Chapter 15 #2
Whatever she wanted was lost as he moved without thinking, without planning. One moment, he was sitting in the chair beside her; the next, he was kneeling in front of her, his hands on either side of her face.
“I won’t let him hurt you.” The words burned in his throat. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.”
She froze, her eyes wide. “Anson—”
He kissed her.
He didn’t know what he’d expected—awkwardness, maybe, or for her to flinch away from the roughness of his beard, the scars on his hands.
Instead, the kiss landed like a hammer blow against his anvil, sparks flying, burning everything else out of his head.
Her mouth was soft and urgent, the taste of her wine-dark and sweet, and when she made a small desperate sound in the back of her throat, he lost the last of his composure.
He cupped her face between his palms, brushing the pad of his thumb along the smooth line of her jaw, and kissed her like he was forging something durable out of all their sharp and broken pieces. She balled her fists in his shirt, dragging him closer, erasing the last space between them.
The chair groaned under their weight as he half-knelt between her thighs.
Her hands found their way under his flannel, flattening against his lower back, cold fingers digging into the heat of his skin.
The sensation made him shudder—fuck, it had been so long since anyone had touched him this way, with hunger and no hesitation, and it took every ounce of control not to devour her right there on the porch.
He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers, trying to catch his breath.
“Jesus,” he whispered. “Maggie.”
Her eyes were wild and dark in the shadows, pupils blown wide, lips swollen, cheeks pinked from his beard.
She tugged him back down, and this time the kiss went deeper—open-mouthed, teeth against teeth.
He slid a hand up into her hair, tangling in the dark mess of her bun at the nape of her neck, and held her still as he thoroughly explored her mouth.
She bit his lower lip, hard enough that he tasted copper, and he groaned into her mouth, trembling with the effort to not just drag her onto his lap and fuck her senseless right here, right now.
She gripped his shoulders, pulling him tighter, and when he shifted his knee forward for balance, she rocked against it with a gasp muffled by their kiss.
She did it again, grinding against the muscle of his thigh on purpose this time, and it short-circuited every protective instinct, every barrier he’d built.
He broke the kiss only to press his mouth to her jaw, her neck, the exposed skin above her collarbone where River’s borrowed hoodie had slid off her shoulder.
She trembled under his hands, her breath coming hard and fast. He wanted to tell her she was perfect, wanted to say anything, but words felt stupid and clunky.
He was half on the chair, half on the ground, caging her in with his body, one knee wedged between her legs, one hand fisted in that ridiculous borrowed hoodie. He wanted to rip it off her and replace it with his body.
Maggie arched into him, hips rolling slow and hungry against his thigh. He shuddered, barely hanging on, his cock iron-hard and throbbing against the inside seam of his jeans, every nerve ending tuned to her heat against his leg and the little gasps she made into his mouth.
If she kept rocking like this, she’d come apart on him, and he wanted it, wanted her to let go, to mark him with her pleasure, proof that he could give something good to someone who deserved it.
He pressed harder, grinding his thigh up and in, and her whole body jerked, the sound she made sharp and desperate.
She clutched at his shoulders, nails digging deep through the flannel.
Her head fell back, mouth gone slack, and the sight of her—eyes closed, lower lip wet, skin electric beneath his hand…
Fuck. He was going to come in his pants. Just from this. From her riding his thigh, fully clothed.
He jerked his knee away, breaking the contact like a snapped cable. Gasped for air, the world spinning as cold air rushed between them.
She shivered, lips parted and wet from the kiss, eyes enormous in the cold Montana dark.
What the fuck was he doing? Taking advantage of her vulnerability, her fear? She’d come to him for protection, for safety, and here he was, pawing at her like some animal.
“I can’t.” His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. “I can’t do this.”
Confusion and hurt flashed across her face as she sat up. “What? Why?”
He stood up, adjusted his still throbbing cock, and put some more distance between them. “You’re scared. Vulnerable. Not thinking clearly.”
“Excuse me? I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“Maggie…” How did he explain? How could he make her understand that he only wanted the best for her, and he wasn’t it. He wasn’t even in the same fucking zip code as the best. “I— I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“This.” He gestured between them, his movements jerky, uncoordinated. “Us. I’m not... I can’t be what you need.”
“How do you know what I need?” Her frustration bled through into her voice loud and clear, but he still went to the stairs, needing even more distance.
“You won’t even give us a chance!” she accused when he didn’t respond. “Why?”
She was right. He wouldn’t for so many complicated reasons he couldn’t voice. So he settled on the easiest. “I’m damaged goods, Maggie.”
“So am I.”
“Prison broke something in me that can’t be fixed. I’m not... whole. I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what? Care about someone? Because it’s too late for that. You already care.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“But it is. It really is that simple. You think I don’t know broken?” The chair creaked behind him as she rose from it. “You think I don’t recognize the difference between damaged and destroyed? I rebuild things for a living, Anson. I know when something’s worth saving.”
“Not me.” He turned away before she could reach him. If he let her touch him again, he wouldn’t have the strength to walk away. “I’m not worth the effort.”
“Anson—”
“Getting cold.” He jerked his chin toward her cabin door. “Go inside.”
He took the porch steps two at a time, needing to get away before he crumbled completely. Behind him, he heard her sharp intake of breath and the soft curse that followed.
“My door will be open if you change your mind.”
But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. If he stayed, he’d take what she offered, and she deserved better. She deserved someone whole, someone untainted by the past, someone who could give her more than broken sentences and scarred hands.
The taste of her lingered on his lips, sweet and devastating, and his cock was still uncomfortably hard. With every step, he wanted to turn back, to tell her he didn’t mean it, that he’d try to be what she needed.
But he kept walking.
He reached the forge, lungs burning from the cold air and something that felt too much like panic. Inside, Bramble lifted his head, ears perked in question.
“I fucked up,” he told the dog, shrugging out of his coat. “Big time.”
The kittens still slept, oblivious to his turmoil. He checked them by habit—Spark sprawled on his back, Ember and Smoke curled together like nested spoons. Fed, warm, safe. They had everything they needed.
What did Maggie need? Protection, certainly. Safety. But also honesty. And he hadn’t given her that. He’d kissed her like a drowning man reaching for air, then pulled away with excuses that weren’t the whole truth.
He wasn’t afraid of taking advantage. He was afraid of not being enough. Afraid she’d see all of him—not just the scarred hands and the stumbling words, but the deeper damage. The man who’d failed to protect the people who mattered. The man whose mistakes had cost lives.
He paced the length of the forge, tension coiling in his gut like a spring wound too tight. The memory of Maggie’s face as he’d walked away burned behind his eyes. She would hate him now. She should hate him.
But what if Landry had followed her here? What if he had hurt the cat?
Anson could picture how it all played out—the bastard creeping around the cabin, Princess sensing a threat and attacking to save her kittens, him stabbing her, then dumping her in the woods so Maggie wouldn’t see the body and know he was there.
Except Princess had lived, against all odds.
And now the idea of Landry Whitaker sneaking around the ranch was buried like a hot coal in Anson’s chest, burning him from the inside out.
What if Maggie wasn’t safe, even at Valor Ridge?
“Fuck,” he muttered, running his hands over his face.
Bramble whined, sensing his distress.
He glanced at his watch. Nearly 2 a.m. The kittens would need feeding in another hour. He should try to sleep, but the thought of Maggie alone in that cabin, waiting for a man who might be watching from the shadows...
He couldn’t stay with her. Couldn’t risk getting any closer. But he could make sure she was safe.
He pulled his coat back on, grabbed his phone, and called Lila.
“This better be important,” she grumbled, clearly woken from sleep. “It’s two in the morning.”
“Need you to cover the kittens’ three a.m. feeding.”
“What? Why? Are you okay?”
“Fine. Just need to... check something.”
A beat of silence. “Maggie?”
He didn’t answer.
“Anson, what happened?”
“Nothing.” Everything. “Will you do it?”
She sighed. “Ugh, I shouldn’t have drunk all that wine tonight. All right. I’m on my way to kitten-sit.”
“Thanks.” He hung up before she could ask more questions.
Outside again, the cold seemed sharper, the darkness thicker. He crossed the footbridge and headed back to Maggie’s cabin. She’d gone inside—the porch was empty, the blankets abandoned on her chair.
He settled on the bottom step, back against the railing, body angled to see the approach from all directions. If anyone came near her cabin tonight—Landry or fucking bogeyman—they’d have to go through him first.
He couldn’t be what she wanted. Couldn’t be the man who held her, kissed her, loved her the way she deserved. But he could be this—the shield between her and danger. The watchdog. The protector.
It was all he was good for, in the end.