Juliette
By the time Cag leads me back to the tack room loft the following evening, I know every complaint in the ladder.
The third rung groans. The fifth flexes beneath my foot.
The last gives a sharp little creak, as if announcing that the runaway bride has returned to the scene of her latest bad decision.
Except Cag doesn’t feel like a bad decision.
His hand is warm and heavy at the small of my back, guiding me upward into the shadows where saddle oil, shaved cottonwood, and old leather hang thick in the air. I slept here. I woke here. I learned what safety felt like here.
Tonight, the room feels different.
Lantern light flickers across the rafters and catches on the sharp planes of Cag’s face. The loft hasn’t changed, but the way he’s looking at me has. His gaze drags over Linda’s cotton dress as if the simple fabric has personally offended him by standing between his hands and my skin.
“You’re shaking.” Cag carves the words out slowly, watching me from across the loft.
“I’m not shaking. I’m vibrating. There’s a difference.”
The sass arrives on instinct, but my voice doesn’t have enough bite to make it convincing. I smooth my hands over the cotton dress, trying to hide the tremor in my fingers.
Cag doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even crack a smile. He stands there like a wall built out of denim, scars, and bad intentions. His gaze shifts past me to the wedding gown still crumpled in the corner.
"That thing," he mutters. "Still looks like a cage."
“It was a cage. A very expensive, hand-stitched, silk-lined cage.” My jaw tightens. “My father didn’t care whether I could breathe in it. He cared how I’d look in the photographs after he finished selling me.”
Cag closes the distance between us. His hand settles at my waist, his thumb dragging over the seam of the cotton dress. The touch is rough, possessive, and hot enough to steal what remains of my breath.
“You aren’t an asset here, Juliette,” he says. “You’re a beautiful, dangerous problem that’s probably going to cost me everything.”
“And yet, you’re still holding on.” I point out, stepping closer until the heat radiating off his chest begins to melt the chill that’s been settled in my bones since I climbed into his truck.
"You could have dropped me at the gas station.
You could have handed me over to those Black Aspen suits and saved your ranch a lot of trouble. "
"I could have," he agrees. His other hand comes up, cupping my jaw, his fingers tangling in the messy chestnut curls that have escaped my bridal updo. "But sending you away would be walking away again. I’m done doing that."
Something old tightens his jaw, a wound he still hasn’t trusted me enough to name. He thinks he’s broken because someone didn't choose him.
I’m choosing him. Right now. In this dusty loft, with Pine Ridge under threat and my father’s reach still somewhere beyond the gate.
"Then show me you’re staying," I whisper.
Cag doesn't wait. He growls, a low, animal sound that starts deep in his chest, and then his mouth is on mine.
It isn't a gentle kiss. It isn't a "let's get to know each other" peck. It’s an invasion. He tastes like coffee and desperation, while saddle oil and clean sweat cling to his skin. His tongue slides against mine, and I claw at his shoulders, pulling him closer because this is the first thing I’ve chosen without calculating the cost.
He spins me around, my back hitting the rough-hewn timber of the wall. The wood is cool, but he’s pure heat. His hands are everywhere—mapping my waist, sliding down to my hips, bunching the cotton skirt in his fists until he finds the bare skin of my thighs.
"Mine," he mutters against my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below my ear. "You hear me? You aren't his. You aren't Black Aspen’s. You’re mine."
"Prove it," I challenge, my head falling back as he trails kisses down my collarbone.
My hands fumble with the buttons of his flannel shirt.
My fingers are clumsy, fueled by an adrenaline spike that makes the world feel like it’s tilted on its axis.
I want him out of these clothes. I want to see the man who whittles tiny birds while his world falls apart.
When the last button gives way, I shove the fabric off his shoulders, exposing the lean, corded muscle of a man who works for every calorie he burns.
There’s a scar on his shoulder—a jagged white line—and I trace it with my thumb.
He doesn't flinch. He just watches me, his breathing heavy and ragged. He reaches for the back of my dress, his fingers finding the simple row of fastenings. Need tightens every line of his body, but he forces those rough hands to slow down.
One fastening.
Then another.
Each one opens beneath his fingers until the cotton loosens around me. He pushes the dress from my shoulders, and it slides down my body before pooling at my feet.
I’m left in my bra and lace panties beneath his predatory gaze. I should feel vulnerable. I should feel exposed.
Instead, I feel like a masterpiece.
"You’re so goddamn beautiful it hurts to look at you," he rasps.
He reaches out, his hand hovering over my stomach before he finally makes contact.
His palm is hot, sliding over the curve of my hip, his thumb hooking into the edge of my lace panties.
His breath catches when his hand settles low on my belly, and that small sound undoes me more than any compliment my father ever paid for.
He grips a handful of hip and squeezes, slow, like he doesn't want to let go.
He doesn’t touch me tentatively; every pass of his hands leaves no doubt that he intends to remember me.
Every brush of his fingers feels like a brand.
He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing that matters in a world that’s currently trying to starve him out.
I see the possessive fire in his eyes, the feral need to protect and provide, and for the first time in my life, I don't feel like I’m being managed. I feel like I’m being worshipped.
"Cag," I moan, my fingers digging into his biceps. "Please."
He doesn't need to be told twice. He scoops me up, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, and carries me the three steps to the small cot in the corner. It’s covered in a heavy wool blanket that smells of him—saddle oil, clean cotton, and sun-warmed skin—and when he lays me down, the shadows of the loft seem to close in around us, isolating us from the rest of the world.
He strips out of his jeans with a frantic efficiency that makes my stomach flip.
When he stands before me, completely naked in the flickering lantern light, I lose my breath.
He’s built like a weapon—all sharp angles and hard muscle.
And his cock... god, it’s thick and heavy, pulsing with a life of its own.
It’s a promise of something I’ve never experienced—something raw and honest.
He moves over me, his weight a welcome pressure that grounds me. He’s between my legs in an instant, his knees prying my thighs wider, and then his hands are back on me, kneading my breasts through the lace of my bra until I’m arching off the cot, seeking more.
"I’m going to ruin you for anyone else," he growls, his face inches from mine. "You understand? After tonight, there’s no going back to that oil-slicked world of yours."
"I don't want to go back," I tell him, my voice cracking. "I want to stay right here. In the dirt and the wood shavings and the mess. I want you."
He kisses me again, deeper this time, while his hand slides down to the wet heat between my legs.
When his fingers find my clit, I nearly skyrocket off the cot.
He’s not gentle. He’s thorough. He circles that sensitive little bead with a rhythmic pressure that has me sobbing his name into the hollow of his shoulder.
I’m so wet I can feel the slickness coating his fingers, my body answering the choice I’ve already made.
His free hand closes around my wrist, and his thumb settles over my pulse.
He holds it there. He doesn’t say anything.
He just waits, counting the frantic beat under his thumb until I drag my eyes open and look at him.
Cag is watching me, his jaw set, his eyes burning with an intensity that should be terrifying.
Vulnerability flashes beneath the hunger, there and gone before I can name it.
"I’m not leaving, Cag," I whisper, touching the scar on his jaw. "I’m here. Claim me."
He doesn't hesitate. He reaches down, guiding the head of his cock to my opening. I’m so ready I’m practically screaming for it.
When he pushes inside, the sensation is overwhelming.
He’s huge—wider than I thought possible—and the feeling of being stretched, of being filled to the very brim, makes my toes curl into the wool blanket.
He groans, a pained, guttural sound as he sinks deeper. He’s taking his time, letting my body adjust to the sheer size of him, his eyes never leaving mine. I can feel every hard pulse of him inside me, each one answering the frantic beat beneath my ribs.
"You’re so tight," he rasps, his forehead dropping to rest against mine. "So fucking perfect."
"More," I gasp, my hips bucking instinctively. "I want all of you."
Cag grunts and thrusts, his hips hitting mine with a rhythmic thud that vibrates through my entire skeleton.
Every slide of his cock is a revelation.
He’s hitting spots I didn't know existed, deep, soul-shaking nerves that ignite a fire in my belly.
I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him down, needing the friction, needing the weight.
He starts to move faster, his breathing coming in short, sharp bursts.
The loft is silent except for the sound of our bodies colliding and the ragged gasps of our breath.
I’m spiraling. The pleasure is too much, a rising tide that threatens to drown me.
Pressure gathers low in my body, drawing tighter with every thrust.
"That’s it, Juliette," he murmurs, his voice a dark caress. "Give it to me. Everything you’ve been holding back. Give it to me."
And I do. I scream his name as the first wave of my orgasm hits, a violent, beautiful explosion that makes my vision go white. My internal muscles clench around him, milking him, and the sensation of him being trapped inside me as I shatter is the most intimate thing I’ve ever felt.
Cag lasts only a few more strokes before a broken sound tears from him and he drives deep one final time.
I feel the hot burst of his seed filling me, a thick, branding heat that marks me as his in a way no wedding ring ever could.
He collapses onto me, his heart hammering against mine, his skin slick with sweat.
We stay like that for a long time, tangled together in the dark. The lantern eventually gutters out, leaving the loft dark around us. The smell of us—sex and sweat and magnolia—lingers in the air, a new scent to add to the history of this loft.
Cag shifts, rolling onto his side but keeping me tucked firmly against his chest. His hand traces the line of my spine, his touch uncharacteristically gentle.
"Here," he murmurs, keeping me against his chest. "Stay here with me."
"I’m not going anywhere," I say, my voice muffled against his chest. I reach out, my fingers finding the cottonwood hawk on the floor beside the cot. One wing is smooth beneath my fingertips. The other still holds the rough grooves of Cag’s knife.
“You haven’t finished it yet.”
His arm tightens around me. “No.”
I turn the carving carefully between my fingers. “But you will.”
Cag looks at the unfinished wing, then at me.
“I will,” he says, and the words carry the weight of a vow.
"And I’m not walking away from the rest. Your father, Black Aspen, the water rights—I’ll face every part of it. I don't care what it takes. They aren't taking you back. They aren't taking this ranch."
I look up at him, the moonlight from the small loft window catching the hard lines of his face. He looks like a man who has finally found something worth fighting for. And for the first time in twenty-seven years, I feel like more than a name on a contract. I feel like a woman who is loved.
"They can try," I say, a spark of my old sass returning. "But I’ve got a feeling they aren't ready for a Kramer when he’s finally decided to finish what he started."
One corner of Cag’s mouth lifts, and my heart skips. He leans down and kisses my forehead, a gesture so tender it brings tears to my eyes.
"Damn right," he mutters.
We lie there in the silence of the barn, two broken people trying to build something new out of the scrap wood of our lives.
The world outside might be falling apart, the wells might be running dry, and my father might be preparing for war, but in this loft, with the scent of saddle oil and the weight of Cag’s arm around me, I finally feel like I’m home.
I think about the unfinished cabin in the back pasture, the skeleton of a future Cag abandoned three years ago.
I haven’t seen it yet, but I’ve heard the pain beneath every mention of it.
Maybe one day he’ll trust me enough to take me there.
Maybe one day we’ll decide together what it becomes.
That’s the thing about a man like Cag. He doesn't just promise things. He builds them. Beam by beam.
And I’m going to be the one who helps him finish the rest.
I close my eyes, drifting off to the sound of his steady heartbeat.
Tomorrow, we’ll have to answer whatever Black Aspen sends next.
Tomorrow, the fight over the water will continue, and my father’s response may finally reach the gate.
For tonight, I let the unanswered questions wait outside.
Cag’s arm stays around me, and this time, remaining here is my choice.
And that is more than enough.