Chapter 30
Her words cut sharper than I want to admit. That’s not an answer. That’s a cage.
I see the fire in her eyes, the ways she squares even though her hands are trembling in her lap. She’s scared, but she’s still standing her ground. Christ, she doesn’t even know what that does to me.
I drag in a breath, steadying myself before I do something I’ll regret, before I snap and shut her down the way I do everyone else. She’s not everyone else. She’s her. The woman I’m obsessed with. That I’ve been obsessed with since I saw her small and vulnerable in my father’s penthouse in L.A.
“Peyton,” I say, softer this time, her name like a rope keeping me tethered. I reach down, my thumb brushing over the inside of her wrist where her pulse is rabbiting. “I’m not trying to cage you. I’m trying to keep you safe.”
Her chin wobbles a fraction, so small most people would miss it. Not me. I notice everything about her.
“You keep saying that,” she whispers, her voice rough around the edges. “But you don’t tell me from what.”
I close my eyes for a second, weighing the truth against the ruin it would cause. If she knew, if she really knew, she’d either run from me or get dragged so deep she’d never climb back out. Neither’s an option I can live with.
So, I skirt the line, the way I always do.
“There are people in this word who would use you to hurt me,” I tell her, opening my eyes again. My gaze locks on hers, steady, deliberate. “People who don’t give a dam about the cost. That’s all you need to know.”
She exhales, shaky, like she wants to argue but doesn’t have the words. I lean closer, pressing my forehead to hers, needing her to feel the truth I can’t say out loud.
“I can’t lose you, Peyton,” I murmur. My hand slides up, cupping the back of her neck, holding her like she’s the only thing keeping me alive. “So yeah, maybe it feels like a cage sometimes. But it’s the only way I know to keep you breathing.”
Her eyes flick up to mine, glassy but burning, and for once she doesn’t push. She doesn’t fight. She leans into me, her body softening in a way that tells me she’s letting go, even if just for now.
I press a kiss to her temple, lingering there, breathing her in. My grip tightens when her hand finally curls into my shirt.
And just like that, the storm in me calms. Because if she’s here, in my arms, it means I’m winning. At least for today.
I don’t let go of her right away. Hell, I don’t want to ever let go.
She fits against me like she was made to be there, soft and warm and breathing steady now that the fight’s drained out of her.
But I can feel the clock ticking, obligations clawing at the back of my mind, the world outside this house pressing to get in.
She doesn’t belong in this world. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
I ease back enough to look at her, brushing my thumb across her jaw.
Her eyes flick up to mine, still searching, still wanting answers I’m not ready to give.
God, she deserves better than riddles and half-truths.
But if giving her the truth means losing her, then she’ll get what I can give and nothing more.
“Go get your shoes,” I murmur, softer than I mean to. “I’m taking you back.”
Her brows pull together, confusion and a flicker of hurt crossing her face before she masks it. I feel it anyway. I always do.
Back at Broken Ridge, where I know John and the rest will circle around her, to keep her within their reach. Within my reach.
Peyton doesn’t argue, though. She nods once and slips away to gather herself, leaving me in the kitchen with a silence that suddenly feels heavier without her in it.
The drive is quiet. She stares out the window, the morning light painting her profile in gold, and I can’t stop looking. Can’t stop remembering her in my bed, my hands on her skin, her voice breaking on my name like it was the only prayer she knew.
And now she sits here like none of it happened. Like she hasn’t completely fucked me up in less than twenty-four hours.
I grip the wheel tighter, knuckles straining, because if I reach for her now, I’ll pull her into my lap and never let her go. I’ll cage her like she accused me of. And she’ll be right.
So I keep my distance. For now.
When the truth crunches over the gravel leading up to Broken Ridge, she finally speaks. “You don’t have to walk me in.”
Her voice is steady, but I catch the little shake in it. The one that tells me she’s lying. She wants me to follow, to press my hand against her back and claim her in front of everyone. To make it clear she is mine.
But she also doesn’t because, to Peyton, admitting she needs someone makes her feel weak. Vulnerable. Two things that she has learned in life to never be. She will learn that I’ll be there to support her when she is. That I won’t take advantage of her or tear her down.
I kill the engine, leaning back in my seat. For a second, I simply stare at her, committing every detail to memory—the way the sundress clings to her, how the sunlight catches her hair, the stubborn tilt of her chin.
“Okay,” I agree after a moment. “But You’ll see me later. Pack a bag.” Not a question. Not a choice.
Her eyes snap to mine, sharp and wary. “You mean you’ll pick me up.”
“Yeah.” My mouth curves, but it isn’t a smile. It’s a warning. “I’ll pick you up.”
She exhales, something between frustration and acceptance, and pushes the door open. Gravel crunches under her bare feet as she slips out, the hem of her dress swaying against her porn worthy legs. She doesn’t look back as she makes her way to the porch.
But I don’t drive off. Not until she disappears inside. Not until I’m sure the door has closed behind her and she’s out of sight.
Even then, I don’t leave right away. I sit there, engine off, hands tight on the wheel, fighting the urge to storm after her and drag her back into the truck.
Because she’s mine. And I’m not done with her. Not by a long shot.
After several moments, I finally start the engine back up and peel away from Broken Ridge, gravel spitting out behind the tires, the ranch house shrinking in the rearview.
My jaw aches from how tight I’ve been clenching it, but it’s the only thing keeping me from turning back, from kicking down the damn door and taking her with me.
Later. I promised. And I meant it.
The road stretches out in front of me, long and empty, the kind that makes a man think too much.
But I’ve got no room for pondering about my place in the universe, because the road I’m heading down now that Peyton isn’t in the truck is a dark one.
Anger still simmers in my veins from last night.
It’s been riding me ever since I saw her bruises, ever since I smelled the fear on her like smoke.
I reach the outskirts on the other side of Crimson Ridge, then beyond, where the buildings start to rot and the air feels heavier. I pull the truck into a cracked asphalt lot pitted with weeds. At the far end, tucked behind a row of shipping containers, sits the warehouse.
Unmarked. Ordinary. But ours.
I kill the headlights as I roll closer, the corrugates steel walls catching the late morning light. By the time I park and get out, one of my men is already stepping out of the shadows, a phone in his hand. He doesn’t speak, just gives me a nod and pulls the side door open.
The stench hits first—sweat, piss, coppery blood. It’s a stink that sticks to the back of your throat.
Inside, the air is dim, thick with silence except for the occasional groan. The sound echoes through the empty rafters until it finds me.
And there he is.
The bastard is strung up in the center of the room, arms stretched above his head, wrists bound in chain that creaks every time he moves. His shirt is torn open, chest mottled with bruises that didn’t come from me, yet. One eye’s swollen shut, blood crusted along his cheekbone.
But he’s still breathing. Still conscious. Good.
I shrug off my jacket, rolling my sleeves as I step closer. Each footfall echoes, deliberate, steady. He lifts his head, tries to focus on me through the mess of his face.
“Why her?” My voice is steady, measured. “You could’ve gone after anyone. Why Peyton?”
His lip curls, teeth red with blood. He doesn’t answer.
I tilt my head, studying him like he’s an animal I haven’t decided whether to put down. “This isn’t a trick question. You talk, this ends quicker. You stay quiet, and I’ll peel the truth out of you piece by piece.”
Still nothing. His chest heaves once, twice, and then he spits. Blood hits my boot.
For a moment, the silence stretches. Then I smile, slow and dangerous, and pull the hunting knife from my belt. The blade catches the dim light, flashing sharp as a promise.
I press the edge against his ribs hard enough for the steel to bite into skin. “Last chance.”
He laughs, a hoarse, broken sound. “Fuck you.”
The knife sinks in before he finishes the last word. Not deep but it’s enough to make him howl, to make the chains rattle above his head. I twist it once, slow, and lean close to his ear.
“I can do this all night. Hell, I will if you make me. But you’ll talk, one way or another. They always do.”
When I pull the blade free, his blood runs hot over my hand. His jaw clenches against another scream, but I can see the first crack forming in his resolve.
“Now,” I say, calm as ever, wiping the blade on his torn shirt. “Tell me who sent you after her.”