Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sierra
I wait exactly forty-five seconds after Everett walks away from the axe throwing range before I follow him.
Forty-five seconds of smiling through my teeth while the camera crew packs up.
Forty-five seconds of nodding along while Caleb recaps the throw like I wasn't the one who made it.
Forty-five seconds of pretending my entire nervous system isn't short-circuiting because Everett Morgan just defended my honor in front of God, The Cornerstone Network, and my three overprotective brothers.
“I'll lose my mountain before I let the cost come at Sierra's expense.”
The words are still ringing in my ears. Still burning in my chest. Still painting a giant neon sign over both our heads that says SOMETHING IS GOING ON HERE.
I find him behind the equipment shed, leaning against the weathered wood like he doesn't have a care in the world. Like he didn't just blow our cover to smithereens in front of a live studio audience.
He's got my ax.
My ax that he plucked out of my hand like I was a toddler with a steak knife.
“Give it back.”
He doesn't move. Just watches me with those dark eyes, one corner of his mouth twitching like he's fighting a smile.
“Sierra—”
“Don't.” I close the distance between us, finger jabbing toward his chest. “Don't 'Sierra' me. What the hell was that?”
“That was me handling a situation.”
“Handling—” I choke on the word. “You didn't handle anything! You made a scene!”
“The guy was being an asshole.”
“So? Let him be an asshole! I had it under control!”
“You had an ax.”
“Exactly!” I throw my hands up. “I had an ax and two bullseyes and I was handling it! I didn't need you swooping in like some flannel-wrapped knight with a hero complex!”
Everett pushes off the wall, and suddenly the space between us feels a lot smaller. “What he said… it was vile—”
“Hence, the axe.” My voice is shaking now, and I hate it. Hate that he can still do this to me. “I know what he said to me. I was there. But you know what else was there? Cameras. My brothers. Tara Greene with her vicious little smile.”
His jaw tightens. “I wasn't going to let him—”
“You don't get to let anything!” The words explode out of me. “I am not yours to protect, Everett! Not publicly. Not in front of them. We agreed—”
“We agreed to hide.” His voice drops, goes rough. “We agreed to pretend. And I did. For days. For years. But I'm not going to stand there and watch some asshole disrespect you just because acknowledging you means acknowledging us.”
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. “That's not your call.”
“Then whose call is it?” He steps closer. Close enough that I can smell cedar and cold air and something that's just him. “Because from where I'm standing, you've been making all the calls for eleven years. And I've been letting you. And look where that's gotten us.”
“Where it's gotten us is safe.” I force the word out through clenched teeth. “My brothers don't know. Our families are intact. Nobody's had to choose sides—”
“Nobody's had to choose anything.” He's close enough now that I can see the storm brewing in his eyes. “Including you.”
His accusation punches straight through me.
Because he's right.
And I hate that he's right.
“Give me my ax.” My voice comes out smaller than I want it to.
For a long moment, he doesn't move. Just looks at me with an expression I can't read—frustration and want and something that looks terrifyingly like resignation.
Then he holds out the handle to me.
I snatch it from his hand, fingers brushing his in a way that makes my whole arm tingle.
“Thank you.”
“Sierra.”
I'm already turning away. Already retreating. Already doing what I always do—running before I have to face the thing I actually want.
“This isn't over.”
I don't look back. Don't acknowledge the promise—or threat—in his voice.
I just walk.
Because if I turn around, if I see whatever's in his eyes right now, I'll do something stupid.
Something like tell him he's right.
Something like choose.