Chapter 4
FOUR
VALENTINA
I rush into the hospital, the sounds of sick people and loud, incessant machines filling the air. It’s pungent and overwhelming—I hate hospitals.
But I hate being alone more.
Faith left this morning; someone came to get her even as I practically begged to take her home. She thought I should ‘get more rest’, and ‘catch up on my favorite show’—anything to take my mind off the events of last night.
But being alone, the events of last night and my past are all I have. Not just all I have, but all that I am.
I’m a villain—a patchwork character of every inconvenient challenge in my mother’s life, every disappointment and disgust in my father’s life, and every evil and vicious thing in my brother’s life. I’m not misunderstood or misrepresented.
I’m just a villain.
Evil. Evil. Evil.
At least, that’s what the voice roaring in my head always tells me. It’s especially loud now as I stare through the small window of the hospital room, watching the one man who’s always understood me slip away.
McCrae’s eyes reluctantly open, his eyelashes fluttering as he struggles to orient himself. I want to go inside. I want to check on him. But I’m also afraid—he’s here because of me. He almost died because of me.
“I fucking hate hospitals,” I hear Augustus growl through the door.
“Then why are you here?” McCrae blinks at him.
“You almost died, asshole.”
“When have you ever cared about that?”
“You know, you’re a miserable dick, just like you’ve always been. I don’t know why I’m here.” Augustus begins to stand, his body rippling like a panther prowling in the night, but he stops as McCrae raises his hand in defeat.
The strongest, bravest, hardest man I know—defeated.
“Sorry. You know, I haven’t been in a hospital since Mom and Dad died.”
“I figured. You didn’t visit the entire eight months I was in one for my broken back.”
That sounds…shitty, even for McCrae. I knew they were strained, but to not visit him in the hospital? The way McCrae always talked, it was Augustus who drove the wedge between them.
“I’m sorry,” McCrae mutters once more, and I can’t help but bristle. I’ve never known him to apologize to anyone for anything. Even when warranted—it’s one of the many things I related to him on—apologies admit weakness.
I step to the other side of the hall, pressing the back of my hand to my clammy forehead. I’m overreacting—McCrae wouldn’t leave me. Not for Augustus, not for anyone. He’s always promised to keep me safe, and to do that, he has to stay with me.
I’m not alone.
“I’m not alone.” I reiterate the sentiment aloud, but the words ring hollow.
Ice still running through my veins, I push off the wall and barrel into the small hospital room.
The voices instantly hush, and I feel the heat of both gazes branding my skin.
I ignore Augustus—my loyalty is, and will always be, with his brother—as I drink in the sight of a very real, very breathing McCrae.
“You okay?” McCrae’s voice is garbled, and he tries to sit up. I raise my hand, motioning for him to stay put.
“I’m not the one in a hospital bed.”
He shoots me a teasing smile. “I was going to take a bullet for you sooner or later.”
His words are a knife to the gut, slicing me to the core. I do nothing but hurt the ones I care for—I didn’t pull the trigger, but I put myself in the line of fire, and by default, McCrae. He’s here because of me.
It’s all my fault. It always is.
Augustus huffs. “Isn’t that the truth.”
“Gus—” McCrae’s voice hardens in my defense, and as much as I appreciate it, I hate that I’m the reason he’s in this position. He wants a relationship with his brother—since I’ve known him, it’s the only consistent thing he’s talked about.
It’s clear I’m standing in the way of that. I don’t want to be, but I’m also too afraid to move. If I do, will McCrae stay?
“I’m going. You’re clear to leave this afternoon, if you want. I made sure of it. I can come back—”
“I’m taking him home,” I hiss, bristling at the idea that Augustus might take him away from me, just like that
“Sure.” Augustus leaves the room without a backwards glance. Guilt fills me, but I can’t muster up the words to express it.
Instead, I return my full attention to McCrae. “Ready to break out?”
“Uh, yeah. Get me the fuck out of here.” It’s clear he wants to say more but refuses, so I don’t push it. With McCrae, it’s always better to let things go.
The smell of rain hangs heavy in the air, and there’s an awkward tension developing thickly between McCrae and me. We’ve never been awkward, never been timid or shy, but for the first time, I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing around him.
I can’t lose him, and the fear is like a noose around my neck, the ground beneath my feet threatening to give out at any moment.
He shifts uncomfortably, looking over my shoulder at the valet, and I follow his gaze.
“They’re coming,” I reassure him.
He just shrugs, as if it doesn't matter. It’s a lie, but I can’t understand why.
“We need help,” he states, looking back at me reluctantly.
I stare at him in confusion. “Like therapy?”
His eyes narrow. “What? Fuck, no. I mean on the ranch.”
“Oh.”
“I mean, yeah. The animals deserve someone who knows at least half a fuck of what’s going on.” I agree—I’m in over my head, and I refuse to lose what’s left to Mateo, even if I hate the ranch.
I shake my head. “I don’t like the idea of anyone else being around, especially after what happened today.”
He rolls his eyes, and I instantly bristle. “It’s just temporary, until I can fully work again.” He shrugs. “Or you can learn to take care of the animals.”
I pin him with a glare. There’s a better chance of me growing wings and learning to fucking fly. “They’d be better off dead.”
It’s my turn to look over my shoulder at the valet. Where’s that fucking car?
“Don’t say that shit. You’re just being dramatic.”
Blinding rage consumes me.
Why’s it always me being dramatic? Why aren’t my feelings simply valid?
“So what? We’re just supposed to hire someone off the street? They could come into our home and shoot us in our sleep instead.” My voice tremors as I begin to shout.
McCrae stares at me, unbothered by my outburst. “We’ll find someone trustworthy.”
I can’t trust anyone, but I don’t say that.
“Let’s just get it over with. Sir,” I wave at the valet, “do you want to work on my ranch?” He looks at me like I’ve got two heads, before shaking his slowly.
I whirl around, finding the next available body—an egregiously tall man, my face level with his neck. I tap his shoulder. “How about you sir? Do you need a job?”
McCrae grabs my hand and begins to pull me away. “That’s enough. I get the point.”
“You’re injured, but you’re not dead,” I hiss, trying to remind him as much as myself.
His eyes soften, and I hate that he knows what I’m thinking without having to say it. It’s vulnerable and weak, and Reyeses don’t have weaknesses.
“V, I—”
“I do, actually.” I barely register the man speaking, but when McCrae’s eyes flare with warning, I turn to see the man sending up the flags.
“What?” I stumble backward to look up at him.
“You asked if I need a job. I do.”
I’m about to tell the intruder to piss off, but I stop, the sight of his mossy green gaze freezing the words on the tip of my tongue.
He’s beautiful—the most devastating man I’ve ever seen, with bronzed skin, flecked with a dark smattering of hair that matches the buzzed fade on his head, and neat mustache lining his upper lip.
He seems even taller facing me than he did from behind, a good six foot-four at least, with muscles bulging out of every seam of pathetic fabric covering his body.
I unashamedly stare, counting the dark veins popping out of his forearm and down into his balled fist as his arms cross his chest.
I can’t stop staring. I can barely keep myself from drooling at this point.
Is that normal? No. Healthy? Fuck no.
“Sorry—” His hand hovers in the space between me and McCrae, and my own trembles at my side, some invisible electrical current pulling us together.
I don’t understand it, and I definitely don’t like it.
“My name’s Santos. I’m actually currently between jobs, but I’m a hard worker.
I don’t have a place to live right now, so if you’d consider trading labor for room and board, I’d love to help. ”
“Know anything about ranching?” McCrae bites out the question. Is that jealousy in his voice?
I can’t actually be considering hiring a man I just met, not after we still don’t know who shot at us. I can’t—I won’t.
The guy smirks—a panty melting, should be illegal in every country twist of his lips—before facing me fully, his eyes twinkling. “I don’t. But I’m motivated and good with my hands.”
I shouldn’t even allow the thought to form, but—
McCrae speaks before I have a chance. “Not interested. Better luck finding somewhere else to use your hands.”
“McCrae…” I don’t know why I’m defending the stranger. Must be his devilish looks and the fact that McCrae’s jealous for the first time since I’ve met him.
It can’t be because I’m attracted to him. That would be beyond pathetic.
McCrae looks at me, shocked. “Two seconds ago, you didn’t want help.”
“And you said we needed the help regardless. He seems like he could be helpful.”
“You don’t even know him.” McCrae’s voice rises, his irritation growing. I nearly preen like a cat who got the cream—he’s truly jealous.
I remain nonchalant instead. “I didn’t know you when I met you either, McCrae. But I’ve got good instincts.” I extend my hand toward the stranger, eager to feel the heat of McCrae’s ire. “Santos, I’m Valentina. You’re hired.”
But when Santos’ hand swallows mine, it’s not McCrae’s heat that threatens to burn me alive.
Blending into the shadows of the hallway, my heart a steady drum in my throat, I watch McCrae, watch Santos. How did I go from alone this morning to living in on this ranch with not one, but two devilishly handsome men?
I could have worse problems. Someone could be out there, still waiting to shoot me.
Oh, wait.
Santos walks around the perimeter of the kitchen, his fingers skimming the surfaces with a mix of awe and well-hidden anger—I’d miss it if I wasn’t so attuned at reading people. I’ve made it my entire life to read people, to sense their moods and prepare for the worst before it happens.
I shouldn’t trust the stranger—there’s something dark and forbidden about him, a secret wrapped in a pretty present, but I can’t help but feel called to him too. Not the way I am with McCrae.
McCrae’s sturdy and safe and never yielding.
This stranger, Santos, is everything McCrae isn't. Wild, passionate, desperate and vast and violent—he’s adventure and danger and adrenaline. He’s everything I’ve always protected myself against.
“Why are you out of a job and out of a house?” McCrae doesn’t bother with niceties, and I reluctantly smile.
Santos shrugs, not bothering to look at McCrae as he slowly prowls. “I lost it.”
“Do you have family around here? Why don’t you stay with them?”
Santos tenses, and there’s a flash of unrestricted anger in his eyes that’s quickly smothered. “They’re gone. Spread out from here to the coast.”
McCrae chews on the corner of his mustache before asking, “Is that where you’re headed?”
Instead of answering, Santos finally looks at McCrae, his eyes landing on his injured shoulder. “What happened to you?”
“I was shot.”
“Why?”
Guilt consumes me yet again. “Got in the way of a bullet.”
I expect Santos to push, but instead, he changes directions, surprising me. “Why does she have a ranch if she doesn’t know how to run it?”
Annoyed by the line of questioning, I reveal myself from the shadows, crossing my arms over my chest. “I didn’t want it. My brother took everything from me, and this is what’s left.”
Santos faces me, the smirk I’m quickly realizing is more of a mask than anything on his face. “Must be hard.”