Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Grace
I wake to sunlight streaming through my bedroom window and the immediate awareness that I'm not alone.
Shadow.
He's beside me in my bed, propped up on one elbow, watching me with those dark eyes that see too much.
His hair is mussed from sleep, stubble shadowing his jaw, and he's shirtless—all that ink and muscle on display in the morning light.
God, he's beautiful.
"Morning, darlin'," he rumbles, voice rough with sleep.
I stretch, wincing slightly at the soreness between my thighs, the ache in muscles I didn't know I had.
His marks are still on my skin—I can feel them without looking.
Bite marks. Hickeys. Evidence of his claim.
"Morning," I manage, my own voice hoarse. Then reality crashes in. "Oh God, I need to get up. Charlie needs to go out—"
"Already took care of it." Shadow's hand settles on my hip, thumb tracing lazy circles. "Let her out about an hour ago. She's good."
I blink at him. "You... took Charlie out?"
"Yeah. She needed to pee. I handled it." He says it like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like taking care of my dog is just something he does now.
Something warm unfurls in my chest, dangerous and terrifying.
"Thank you," I whisper.
His eyes soften. "Don't thank me for taking care of what's yours. That's part of taking care of you."
I don't know what to say to that, so I just look at him.
This man who claimed me two nights ago.
Who stayed with me last night because of a threat.
Who got up early to let my dog out so I could sleep.
This is what being with Shadow looks like.
And I'm not sure I'm ready for how much I want it.
"Come on," he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "I'll make coffee. You get dressed. We've got a long day ahead."
An hour later, we're in my kitchen.
Shadow's cooking breakfast—eggs and toast—while I feed Charlie her prescription kibble.
The whole scene is so domestic it makes my chest tight.
"You don't have to come with me today," I say, even though I don't mean it.
I don't want to be alone after that note yesterday.
Shadow doesn't even look up from the stove. "Not negotiable. You go, I go."
"My clients are going to ask questions."
"Let them."
"My father is going to hear about it."
Now he looks at me, spatula in hand, expression serious. "Good. Rather he hear about us before I have to tell him myself."
I lean against the counter, arms crossed. "You really don't care that he's going to lose his mind?"
"I care." Shadow plates the eggs, brings them to the small table. "But not enough to let you be unprotected. Your safety trumps his feelings. Every time."
We eat in silence, Charlie settled at my feet.
I watch Shadow across the table—the way he moves, the casual strength in everything he does.
The way he fits in my space like he belongs here.
Like this is already his home too.
"What's the appointment this morning?" he asks.
"Peterson ranch. They've got a bull with an abscess that needs draining."
Shadow's eyebrows rise. "Sounds dangerous."
"It's what I do." I shrug. "He'll be in the chute. Should be fine."
"Should be." His eyes narrow. "But bulls are unpredictable. Even in a chute."
"I know. That's why I have Kyle—" I stop, remembering. "Actually, Kyle's got class this morning. I was going to handle it myself."
"Not anymore." Shadow's voice is flat. Final. "I'm coming. I'll help."
I should argue.
Should tell him I don't need help, that I've been doing this job for years without him.
But the truth is, having Shadow there makes me feel safer.
And after yesterday's note, I'll take all the safety I can get.
"Okay," I say quietly. "Thank you."
His expression softens. "Always, darlin'. Always."
The Peterson ranch sits about twenty miles east of Sharp Shooter property—five thousand acres of rolling pasture and Hereford cattle.
I pull my truck into the main yard, Shadow's bike rumbling behind me, and Mr. Peterson is already waiting by the cattle pens.
"Doc Dalton," he calls, tipping his hat. Then his eyes land on Shadow, and his eyebrows rise. "And Shadow. Didn't expect to see the Saints' enforcer out on a vet call."
"Just helping out today," Shadow says easily, swinging off his bike.
Mr. Peterson's gaze flicks between us, curiosity clear on his weathered face, but he's smart enough not to push. "Well, appreciate the extra hands. This bull's been a real bastard lately."
I grab my vet bag from the truck, and we follow Mr. Peterson to the working pens.
The bull is already in the chute—a massive Hereford, easily two thousand pounds of muscle and attitude.
His eyes roll, showing white, and he's shifting his weight despite the metal restraints.
"He's got an abscess on his jaw," Mr. Peterson explains, keeping a safe distance. "Been draining some, but it needs to be lanced proper or it's gonna get infected."
I approach carefully, assessing.
The abscess is visible—a swollen lump along the bull's lower jaw, angry and hot to the touch when I get close enough to check.
He tosses his head, and I step back quickly.
"Easy, boy," I murmur, but the bull's having none of it.
Shadow moves to the front of the chute, and I watch him settle into a different mode.
Not the possessive lover from my kitchen this morning.
Not even the enforcer.
This is something older, deeper.
Farm boy.
He places one hand on the bull's forehead, the other along his neck, and starts talking.
Low, steady, calm.
Words I can't quite make out but the tone is soothing, authoritative.
The bull's ears flick toward Shadow.
His breathing slows.
"How the hell did you do that?" Mr. Peterson mutters.
Shadow doesn't answer, just keeps his hands on the bull, his voice steady.
He glances at me. "You're good. He's settled."
I move quickly, grateful for Shadow's presence.
Pull out the scalpel, sterilize the area, make a clean incision in the abscess.
The bull shifts but doesn't thrash—Shadow's holding him steady, that low voice never stopping.
Thick, yellowish pus drains out, and I clean the wound, flush it with saline, and apply antibiotic ointment. The whole procedure takes maybe ten minutes, but it feels like seconds with Shadow there.
When I'm done, I step back. "All clear. He should heal up fine now."
Shadow releases the bull slowly, and the animal huffs but doesn't charge.
Just stands there, calmer than he's been since we arrived.
Mr. Peterson shakes his head. "I'll be damned. You got a way with cattle, Shadow."
"Grew up on a farm," Shadow says simply. "You learn."
We walk back to the trucks together, and Mr. Peterson pulls out his checkbook. "What do I owe you, Doc?"
I quote my standard rate, and he writes the check, but his eyes keep darting between Shadow and me, that curiosity still there.
"So," he says as he hands over the check. "You two... together?"
My face heats.
I open my mouth to deflect, to make an excuse.
Shadow's hand settles on my lower back, warm and possessive. "Yes."
Mr. Peterson's eyebrows shoot up. "Does Phantom know?"
"He will." Shadow's voice is calm. Certain. "Soon."
The older man whistles low. "Well. Good luck with that conversation, son."
"Thanks." Shadow's hand slides to my hip, pulling me closer. "I'll need it."
We drive away five minutes later, and I'm gripping my steering wheel so hard my knuckles are white.
Shadow pulls up beside me at a stop sign, and I roll down my window.
"You just told him we're together!" I hiss.
Shadow's grin is wicked. "I told him the truth."
"My father is going to hear about this before the day is out."
"Good." He leans closer, eyes dark and intent. "Save me from having to tell him myself. Meet you at the diner for lunch?"
Before I can argue, he's pulling away, bike roaring down the road.
I sit there for a moment, heart pounding, and realize: there's no stopping this now.
Shadow isn't hiding. Isn't pretending. He wants everyone to know I'm his.
And the terrifying part? I want them to know too.
The diner across from my clinic is packed when we arrive. Ranchers, truckers, a few locals—the usual lunch crowd.
Shadow parks his bike right out front, impossible to miss, and holds the door open for me.
We slide into a booth near the back, and I'm hyperaware of the looks we're getting.
Shadow doesn't seem to notice—or doesn't care.
He orders coffee for both of us, and his hand finds mine across the table.
"You did good today," he says. "With that bull."
"You did better." I lace my fingers through his. "Where'd you learn to handle cattle like that?"
"My grandfather had a farm. Small operation, nothing like Sharp Shooter. But I spent summers there as a kid, helping with the animals." His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand. "Before I found the club, I thought I'd end up a rancher. Work the land. Simple life."
"What changed?"
His expression darkens slightly. "Life. Made some bad choices. Ended up in trouble. Phantom gave me a chance when I didn't deserve one. Been with the Saints ever since."
I want to ask more, but the waitress appears with menus.
We order—burgers and fries, classic diner fare—and I'm about to ask Shadow about his family when the bell above the door chimes.
Banshee and Spur walk in.
My stomach drops.
Banshee's eyes land on us immediately, and his grin spreads wide. "Well, well. This is interesting."
Spur's more subtle, just a slight raise of his eyebrows as they approach our booth. "Shadow. Doc. Afternoon."
Before I can say anything, they're sliding in—Banshee across from us, Spur next to Shadow, effectively boxing us in.
"Didn't know you two were... friendly," Banshee says, his tone all innocence even though his eyes are dancing with amusement.
Shadow's hand tightens on mine. "We're having lunch. That a problem?"
"No problem at all, brother." Banshee leans back, still grinning. "Just wondering if Phantom knows about this friendly lunch."
The temperature at the table drops about twenty degrees.
"What Phantom knows or doesn't know is between me and him," Shadow says, his voice dangerously quiet.