Chapter 7
Rhett
Ranching is hard work, but I’ve never minded it. Sweat, dirt, and muscle keeps a man honest. Or as honest as a villain like me can be. It’s a good way to work through whatever’s on your mind.
And today Juniper Quinn is on my mind.
Always has been, if I’m telling the truth.
I’m a bastard for blackmailing her. I know that.
But it’s the only way to get her to come to me, where she’ll be safe.
Her no-good parents have proven they won’t protect her.
They never did. And Hilbert? That son of a bitch circles her like a buzzard waiting for the carcass to drop.
I see it. The way his beady eyes follow her when he thinks no one’s watching.
The way he slips scripture into poison, twisting it until even her own kin don’t know who to blame. Makes me want to break him in half.
But if I put him in the ground where he belongs, the whole town would burn Juniper with him. They’d say she invited it. They’d say she corrupted me just like she corrupted him. That’s how this place works. The men sin, the women carry it.
No. If anyone’s going to ruin Juniper, it’s going to be me.
The fence post creaks as I drive a nail home, arms burning from the labor. I don’t stop. Pain is better than pacing, better than drinking myself blind. Pain clears my head.
Caleb thinks taking her to dinner is some kind of kindness.
Maybe it is. He’s a good kid, decent in ways I never was.
But he’s weak. Too gentle for her. He doesn’t see the wolves circling.
Doesn’t see the fire in her that needs a man who can stand it without blinking.
And he damn sure doesn’t see how she looks at me when she thinks I’m not paying attention.
Juniper belongs to me. I’ve waited too long, let too many years go by with my hands empty, telling myself I was doing the right thing by keeping my distance. And what did it get her? Scandal. Exile. Tears I can’t scrub from my memory no matter how many fences I build.
I drop the hammer, scrub a sleeve over my face. The sun’s low now, painting the pasture in gold. Somewhere out there, she’s probably staring at her ceiling, twisting herself in knots. Hating me. Wanting me. Pretending she doesn’t.
I’ll let her wrestle with it a little longer. Let her stew in the truth I’ve already laid bare.
But real soon I’ll collect.
And when I do, this whole damn town will learn that Juniper Quinn was never theirs to save or condemn.
She was mine.
The house is too quiet at night. I pace the floorboards, boots heavy, whiskey burning low in my gut. But nothing cuts through the restlessness.
Juniper’s face won’t leave me. The look in her eyes when I cornered her outside the church—tears streaking down her cheeks, her mouth trembling under my thumb. Rage and shame tangling until she could barely breathe. And underneath it all, the heat. The kind she’ll never admit to.
My hands curl into fists. I can still feel the shape of her jaw in my palm, the delicate bones of her wrist beneath my grip. Too fragile for this town. Too fragile for anyone but me.
I drag a hand down my throat, my Adam’s apple bobbing against the ache swelling in me. An ache I’ve starved for too long. It’s a hunger that burns hotter every time I picture her.
The whiskey glass rattles when I slam it down, amber liquid sloshing over the rim and wetting my knuckles.
I don’t care. Nothing matters but the image branded into my skull.
Juniper in that green dress—too tight across her tits, clinging to her soft curves, her body stiff with shame while her eyes slid to me in the shadows.
She looked like sin bottled up and begging to be broken open.
My zipper rasps, loud in the quiet room. I free myself, already hard, my cock straining for release. I spit in my palm and grip tight, pumping in rough, needy strokes. Every drag of my fist is her. Her gasp when I tear that dress from her shoulders. Her thighs trembling as I shove her open.
She used to starve herself down to bones for their approval, but I like her like this. Full, lush, made for a man’s hands. My hands. My teeth. My cock. I picture her tits bouncing when I drive into her, her hips bruised beneath my grip, her mouth spitting venom while her body begs me to go deeper.
“Fuck,” I groan, head dropping back, eyes squeezing shut. My hand works faster, hips jerking into the rhythm. “Gonna fill you up, Juniper. Stuff you so full you’ll never forget who you belong to.”
My breaths come sharp, harsh, as my stomach knots. Heat spirals low, unbearable, and then I’m spilling over my hand with a guttural growl, her name on my lips.
I stare at the mess streaking my knuckles, chest heaving, cock twitching for more. This isn’t enough. It’ll never be enough.
Soon, I promise myself, curling my hand into a fist again. Soon I won’t have to imagine. I’ll take her cries, her hate, her want—I’ll take it all. And I’ll never give her back.