Chapter Ten
~ JoJo ~
I woke to the thud of my own pulse, loud in the silence, and the slow rise and fall of Rawley’s chest under my cheek.
There wasn’t a clock in the room—he said the sun and his own stubbornness were all a man needed—but I could tell it was early by the blue glow squeezing around the edges of the curtains.
His arm was locked around my middle, forearm heavy as a gate bar, trapping me in place. I wasn’t going anywhere, and for the first time in years, I didn’t want to.
I let myself relax, breathing in the scent of sweat, soap, and the faint wood smoke that seemed to cling to him even after a shower.
Rawley slept like a man who had no intention of letting go. My face was mashed into the hollow of his shoulder, stubble rough against my temple. If I moved, even a little, his hand squeezed tighter. I wasn’t sure if it was habit, or a warning, or both.
I lifted my head, careful not to wake him, and let my eyes adjust. The old bed groaned under our combined weight. Sunlight knifed in through a crack in the blinds, catching on the army of scars that crossed his chest and arms.
Up close, the stories they told were clearer—one long white slash just under his ribs, a puckered bullet wound near his bicep, and a scatter of smaller nicks that looked like they’d come from broken glass, or maybe knives.
I traced one with my finger, letting myself follow the curve. I’d seen them all the night before, but daylight made them different. Less myth, more evidence. I wondered how many times he’d come close to dying before he found himself marooned here, with me clinging to his side like some barnacle.
I slid my hand up to my neck, slow, then traced the edge of the bite he’d left just above my collarbone.
It was tender, the bruise still fresh, heat radiating from it like a warning beacon.
The whole patch of skin tingled when I pressed it.
It wasn’t just sex. It was a message, a flag planted in the soft earth of my body.
I’d never been claimed before. Not like this. Not in a way that left evidence you could see from the next county.
He stirred, a rumble deep in his chest, then rolled onto his back and brought me with him. I sprawled across his chest, my hair going every direction, but he didn’t seem to care. His hand slid up my spine, fingers splaying at the small of my back.
“Watching me sleep?” he said, voice hoarse with morning.
“You snore,” I said.
He smirked, eyes still closed. “You snore louder.”
I snorted, but he cracked an eye to catch me smiling. I let my hand rest on his chest, thumb tracing the sharp line of his clavicle.
“Your heart beats weird,” I told him.
He laughed, which made his abs jump under my palm. “That’s from the time in Afghanistan,” he said. “Shrapnel did a number, but I’m too ornery to quit.”
I wanted to ask about it, but didn’t want to ruin the morning with ghosts. Instead, I kissed the spot just above his heart, then let my cheek settle there. He smelled good—clean, but with a musk that made my own skin go tight.
He let me stay like that for a while, stroking my back, the weight of his hand making me feel safe in a way I’d never known before.
I thought of the last few months—the days I’d spent hiding in sheds and empty farmhouses, the bakery job I’d lost, the nights I’d curled in my sleeping bag on the floor of the old barn because I couldn’t stand the thought of sleeping in a real bed alone.
I was a squatter, a stray, a failed son and a worse friend. But here, in this bed, with Rawley wrapped around me like a promise, I felt something close to home.
He shifted, then sat up, hauling me with him so I straddled his lap. My thighs squeezed the warm muscle of his hips, and the look in his eyes made my stomach flip.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“For what?”
He grinned, flashing teeth. “Breakfast. Unless you want something else.”
I ducked my head, hair hiding my face, but he caught my chin and tilted it up. The rough pad of his thumb traced the mark on my neck.
“Looks good on you,” he said, voice low.
I swallowed, heat blooming in my face. “It hurts.”
“Good. You’ll remember who did it, then.”
I rolled my eyes, but he kissed me before I could say more. It wasn’t the bruising, desperate thing from last night—it was soft, almost careful. Like he was afraid I might crack open if he pushed too hard.
I kissed him back, tasting morning breath and the ghost of coffee from the day before. My hands tangled in the short stubble at the back of his head. I liked the way it felt—tough, but with a little give.
When he finally let me go, I was grinning too hard to pretend I was annoyed.
“Get dressed,” he said, smacking my ass. “We got work to do.”
“Work?”
He rolled out of bed, naked and unashamed, then pulled on a pair of battered jeans. “Need to check the perimeter, see if that fence is still standing after last night’s wind. Might have to mend it. And the feed bins need refilling.”
I groaned, but it was for show.
He dug out a t-shirt from the pile on the chair, then tossed one at my head. “You coming or not?”
I pulled the shirt on, still warm from his skin, and followed him to the bathroom. He didn’t bother with privacy—just pissed into the toilet with the door wide open, then washed his hands at the sink while I tried not to stare at the way his back flexed with every movement.
When he was done, he turned and found me hovering in the hallway. “What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I muttered, but couldn’t stop myself from grinning.
He grinned back. “You’re easy to read, Jojo.”
I stuck my tongue out, then ducked past him to use the bathroom myself. When I came downstairs, he’d already started a pot of coffee and was wrestling a carton of eggs.
The kitchen looked brighter with him in it—like the light knew where it belonged and angled itself to catch the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the silver in his hair. He moved with a confidence that made even the most boring chores look purposeful.
I set the table, stacking plates and forks in the same neat lines I remembered from my grandparents’ farmhouse.
Rawley caught me lining up the napkins and smirked. “You got a little OCD, don’t you?” he teased.
I shrugged, cheeks going hot. “Just like things straight.”
He poured the coffee, then set a mug in front of me. “Sit,” he ordered. “Eat.”
I obeyed, mostly because I liked the way he said it. He piled my plate with eggs and toast, then sat across from me, elbows braced on the table.
We ate in silence, but it wasn’t the awkward kind. More like we were both building up steam for the day ahead.
When the plates were empty, he reached across and snagged my wrist. The contact was casual, but I felt it in my teeth.
He squeezed my wrist. “You’re coming with me today. I need supplies, and you need to get used to people looking at you.”
My stomach lurched, half nerves and half excitement. I’d spent most of my life invisible. The idea of being seen—even as someone’s omega—was terrifying. But with Rawley, I felt like I could handle it.
Maybe even wanted it.
“What if they stare?” I asked, voice small.
He shrugged. “Let them. That’s the point.”
I ran a hand through my hair, trying to flatten the wild bits. “What if they don’t like it?”
He snorted. “Fuck ‘em. They’re not the ones coming home with me.”
I laughed, and the fear lost some of its bite.
He stood, clearing the table, then clapped me on the shoulder. “Finish your coffee. We roll out in ten.”
I watched him go, the way his muscles flexed under the thin fabric of his shirt. I felt the mark on my neck throb, not with pain, but with something closer to pride.
I finished my coffee, savoring the bitter warmth, then stood to wash my mug. The baby chicks were awake, peeping loud from their box by the stove. I scattered some feed for them, then checked the notebook where I’d started tracking their growth.
It was stupid, probably, but I liked having a record. Proof that I’d made something grow. That I was more than a stray or a screw-up.
Rawley came back, arms full of paperwork and a battered canvas tote. “Ready?” he asked.
I nodded, pulling on my boots.
He stepped close, then dipped his head to brush his lips against my ear. “You look good,” he said. “Like you belong here.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just followed him out into the cold morning air, the warmth of his words still burning in my chest.
The truck was already idling, exhaust pluming in the frosty air. He opened the passenger door for me, then waited until I was buckled before getting in himself.
As we pulled out onto the dirt road, I caught my reflection in the side mirror—the claim mark dark on my neck, hair a mess, eyes bright with something I’d never seen before.
I looked like someone who mattered.
I looked like I belonged to someone.
As the ranch faded behind us, I realized that for the first time in my life, I wasn’t running away from anything.
I was heading straight for it.
The drive into Black Butte was all two-lane blacktop and frozen furrows, the world outside gone hard and colorless under a heavy Montana sky. Every mile, Rawley drummed the wheel with his thumbs, humming under his breath, glancing over at me like he expected me to vanish.
I could feel the claim mark throbbing on my neck. Even with the collar pulled up, the skin felt hot and exposed. I kept twisting the hem of my sleeve, nervous, until Rawley reached over and stilled my hand with his.
“Don’t fidget,” he said, but his voice was kind.
“I’m not,” I lied.
He squeezed my fingers, then let go to turn into the hardware store parking lot. The Emporium sat at the edge of town, its windows crowded with buckets, hoses, and a painted sign that read, “If We Don’t Have It, You Don’t Need It.”
Rawley cut the engine and turned to me. “You good?”
“Yeah,” I said, even though my stomach was a swirl of dread and anticipation.