Chapter 7
seven
. . .
Beck
A week in Gray's cabin, and I'm starting to forget what it feels like to be afraid.
That's dangerous. Stockholm Syndrome, probably.
But when his massive body curls around mine at night, when his gravelly voice calls me "baby girl," when his hands possess every inch of me—I can't remember why I should want to leave.
I've spent my whole life invisible. Unwanted.
Now I'm the center of someone's world, even if that someone is an obsessive, possessive bounty hunter who stalked me for weeks before claiming me as his own.
Rain lashes against the windows tonight, turning the forest into a dark blur beyond the glass.
Gray has built a fire in the stone hearth, the flames casting dancing shadows across the living room.
I'm curled on the couch in one of his flannel shirts—it's become a habit, wearing his clothes.
They swallow me whole but smell like him. Like safety.
Gray sits on the floor by the hearth, cleaning his gun with meticulous precision.
His hands move with practiced efficiency, those same hands that bruised my hips this morning when he took me against the kitchen counter.
The contrast should frighten me—the casual violence he's capable of, the tenderness he shows me.
"You're staring," he says without looking up, those keen hunter's senses always alert.
"Just thinking."
"About?" He reassembles the weapon with a series of soft clicks.
I draw my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. "How strange this is. A week ago, I was terrified of men like you. Now I'm..."
"Mine," he finishes, finally looking up. The firelight catches in his dark eyes, turning them to molten bronze.
I don't correct him. Can't correct him when my body responds to that single word with a flush of heat.
He sets the gun aside and moves to join me on the couch, his weight making the cushions dip so that I slide naturally against his side. His arm wraps around me, pulling me closer.
"You never talk about before," he says, his voice a low rumble I feel through his chest. "Your life. Before the bounty."
The question catches me off guard. Gray hasn't shown much interest in my past, only my present and future—specifically, a future with him.
"Not much to tell." I trace a pattern on his thigh, feeling the hard muscle beneath worn denim. "Pretty boring, really."
"Tell me anyway."
I look up, surprised by the genuine interest in his eyes. "Why?"
His hand finds my hair, stroking through the strands with surprising gentleness. "Because it made you who you are. Because it's part of you." His voice drops lower. "And everything about you matters to me."
The sincerity in those words breaks something open inside me—a door I've kept locked for years. And suddenly, I want to tell him. Want to share the lonely spaces that made me who I am.
"I grew up in foster care," I begin, the words feeling rusty, unused. "My mother died when I was six. Car accident. Father unknown, at least to the state."
His hand continues its gentle rhythm in my hair, encouraging without pushing.
"Seven different homes by the time I was sixteen.
None terrible, but none that wanted to keep me either.
I was just…passing through. A temporary responsibility.
" I swallow hard, old pain rising to the surface.
"The last family had three biological kids.
They forgot my birthday. Twice. Not because they were cruel, just because I wasn't really. ..real to them."
"You're real to me," Gray murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of my head.
The simple statement brings unexpected tears to my eyes. I blink them back quickly.
"I aged out of the system. Got a GED. Worked whatever jobs I could find—waitressing mostly. Was saving up for community college when the bounty mistake happened." I shrug, trying to make light of the lonely existence I've just described. "Told you. Boring."
Gray's arms tighten around me. "Not boring. Brave."
I laugh softly. "Running from town to town isn't brave."
"Surviving alone is." His hand tilts my chin up, forcing me to meet his intense gaze. "Building a life when no one gave you the tools. That's fucking brave, baby girl."
The praise washes over me, warm and sweet. No one has ever looked at my unremarkable life and seen anything worth admiring. But Gray does. Gray sees me.
"Thank you for telling me," he says, thumb stroking my lower lip. "For trusting me with that."
"You didn't really give me a choice about trusting you," I remind him, but there's no bite in the words. "Kidnapped me, remember?"
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Protected you."
"Stalked me."
"Watched over you."
"Semantic differences."
His smile widens into something genuine that transforms his harsh features. "Smart mouth." But he says it like it's a compliment, like my sass delights rather than annoys him.
The fire pops and crackles, throwing golden light across his face.
In this moment, with the rain drumming on the roof and his body warm against mine, I can almost forget how we got here.
Almost pretend this is normal. That we met like regular people.
That he didn't carry me to this cabin and claim me as his own.
I reach up, tracing the line of his bearded jaw with my fingertips. He turns his head, catching my fingers with his lips, pressing a kiss to my palm.
"No one's ever cared what happened to me before," I whisper, the admission painful in its truth.
Something flashes in his eyes—fierce, protective. "I care." He shifts, gathering me into his lap so I'm straddling his thighs, his hands spanning my waist. "I care about everything that happens to you. Everything that has happened. Everything that will."
His lips find mine, the kiss achingly tender compared to the bruising possession of earlier. I melt against him, opening to his tongue when it traces the seam of my lips. He tastes like the whiskey he was sipping earlier—smoky and warm.
"My sweet baby girl," he murmurs against my mouth, the endearment sending shivers down my spine. "So brave. So perfect."
His hands slide under the flannel shirt, finding bare skin.
I hadn't bothered with underwear after our shower earlier—a habit I'm quickly developing under his influence.
His palms are rough with calluses as they trail up my ribs to cup my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until they harden to sensitive peaks.
"Gray," I sigh as he lowers his head to take one nipple into the wet heat of his mouth.
"Daddy," he corrects, teeth grazing the sensitive bud.
"Daddy," I whisper, the name no longer feeling strange on my tongue. Instead, it feels right—a surrender that brings freedom rather than confinement.
He growls his approval, hands moving to my hips to lift me slightly as he works his jeans open one-handed. His cock springs free, already hard and ready. I've learned his body this week, learned how quickly he responds to my surrender, how insatiable his appetite for me is.
"Want to feel you," he says, positioning me over him. "Want to be inside you. Where I belong."
I sink down onto him slowly, taking my time, savoring the delicious stretch as he fills me completely. His hands guide my hips, setting a languid pace that's different from our usual frantic coupling.
"That's it," he praises as I rock against him. "Taking Daddy so well."
The firelight plays across our joined bodies as I move on top of him, his hands alternately guiding and caressing. This doesn't feel like the claiming of the past week. This feels like...making love.
"So beautiful," he murmurs, one hand coming up to cup my face. "Riding Daddy's cock like you were made for it."
I lean into his touch, eyes fluttering closed as pleasure builds slow and steady at the base of my spine. "Please," I whisper, though I'm not sure what I'm begging for.
Gray knows. Gray always knows what I need.
"I've got you, baby girl." His hips thrust up to meet mine, hitting a spot deep inside that makes me gasp. "Daddy's going to take such good care of you."
His thumb finds my clit, circling with just the right pressure as I continue to ride him. My rhythm falters as tension builds, my movements becoming erratic.
"Look at me," he commands softly. I open my eyes to find his gaze locked on mine, raw and open in a way I haven't seen before. "Want to see your face when I knock you up."
The filthy words contrast with the tenderness of his touch, the gentleness of our pace. My inner walls clench around him at the thought—him filling me with his seed, making me swell with his child.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he continues, voice hypnotic. "Me breeding you right here by the fire. Filling you with my baby."
"Yes," I admit on a broken moan, the fantasy pushing me closer to the edge. "Please, Daddy."
His movements become more deliberate, deeper, his cock hitting that perfect spot with every thrust. "Going to keep you so full," he promises. "Keep you dripping with me. Make sure it takes."
The combination of his words, his touch on my clit, and the fullness of him inside me sends me spiraling into orgasm. I cry out his name—his real name, not the title he prefers—as waves of pleasure crash over me.
Gray follows immediately, his release triggering when my body tightens around him. He holds my hips flush against his, ensuring he's buried as deep as possible as he empties himself inside me.
"Beck," he groans—the first time he's used my name during sex instead of "baby girl." The sound of it on his lips as he comes undoes me all over again.
We stay joined as our breathing slows, my forehead resting against his, his arms wrapped securely around my back. The fire crackles beside us, rain continues to drum against the windows, and I feel...safe. Cherished.
"Thank you," I whisper, not sure if I'm thanking him for the orgasm or for listening to my story. For seeing me.
He strokes my back, pressing a kiss to my temple. "You never have to be alone again."
And as I curl against his chest, his seed warm inside me, I realize with startling clarity that I don't want to be.