Chapter 11
Rhett
The water’s cool around me, but it does nothing to put out the fire she lit in my blood. Juniper walks away dripping and smug, tossing that wicked little smile over her shoulder like a weapon, and I stand frozen, fists balled, jaw tight enough to crack.
She thinks she won.
Hell, maybe she did for a moment. She had my cock hard enough to hurt just from the brush of her skin in the water, from the sound of her laugh when she left me standing here like a fool.
But I’ve been waiting years for her. Patience is what’s kept me alive this long.
I push out of the pond, water streaming off me, and scrub a hand down my face. The image of her—bare and defiant, dripping as she slipped into her clothes—is burned behind my eyelids. My dick twitches at the memory, rage and lust twisting so tight in my gut I could choke on it.
She thinks she’s in control now. That she can taunt me, touch herself in my barn, walk naked into my pond, and leave me shaking with want.
No.
If she wants a game, she’ll get one. But it’ll be mine.
I’ll make her ache so bad she won’t remember what it feels like not to need me. I’ll strip that smug smile off her face, not with cruelty, but with the kind of control she can’t fight, the kind her body will beg for even when her mouth spits venom.
The plan coils sharp and clear in my mind as I pull my jeans back on, water dripping down my chest. Tonight, I’ll let her think she has space. I’ll let her stew in her little victory. But soon I’ll take it all back.
I’ll put her in my bed, pin her down until she can’t move, until she’s gasping and shaking, until she learns the truth she keeps trying to run from.
Juniper Quinn doesn’t get to decide when she comes.
I do.
And the next time she moans my name, it won’t be in rebellion. It’ll be in surrender.
I lean against the side of my truck, the old Chevy that’s been mine longer than I care to count and let the thought settle. She wants to play games? Fine. I’ll give her one. And I know where I’m going to take her.
The overlook sits at the far edge of my land, high on the ridge where the world falls away beneath you.
The kind of place where silence stretches wide, where the stars blanket the sky so thick it feels like you could reach up and grab them.
I haven’t taken anyone there in years. Hell, I haven’t wanted to. But for her… it’s perfect.
She thinks of me as danger, as something to fight against. So I’ll show her the other side—the patience, the steadiness.
I’ll drive her out in the Chevy, the bench seat pulling us close whether she likes it or not.
I’ll let her feel the weight of the night air, the isolation of being so far from town, so far from anyone else.
And when she’s there, when she’s trapped between me, the truck, and the stars, she’ll realize what I’ve known all along:
There’s no running from this. From me.
I’ll start simple—“Let’s go for a drive.” I’ll make it sound casual, like it isn’t a setup. But once she’s in that seat, once we’re bumping down the dirt road with the windows down and the smell of pine in the air, she’ll feel it. The inevitability.
I’ll park at the overlook, kill the engine, and let the silence stretch until she’s squirming. Then I’ll take her face in my hand, tilt her chin up the way I know unravels her, and tell her the truth plain and raw.
That she belongs to me. That every moan, every shiver, every whispered plea already proves it.
She wanted to taunt me at the pond? Fine. At the overlook, under the stars, I’ll remind her who holds the reins.
And this time, I won’t let her walk away.
When I get back to the ranch, I find her working with the colts.
I’m silent as I pass her but feel her eyes on me as I go into the barn.
I go to the stack of hay bales and continue stacking them while going through a list of things I’ll need to do the next time I’m in town.
I stay out in the barn until the sun’s gone down, longer than I normally would.
By the time the sun dips behind the ridge, the fire in my veins has turned to steel.
Juniper’s little performance at the pond keeps replaying in my head — the way she circled me, taunted me, left me standing in the water like a boy with no self-control.
I’d almost laughed at myself on the walk back up to the house. Almost.
But I’m not a boy. And I don’t lose.
I stand by the truck, wiping my hands on a rag, watching the light bleed out of the sky.
The Chevy’s paint is dull, the bench seat cracked from years of sun, but it’s solid, like me.
I’ve hauled cattle in this truck. Hauled hay.
Hauled women, once upon a time. But tonight isn’t about nostalgia.
Tonight is about patience, about pulling the leash back inch by inch until she’s exactly where I want her.
By the time we head back down from the ridge, she won’t be teasing me anymore. She’ll be undone, wrung out, her voice hoarse from saying my name.
I step into the kitchen and find her finishing a sandwich at the counter.
She’s perched there like she’s trying to look casual, but her fingers are tight on the bread.
There’s a second sandwich waiting on the plate.
I take it without asking, sink my teeth into it.
She watches me the whole time, like she’s waiting for me to speak or acknowledge her. Scold her for the barn, even.
I don’t.
I let the silence stretch instead, chewing slowly, my eyes on her. She’s showered and changed into shorts that show off legs that are still damp, a button-up shirt, and boots. My mouth quirks at the sight. Those buttons won’t last long once I get my hands on her.
I finish the sandwich, grab a glass from the cabinet, and fill it at the tap.
The kitchen’s quiet except for the sound of me swallowing and the faint creak of her shifting her weight.
I set the empty glass in the sink, still without saying a word, and head for the closet near the back door.
When I turn back, I’m holding a heavy wool blanket.
Her brows lift. “What’s that for?”
“Had a thought,” I answer. “Since you worked so hard, I thought we’d go for a drive.”
Her eyes flicker, searching my face. “Now?”
“Yes, now.”
I don’t give her a chance to argue. I sling the blanket over my shoulder, open the door, and jerk my chin toward the yard. The evening light is fading fast, the horizon going dark at the edges, and the air carries that smell of pine and rain that always comes before nightfall.
Juniper hesitates. She’s got that look again, like she’s already trying to figure out what I’m up to. I just wait, hand braced on the doorframe, my silhouette filling it.
“You comin’ or not?”
She sighs, but slides off the counter, wipes her hands on her shorts, and crosses the room. When she steps past me, the scent of her shampoo hits my nose. Fuck. This is going to be so much fun.
Outside, the truck waits, old and solid under the last wash of sun. I throw the blanket in the bed of the truck and open the passenger door for her.
“Get in,” I say, softer than a command but with enough steel to let her know it isn’t a question.
Her eyes flick from the truck to me, then back. Slowly, she climbs in, the springs of the seat creaking under her weight.
I round the hood, slide behind the wheel, and start the engine.
The Chevy rumbles awake, a low growl that matches the sound in my chest. I rest my arm along the back of the seat, my hand brushing the back of her shoulders.
She shifts closer without meaning to as the truck rolls forward down the drive, gravel crunching under the tires.
For a few minutes, neither of us says anything. The windows are down, and the dusk air streams through, cool and damp. Her hair whips across her cheek and she’s never looked more beautiful. She tucks it behind her ear, staring out at the darkening pines.
“Where are we going?” she asks finally, voice just a little unsteady.
“You’ll see,” I say, and glance at her out of the corner of my eye. “Sit back. Enjoy the ride.”
The road winds upward, narrower and bumpier, and the engine works harder as we climb. I catch her sneaking looks at me. Good. Let her feel the tension build the way I’ve felt it all day. Hell, longer than that, really.
At the top of the ridge, the trees break and the sky opens wide.
Stars scatter across the velvet dark. The overlook stretches out ahead, a slab of rock jutting over the valley, the lights of Ruin Ridge twinkling below like a bed of coals.
I ease the truck to a stop and kill the engine.
The night is suddenly huge and silent around us, only the tick of cooling metal and the whisper of wind through the pines.
Juniper stares at the view, but I’m staring at her.
“Beautiful,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me.
“Yeah,” I say, still watching her. “It is.” I reach for the blanket. “Come on.”
I lead the way, stopping at my favorite spot. I spread the blanket on the hard earth a few feet from the edge. She joins me, arms folded against the chill, eyes darting between me and the view. She’s wary, but curious. Always has been.
“Sit.”
She hesitates for a beat, then lowers herself onto the blanket. I take a seat beside her, close enough that I can feel her warmth through the air. But I don’t touch her. Not yet.
For a while we just sit. The crickets hum. The breeze moves through the pines. The stars burn white above us, so clear it almost hurts to look. I watch her more than the sky—the way the wind lifts her hair, the way her throat moves when she swallows.
She breaks the silence first. “You brought me all the way up here just to look at the view?”
“Maybe,” I say, leaning back on my hands.
She huffs a soft laugh, not quite sure what to do with that. “You could’ve just said you wanted to talk.”
“Would you have come?”
Her mouth twists, but she doesn’t answer. The wind catches her hair again, brushing it across her cheek, and I have to fight the urge to reach out and tuck it behind her ear.
I let the moment stretch. Let her feel the weight of my silence. Then I glance over, my voice low. “You like pushing, don’t you?”
Her brow furrows. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You poke the bear just to see if it’ll bite.”
“Maybe I want to know what happens when it does.”
I feel my mouth curve before I can stop it. “Careful, Juniper. You don’t know what you’re asking for.”
The air between us tightens, thick with everything we haven’t said. She doesn’t back down, but her breathing changes. She’s caught between wanting to prove she can stand toe-to-toe with me and not knowing what happens when I close that distance.
I shift, leaning closer, my arm brushing hers as I lower my voice.
“You keep trying to make this a fight,” I say. “But it isn’t.”
“Then what is it?” she whispers.
“It’s what happens,” I say, eyes on her mouth, “when two people stop pretending and admit they want the same damn thing.”
She doesn’t move away. She doesn’t say a word. Just sits there, pulse jumping in her throat, lips parting like she might argue but can’t find the strength.
I could kiss her now—God knows she’d let me—but I don’t. Not yet. Instead, I reach out, trace one slow line down her arm, from shoulder to wrist, and feel her shiver beneath my touch.
The stars hang silent above us. The town sleeps below. And I let the moment hover right there between want and restraint and between everything I could take and everything I’m making her wait for.
Because patience, I remind myself, is the sweetest kind of control.