Juliette #2
Cag’s hand leaves the steering wheel for a split second, hovering over my knee before he pulls it back, his knuckles white.
He looks like he wants to touch me, or maybe shove me out of the truck.
The conflict on his face is raw, a battle between a deep-seated hatred for my name and something hungrier that’s reacting to my presence.
"Doesn't matter who you are," he growls, his gaze fixed on the road. "You’re in my truck now. And I don’t give back what’s mine."
The word mine hangs in the air, thick and heavy as the mountain humidity.
It should sound like a threat. It should make me want to jump out of the moving vehicle.
But as I look at the jagged scar on his jaw and the fierce, protective set of his brow, I realize I’ve never heard a more beautiful word in my life.
We continue to climb, the truck laboring against the incline.
I watch the needle on the dash, the fuel gauge hovering near half.
I think about the girl who woke up this morning and put on a veil.
I think about the designer who spent hundreds of hours on a dress that’s now a pile of rags on the floor of a stranger’s truck.
She’s dead.
The woman sitting here, smelling the pine and the saddle oil, is someone new. Someone who doesn't mind the dirt under her fingernails or the fact that she has no idea where she’s going to sleep tonight.
We round a bend, and the trees thin out, revealing a sprawling valley below. It’s breathtaking—a patchwork of gold and green, bisected by a silver ribbon of a river. In the distance, I can see the outbuildings of a massive ranch.
"Pine Ridge?" I ask softly.
"Home," Cag says.
The way he says it—with such quiet, unyielding pride—makes a lump form in my throat. I’ve lived in penthouses and villas. I’ve slept in five-star hotels across three continents. But I’ve never had a home. Not the way he means it.
"Why did you pick me up?" I ask, turning fully in the seat to face him. "You knew I was in the wrong truck. You could have told me to get out. You could have pointed me toward the bus station."
Cag pulls the truck to a stop at a closed gate. He doesn't look at me. He reaches out and grabs the whittled bird from the dash, his thumb tracing the curve of its wing.
"I saw you running," he says, his voice so low I have to lean in to hear him. "I saw that look in your eyes. Like you were looking for a cliff to jump off of just to see if you could fly."
He finally turns his head, his dark eyes boring into mine. The intensity is staggering. It’s a slow burn, the kind that starts at the root of a thing and works outward, patient, until the whole forest is gone.
"I’ve spent three years not finishing anything I started," he admits, his voice rough with a secret pain he hasn't shared with anyone. "I’ve been waiting for something worth the effort. And then you climbed into my truck in a wedding dress you’d torn to pieces with your own two hands."
He leans in, his shadow falling over me, blotting out the sun. He smells like the earth and the sky and everything real.
"You're not a transaction, Juliette," he says, his breath warm against my cheek. "You're a goddamn miracle. And I’m keeping you."
My jaw locks. Heat crawls up my neck, a fierce, answering fire that I don't try to extinguish. I should argue. I should tell him I’m an independent woman who doesn't need 'keeping.' But the truth is, I’m tired of being an independent woman in a world designed to crush me.
I want to be his.
My gaze drops to the grease staining the white silk, then to the jagged hem before lifting back to the scarred man with the whittled bird on his dash.
"Fine," I say, my voice steady. "Keep me. But I’m not a quiet guest."
Cag’s smirk finally reaches his eyes, a flash of white teeth against his beard. It’s a dangerous, beautiful sight.
"I wouldn't have it any other way," he says.
He gets out of the truck to open the gate, his movements fluid and powerful. I watch him—the way his denim shirt pulls across his back, the way he moves with a purpose I’ve never seen in the men of my father’s world.
I’m on Pine Ridge land now. The territory of the Kramers. The people my father wants to destroy.
I look at the whittled figurine on the dash. It’s unfinished. The wings are rough, the wood still showing the marks of the blade. It’s a work in progress.
Just like me.
When Cag gets back in, he doesn't say another word. He just reaches across the console and takes my hand. His palm is rough, his grip firm and possessive. He doesn't lace our fingers together in some romantic gesture. He just holds my hand like he’s anchoring me to the earth.
We drive through the gate and onto the ranch, the dust rising behind us in a long, golden plume. The sun is starting to dip toward the peaks, casting long, purple shadows across the grass.
I don't know what happens next. I don't know how I’m going to face my father or what Black Aspen will do when they realize I’ve sought sanctuary with their greatest enemy. All I know is the weight of Cag’s hand on mine and the smell of the pines.
For the first time in my life, I’m not calculating the cost. I’m just living the moment.
And God, it’s a beautiful day to be a runaway.
As we approach a cluster of buildings—a massive barn, a low-slung bunkhouse, and a majestic main house that looks like it was built to withstand a century of storms—I see a man standing on the porch.
He’s older, with dark brown hair, slate-blue eyes, and the same broad shoulders as Cag.
He watches us approach, his expression unreadable.
"That's my brother, Andy," Cag says, his grip tightening on my hand. "The boss."
"Is he going to throw me out?" I ask, my heart giving a nervous little skip.
Cag looks at me, his eyes dark and resolute. "Nobody throws you out of anywhere ever again. You're with me. That's all they need to know."
The truck rolls to a stop in front of the house. The distant lowing of cattle carries through the rustle of wind in the long grass.
I take a deep breath, the scent of magnolia—my own perfume—mixing with the rugged smells of the ranch. It’s a strange combination, but as I look at Cag, I realize it’s the only one that matters.
He kills the engine. The whittled bird stops its rhythmic ticking.
"Ready?" he asks.
I look at my shredded dress, then at the man whose attention keeps finding its way back to me.
"Ready," I say.
We step out of the truck, and the mountain air hits me—cool, crisp, and smelling of freedom. I don't look back at the road. I don't look back at the life I left behind.
I just walk toward the house, my hand in his, ready to start the only masterpiece that ever really mattered.