Chapter Eight
~ Jojo ~
Lunch was simple: cold chicken, biscuits, and a quart jar of pickles, but it tasted better than any meal I’d ever had in a restaurant.
Maybe it was the light—honest, dusty sun pooling in the kitchen, turning the battered tabletop into something almost holy.
Or maybe it was the fact that every time I looked up from my plate, Rawley was looking right back at me.
His eyes were different today. Last night’s wildfire was banked down, replaced by something more patient, but twice as hot. Every move he made was deliberate, even when all he was doing was splitting a biscuit and smearing it with honey.
The baby chicks piped from their crate by the stove, little feathered motes zipping between the cardboard walls. I’d already cleaned up after them twice, but I liked the sound. It made the place feel alive, not like a rental with all the ghosts painted over.
Rawley finished his food first, then leaned back in the chair, stretching until the old wood popped. He caught me watching his arms, and one corner of his mouth twitched.
I looked away, swallowing a mouthful of biscuit and pride.
He drummed his fingers on the table, then folded his hands. “You ever want to know what happened, why I ended up here?”
I tried to play it cool, but I could feel the hunger in my voice when I said, “Yeah. If you want to talk about it.”
He grunted, then went quiet for a few seconds, like he was assembling a war plan. “My family’s from Texas,” he finally said. “Old money. Steele with an E. Grew up in Fort Worth, country clubs, private schools, the whole nine.”
He spat the words like bad tobacco. His eyes flickered to the window, watching the clouds muscle over the pasture.
“I’m the oldest of four kids, so my old man wanted me to run the business. Make deals, show up for charity galas, marry a nice girl and produce some grandkids.” He smirked, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “Instead, I joined the Navy at eighteen. Got out after ten years and didn’t look back.”
I let that settle, then asked, “Were you a SEAL?”
He glanced at me, then nodded, just once. “Yeah. Didn’t talk about it when I was a kid. Or ever, really.” He rolled his wrist, showing a faded trident tattoo half-hidden under a scar.
“Jesus,” I said, not sure if it was a prayer or just nerves.
He went on. “I did that life because it was the only thing I was ever good at. Orders, plans, knowing what’s expected. I could handle anything except going home.”
He looked at me then, dead-on, and I felt my whole body stiffen under the weight of it.
“My folks didn’t want me back. Not like I was. They thought I’d come home, shave my head, and pretend I’d never been in a fight. That I’d just slide back into the boardroom and forget the rest.”
I heard the edge in his voice, like he was talking about an enemy. I reached across the table, slow, and touched his hand where it gripped the biscuit. I expected him to pull away, but he didn’t. He just flipped his palm over so our fingers lined up.
“My granddad was the only one who gave a damn,” he said.
“He ranched up here after he retired. Used to send me letters, even when I stopped answering. When he died, he left the place to me. Didn’t tell anyone, just wrote it in the will.
” He huffed a bitter laugh. “They probably would have fought it if they knew this wasn’t some little rustic farm, but Grandfather was smart.
He had the place put in my name before the ink was dry on the will. The deed was solid. So here I am.”
I squeezed his hand, feeling the cords of muscle under the skin. “I’m glad you’re here,” I said.
His face softened, just for a second. “Me too,” he said, then let out a long, shaky breath.
We sat like that, hands twined across the table, while the sun slanted lower and the chicks piped on.
I found my voice. “You ever miss it? Texas, the family?”
He shook his head, lips pressed tight. “Never. The Navy…sometimes. The structure. The clarity. You knew who was on your side, who wasn’t.” He looked at me, and there was a gentleness in his expression that he probably didn’t know he had. “I don’t miss being treated like a problem to fix.”
I nodded, the words sticking in my throat. “I get that.”
He looked at me for a long time, then asked, “You ever have anyone make you feel like you belonged?”
I almost laughed, but it caught in my chest. “No. Not really. Not until now.”
His hand tightened on mine.
I wanted to say more, but the words felt too fragile to risk.
He squeezed my fingers, then released them. “You ever think about leaving?” he asked. “Going somewhere that wasn’t broken down, or full of assholes?”
I shook my head. “I used to. But I always ended up in places like this, anyway. Might as well do something real here, you know?”
He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. “You’re better than most men I served with.”
I snorted. “You probably served with some bad men.”
He shook his head. “The worst ones were cowards. You’re not.”
I didn’t know what to do with the compliment, so I picked at the crumbs on my plate. “I just want to be useful.”
“You’re more than useful,” he said, and the softness in his voice made me go warm all over.
The silence after that was good, not tense or waiting for the other shoe to drop. I could have sat there all day, just listening to the hum of the house and the distant whicker of the horses.
Rawley traced a line across the wood grain, then looked up at me, his gaze sharpening. “You ever wonder what would have happened if we met somewhere else? Somewhere easier?”
I thought about it, then shook my head. “No. I don’t think I would’ve noticed you, not like this. Not unless I was desperate.”
He cocked his head, considering. “You think you’re still desperate?”
I smiled. “Maybe a little.”
He grinned, big and sudden. “I like that about you.”
I felt the heat rise in my face, and I ducked my head, hair falling in my eyes. “I like you, too.”
He let out a breath, then stood, gathering the plates in one hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s clean up.”
I followed him to the sink, the kitchen warm with late afternoon sun. We moved around each other, our bodies brushing in small, accidental ways that felt more intimate than anything we’d done the night before.
When the dishes were done, he turned to me, hands still wet, and pulled me in for a kiss. It was softer this time, slow and deep, like he had all the time in the world to learn me.
He broke the kiss, then rested his forehead on mine. “You’re mine now,” he whispered.
I let myself believe it.
And for the first time, I didn’t feel alone.
The next minute felt as delicate as glass. Rawley looked at me like he was waiting for the punchline—like maybe any second I’d bolt, or tell him that I couldn’t handle the weight of what he’d just laid out.
I didn’t. I wasn’t even tempted.
Instead, I stepped into his space, close enough to feel the heat rolling off him in thick waves. I set my palm flat against his chest, right over where his heart beat. It was steady and strong, but I felt a jump when I made contact.
“You really want me here?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He caught my wrist, gentle but unyielding, and covered my hand with his. “Don’t ask dumb questions.”
I tried to laugh, but it came out shaky. “Just making sure.”
His eyes got that hard, storm-gray look I’d only seen a couple times. “I meant what I said at the table,” he said. “You’re mine now.” His voice went lower, almost a growl. “You know what that means?”
I thought I did, but hearing it out loud sent a shock straight through me. “Tell me,” I said, and the tremor in my words didn’t sound like fear.
He leaned in, so close I could see the flecks of silver in his eyes. “It means I’ll take you anywhere. Anytime. I don’t care if it’s the kitchen or the fucking barn. If I want you, I’m going to have you.”
The words slammed into me like a fist. I felt my knees wobble, but I stayed upright, locked on the sound of his breathing.
“But—” he added, softer now, “If you ever tell me stop, I stop. That’s the rule. Doesn’t matter if I’m halfway gone or about to break. You say no, I stop.”
I nodded, because I couldn’t find my voice.
He let go of my wrist and cupped my jaw, thumb tracing the line of my cheek. “You ever been claimed, Jojo?”
I shook my head.
He smiled, slow and hungry. “Good. I want to be your last.”
His other hand slid to my hip, fingers digging in just enough to make me aware of every inch of skin between us. I could feel my own pulse hammering under his palm.
I wanted to say something clever, something that would make him laugh or at least soften for a second, but all I managed was, “You can have me. Whenever you want.”
He made a sound—half growl, half sigh—and pressed his forehead to mine. “You mean that?”
“Yeah,” I said, and I meant it with every cell in my body.
He kissed me, harder than before, and I tasted honey and salt and something that was just him. I clung to his shirt, afraid if I let go I’d fall right through the floor.
When he pulled back, he looked me up and down. His gaze snagged on my neck, where the bruise from last night was still fresh, a purple-red stamp just above my collarbone. He ran his thumb over it, and the touch burned through me.
“Looks good on you,” he said, voice low and pleased.
I flushed, then looked up through my lashes. “Want to put another one there?”
He bared his teeth in a grin. “Later. I want you to feel it all day.”
I shivered, not from cold. “I will.”
He wrapped his arms around me, chest rumbling with something almost like a purr. We stood like that, heat building, until the world narrowed down to just our breath and the tick of the clock on the wall.
I pressed my face to his throat, breathing him in. “I’m not going anywhere,” I said.
“I know,” he answered, and the finality in his voice made me feel safer than anything else ever had.