edge of town—just a clump of rooftops and a church steeple, but it felt closer than ever.
I turned back toward the house. The kitchen window glowed gold. If I squinted, I could see Jojo moving inside, setting the table, hands a blur of motion.
He belonged there. It was obvious. The house, the land, the whole goddamn ranch—it all made more sense with him in it.
I walked slow, dragging out the time before I had to face him, had to explain that I wasn’t what he thought I was. I was just a man, lost and angry and trying not to break anything precious.
The last hundred yards felt like a march toward judgment.
I paused on the porch, wiped the mud off my boots, and made myself promise: whatever happened next, I wouldn’t let anyone hurt him. Not even me.
I stepped inside.
The warmth hit me first. Then the smell—coffee, bread, and the sweet, sharp note of Jojo’s skin. He stood at the counter, hunched over the plate I’d left him, hair still a mess, eyes shining in the lamplight.
He looked up when I came in, and he smiled.
And just like that, the fear faded. Not gone, but quieted, like the hush after a gunshot.
I belonged here. With him.
And today, I was going to prove it.
“I need to do a bit of work on the roof,” I told him. “Some of the shingles came loose in the storm last night. Just wanted to let you know in case you heard noise.”
A piece of toast stuck in his mouth, Jojo nodded.
“It won’t take long.”
I just needed the time to formulate what I was going to say to him that would keep him from running.
Ten minutes later, I was up on the roof, kneeling on the hot shingles, when I heard the sound of trouble rolling up the drive.
The cruiser was an old Ford, engine tuned to a low, predatory idle. Even before I saw the car, I felt my body tense—adrenaline like a shot of Novocain to the heart. I squinted against the sun, saw the pale gold flash on the side panel.
Sheriff Calloway.
I finished driving in the last nail—three precise whacks—and stood, rolling the hammer in my palm. The badge on the door caught the light as the cruiser stopped ten yards from the barn.
Calloway sat for a beat, running his hand over his mustache, then stepped out with the measured slowness of a man who knew every set of eyes in town was on him.
He wore his uniform like it was a second skin, beige shirt starched to within an inch of its life, boots polished to a low shine. He closed the door with two fingers, then walked toward me, careful not to step in the mud.
“Morning, Steele,” he said, voice as dry as the dust his tires had kicked up. “You always start your day on the roof?”
I set the hammer on the ridge and crouched, arms resting on my knees. “Storm took a shingle off. I figured I’d fix it before the next one.”
He shaded his eyes, looking up. “Not many men in this county do their own repairs.”
I shrugged. “I’m not from this county.”
He let the words hang, then turned his gaze toward the house. “Saw you got your power on. Guy at the co-op said you paid in cash.”
“That a problem?”
He smiled, thin. “Not unless you robbed a bank on your way into town.”
I liked him more for the joke, but I wasn’t about to let him see it. “You come all the way out here to audit my receipts?”
He shook his head, eyes squinting at the early sun. “Just routine. New folks moving in, old folks moving out. I’m supposed to make sure the land stays in the right hands.”
I hopped down from the roof, landing with a soft thud. The ground was soggy, but I didn’t break stride. Calloway watched every move, hands hooked on his belt. He was taller than I remembered—maybe six foot even—but I still had three inches and a good thirty pounds on him.
He didn’t seem intimidated. I respected that.
He glanced at the barn, at the mustangs inside. “Heard you were bringing in wild stock.”
“Gonna train a few. Sell the rest.” I wiped my hands on my jeans, then leaned against the rail. “You ever ride?”
He smiled, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Not since my knee gave out. These days, I just watch the parade.”
We stood in silence, both of us cataloguing the other, old habit. He looked at my arms, at the scars, at the tattoo on my wrist—latitude and longitude in tight Navy script. He clocked it, but didn’t ask.
“Kid from the bakery,” he said, casual as a stick of dynamite, “is he working for you?”
He meant Jojo.
“He’s helping out,” I said. “He’s good with animals. Doesn’t eat much.”
The sheriff looked back at the house, the faintest sound of radio static floating from his car. “You know his story?”
I kept my eyes on him. “I know enough.”