Chapter 15BOONE
BOONE
Lark’s room is softer than I expected. Muted blues and creams, warm lighting from the bedside lamp casting a golden glow over everything.
There’s a stack of books on her nightstand, a sweater tossed over the back of a chair in the corner, and a half-empty glass of water sitting next to a framed photo I can’t make out from here.
The sheets are tangled around us, her body still warm and soft. She’s pressed against my side, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders and onto my chest.
Her voice cuts through my thoughts. “What are these?”
She flips my forearm, tracing a finger over the tattoos there.
I glance down, watching her touch me, feeling it everywhere, even in places she isn’t touching.
She looks up, waiting, her blue eyes still heavy-lidded from exhaustion or sex or maybe both.
“Constellations,” I murmur. “For my siblings. I wanted to get something for them while I was gone.”
Her brows lift slightly, interest sparking in her gaze. “Really?”
I nod, shifting us so I can point to the first one, a simple set of stars inked in black just below my elbow. “This one’s for Wren. Virgo.”
Lark frowns slightly. “But there’s only one more. ”
I drag my fingers down her spine before answering. “That’s for Ridge and Sage. Cancer.”
Her forehead creases. “Wait—both of them?”
“They’re only a year and a day apart,” I explain. “Same sign.”
Her mouth softens, eyes flicking back to the ink on my skin. “I knew they were close in age, but I didn’t remember them being that close. I thought there were at least a couple years between them.” She pauses, considering, then snorts softly. “Poor Molly. Two babies so close together.”
A chuckle rumbles in my chest. “And born in July in Montana. A different kind of torture. She always said she barely had any time to heal before she was pushing another Wilding out into the world.”
Lark lets out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “That sounds about right.” She grins, sliding her fingers over my arm again, tracing the lines of ink. “So, you’re into astrology now?”
I glance down at my forearm, flexing my fingers slightly. “No. I don’t know much about constellations or star signs or any of that shit,” I admit. “I saw them in a tattoo shop when I was overseas and figured, why not?”
Lark nods, her touch lingering. I watch her for a second, the way she seems to be studying me, committing the ink to memory like it means something to her, too.
I clear my throat. “I should probably get something for Hudson at some point.”
Her gaze flicks up to mine, something soft passing over her features. “He’d think that’s pretty cool.”
Then she scrunches her brows, her fingers drifting to the inside of my other bicep. She’s still tracing the lines of ink when she tilts her head, studying it closer.
“What’s this one?”
A strange sensation unfurls in my chest, something sharp and vulnerable. Her touch lingers over the small design, and then her breath catches.
Her eyes widen as she looks up at me. “Are those…are those daisies ?”
I nod once, shifting beneath her, suddenly too aware of everything—her fingers on my skin, the way her lips part slightly, like she’s trying to find the right words, the way her voice has gone impossibly soft.
“For me?” she whispers.
“For who else?”
Her mouth opens, then closes again, her throat working around something unsaid. She looks back at the ink, at the tiny bouquet permanently etched into my skin, her fingers light as she traces over the petals.
Lark has always loved daisies, even when we were little. Especially the yellow ones. They grew wild all over the ranch, sprouting along the fence posts, peeking out from the tall grass, popping up in the fields where the horses grazed.
She spent hours picking them, collecting as many as her little hands could carry, until she’d drop them in a messy pile at her feet and start all over.
Eventually, my mom gave her a basket, and after that, she was never without it, dragging it behind her, filling it to the brim with little yellow flowers.
She and Sage and Wren used to make things out of them.
Flower crowns, necklaces, bracelets—whatever they could string together.
Then they’d chase me and Ridge around with them, determined to make us wear them, giggling when we groaned and let them tie daisy chains around our wrists, around the horses tails, along the porch railing.
I didn’t know it then—not really—but that time was sacred. Those long summer days, the sound of her laughter, the way she’d beam every time she looked down at the basket overflowing with yellow daisies in her arms.
As she got older, she stopped carrying the basket. Stopped picking them by the handful. But she never stopped loving them.
And somehow, without ever meaning to, I started picking them for her.
I’d be out on the ranch, checking fence lines, riding out to bring in the cattle, sweating under the Montana sun, and I’d see one—just a little yellow daisy, standing stubborn in the dirt, growing wild between the sagebrush. And I’d pick it without thinking about it. Without questioning why.
I’d tuck it into my glove, keep it safe in the pocket of my jeans, hold onto it all day just so I could give it to her later.
Sometimes, I’d find her leaning against the porch railing, talking to Sage, or in the barn, brushing out one of the horses’ manes.
I’d pass by, slip the daisy into the back pocket of her jeans, and keep walking, like it meant nothing.
Other times, I’d tuck it behind her ear, thread it into the braid she always used to wear when we were teenagers, my fingers brushing the soft skin of her neck as I worked it in.
I don’t know what she did with them after that. I never asked.
But I do know I kept picking them.
And now, years later, those same daisies are inked on my skin. Her name might not be written there, but we both know exactly who they belong to.
She tilts her head, eyes locked on mine, quiet but expectant. “Why?”
“You know why.”
She lifts her chin slightly, lips curving like she’s enjoying this. “I want to hear you say it.”
I chuckle, watching as she props her head on her hands, resting them against my chest like she’s getting comfortable.
“You’re a pain in the ass.”
She laughs, and it’s not just a sound—it’s a whole-body thing.
Her shoulders shake, her stomach tenses, her lips curve into something wide and effortless.
It’s that same laugh that used to get me in trouble, used to make me forget whatever the hell we were supposed to be doing because all I ever wanted was to be the reason she did that.
She’s still smiling when she looks at me, the kind of pretty that’s almost unfair, like she just rolled out of bed and still managed to look better than anyone else. Her hair is a mess from my hands, and her lashes—long and blonde at the tips—flutter slightly as she tilts her head.
I could live a hundred lifetimes and never get used to looking at her.
Lark lifts a hand, dragging her finger along the cleft in my chin, her touch light, teasing. Her eyes flick between mine, and then—softly, but with that same stubborn tilt to her mouth—she says, “Say it.”
A deep pull tugs at my chest.
I catch her hand before she can pull it away, pressing a kiss to the tip of her finger, then the next, and the next. Her breath hitches slightly, like she wasn’t expecting that. I keep my hold on her hand, my thumb tracing the inside of her wrist.
“I love you, Lark,” I murmur against her skin. “Always have. Even when I was too young to understand it. Even when I was too stupid to do anything about it.” I lift my gaze to hers, watching her reaction, watching the way she tries to keep it from showing too much.
Her lips part, her throat working around something unspoken. She’s letting me in, I can feel it, but there are still walls there, still pieces of her she’s not quite ready to hand over. Not yet.
I don’t push.
I just hope I can keep breaking them down.
She grins after a moment, shaking her head slightly. “That was kinda cute, Wilding.”
I snort. “Kinda?”
“Yeah.” She props her chin on my chest, watching me like she’s weighing something. “I want to get there. I…I want to be able to fully trust you again.” She pauses, drumming her fingers lightly against my chest. “I’m trying.”
My throat tightens. That’s more than what I ever thought I’d get from her.
I nod once, rubbing my hands over the soft slope of her back. “I get it.”
She lifts her gaze and I don’t wait—I grab her face and kiss her, pulling her closer. She laughs against my mouth, shaking her head slightly, but still kissing me back, her fingers sliding into my hair.
“What?” I murmur, brushing my lips over hers.
She grins, gesturing between us. “What would we say to Hudson? You know…if we were like…a thing?”
I lift a brow, fighting a smile. “A thing ?”
“Yes, a thing.”
I grin. “What kind of thing?”
“A we’re together thing.”
I drag my fingers down her spine. “A you’re my girl thing?”
Her lips twitch. “I don’t know. Am I your girl? ”
I don’t hesitate. “Always have been, baby.”
Lark laughs, shaking her head like she doesn’t quite believe me, like she’s still trying to figure out how we got here. I reach for a strand of her hair, twisting it around my finger, watching how the soft blonde curls against my bronzed skin.
The moment settles around us, quiet but heavy as I realize how much I want this. All of this.
I want to go to bed with her every night, wrapped up in sheets that smell like her, listening to her tell me about the book she’s reading or the random thoughts that pop into her head right before sleep takes her.
I want to wake up with her just as the sun rises, watch her stretch and mumble something sleepy before curling into me for just a few more minutes.