20
I run. Twigs crunch. Moonlight illuminates my path. I rip open the door to the cabin. Dakota’s tied to a chair. A gag around her mouth. Her frantic eyes meet mine.
“No,” I gasp, rushing for her, only Aiden’s there, blocking my path. Knife in hand. Eerily calm. Evil.
I stand there, half-frozen, fists clenched. “Let her go.”
Aiden lifts the knife. Pain.
I look down.
Blood.
All over my stomach.
Bile rises in my throat. A coppery tang fills my nostrils.
I look back at the chair. Dakota’s gone.
“Where is she?” I scream. “Where’s my sister?”
Aiden grows. Tall. Different.
Disappears.
I glance down at my boots. Water soaks the soles. I try to run, but I’m sinking. Inch by inch. My legs don’t work. Cold. The sound of my own labored breathing. I try to scream, but my lungs won’t let me gulp air. Water, so much water.
And then a hand closes around my ankle.
From below, something—someone—slowly pulls me down.
I jolt up in bed, gasping. The scream lodged in my throat.
“Fuck me,” I murmur, squeezing my eyes shut against the image of Aiden, the pain in my leg. Sweat drips down my brow, and I shake in the cool night air.
This dream was different. Every nightmare has always been me, Dakota, and Aiden. Now, there’s someone else.
Now, it feels less like a nightmare and more like an omen.
With a groan, I lift on my elbow and check my phone. 3:02 a.m. Another Instagram message.
Stay away from the rodeo.
A soft glow illuminates the room as I stare at my screen. “Who the hell are you?”
It’s a warning. But about what? From the beginning, my accident has felt off. Something in my gut tells me it wasn’t a migraine. But then, what the hell happened?
Regret sweeps through me. Me. I’m what happened. I didn’t listen to Vic. I thought my nine lives would hold. And I fucked it all up.
“Stupid,” I mutter, wiping sweat from my brow.
The message lights a fire in me. Fuck whoever thinks they can scare me. I’m going to heal like a motherfucker. Train harder. I’ll be back. I’ll ride again.
A soft tap, a rumble at the door. “Fallon.”
I jump, dropping my phone in the twisted sheets. “Shit.”
“You okay?” Wyatt’s soft, southern drawl lights a burn in my chest.
“I’m fine,” I shout, willing my voice to be less shaky. Less weak. “Go away.”
Footsteps in the hall. Like he’s pacing.
I glare at my closed door. How is it that he’s up? Doesn’t he have better things to do than incessantly hover?
Wyatt’s here to take care of you. Let him. My sister’s words as she left me today ring in my ears.
I don’t want him to take care of me. He’s done enough already.
I should be planning my next ride, training with Vic. Not fighting an endless struggle to put my pants on or walk up the stairs.
My muscles tremble as I lower myself back down into bed. My leg is smooth butane flame. The pain is unreal.
Breathe, breathe.
My fingers drift up the hem of my tank top, playing over the scar winding over my ribs and stomach. It’s still raised, still rough. Maybe it will never fade. But it will always be a reminder I survived.
But what? Not that night, and especially not myself. Not the way I still have nightmares. Not the way I still think of Aiden. The way I was so weak. The way I let everyone down.
Scar. Everything about me is a scar. Even my heart.
If I can survive Aiden, I can survive anything. I can get back on a horse, back to myself.
My hand drifts lower on its own hunt for relief.
Wyatt. Moody. Sexy. Irritating.
Future ex-husband.
Divorce. He wants it as much as I do, right?
He has to. I don’t deserve him. Especially after Aiden.
There’s no way around it. I mean, sure we have sparks between us.
The kind that detonates. Divorce is the only way this ends.
Even if the thought of him getting married in the future sinks heavy in my gut like a stone.
We’re like the sunset and a cowboy. We’re not meant to last.
Through the window, white moonlight glances off the metal legs of my walker.
I turn my face away, wanting to forget.
My hand slips under the waist of my underwear. Between my legs.
If Wyatt wants to be useful, he can be useful here.
My eyes flutter shut as my fingers find that delicate bundle of nerves and circle slowly.
Wyatt. The only man who’s ever fucked me like I needed him to. Fast. Hard. Ruthless.
“Oh god,” I rasp, my fingers picking up speed.
Wyatt. His dirty T-shirt. I’d like to smell it, maybe put it in my mouth. Bite down. Suck the sweat out of it and—
Fuck me.
I moan, my back arching as blood starts to roar in my ears.
Hard this time, I plunge my fingers into myself. Pleasure builds in my center, my spine. Warm heat.
“Fuck,” I breathe, and with one more stroke of my clit, I come.
WyattWyattWyatt
The release is so intense that I slap a hand over my mouth, gasping my scream into my palm. I ride that wave, throbbing down below. Feeling myself, feeling my wetness drench my fingers, my hand.
Heart racing, I collapse back against the sweaty sheets. “Fuck.”
A calm, sure and steady, overtakes me. The pain in my leg, the texts, the nightmare—gone. It’s what Wyatt does to me. He makes me strong. Makes me feel safe.
And he can never know what he means to me.
The crack of a door. A big warm hand settles on my thigh. “Up.”
“Ugh,” I groan.
Reality comes smashing back. Resurrection. Busted body. Arrogant, annoying cowboy living with me. Got it.
“It’s called knocking.”
“It’s called it’s almost ten.”
I toss an arm over my face as the blinds clatter. Warm sunlight falls across my face. “Is there an option for like not…existing for the day?”
“Nope.” Another squeeze on my thigh. “Up, Trouble.”
I cut him a glare. “I am not the bigger person, Wyatt. You better leave me the fuck alone.”
Wyatt moves across the room, setting my walker, and a change of clothes, closer to the bed. My stomach dips at the gesture. How he’s helping me in his own way, despite me being a stubborn asshole.
“Get up, come have breakfast,” he says, and then he’s gone.
Sighing, I throw back the covers and sit up. I stretch my legs, my hips. Pain lingers in my bones. So does the nightmare.
Gripping the bar of my walker, I pull myself to standing. For over ten minutes, I wage a private and fevered battleto get dressed.
Fuck riding a bull. Simply trying to stick my leg into a pair of loose cotton pants is one of the most difficult physical acts I’ve ever performed.
I can’t do it. I let the pants fall to the ground and stand over them breathing hard.
A basic fucking task. I can’t even do that.
I hate this.
I dig my nails into my bicep and fight the urge to cry.
Breathe. Pull your shit together. Pull it, rope it, bury it deep.
“Fuck it.”
Finally, I give up, tossing a long silky robe over my tank top and underwear. Finding no belt, I leave it untied. It’ll have to do. Wyatt’s seen me in worse.
Hands on my walker, I squeak down the hallway and into the kitchen. My mouth goes dry when I spy Wyatt at the stove flipping bacon.
He’s in blue jeans. No shirt. Tan chest, toned stomach. The man’s pure muscle. All cowboy. So damn beautiful.
The first time I saw Wyatt in person, I couldn’t stop staring.
He was the cowboy on all those posters I squirreled away.
Everything a man represented to me. Masculinity, confidence.
He was swagger and charm and strength. I drank it in, got close to him, because I wanted a piece of him.
A piece of the man I knew would be my equal.
Whether sparring in the ring or real life, he always lit a fire in my blood and kept it stoked.
I watch him a second longer. He moves easily around the kitchen, and for a moment, I hate his long legs, his muscular thighs, his powerful body that works.
“Mornin’,” Wyatt drawls, turning. Seeing me, his gaze travels from my face to my bare legs. A grin tugs at his lips, his blue eyes so bright in the morning sun. “No pants?”
I hiss at him.
He wiggles his brows. “Must be a benefit of marriage.”
I wag a finger at him. “No benefits.” That’s what got us into this mess in the first place.
“How’d you sleep?” he asks as I hobble my way to the counter and watch him prep breakfast.
“Like a baby.” I examine the stack of mail on the counter. Bills and cards and letters of sympathy. Real world shit I’m not ready to deal with yet.
He snorts. “Bullshit. You had a nightmare.”
“And how do you know that?” I fling back.
He flips a piece of bacon and says casually, “Well, you were screaming and moanin’ because of something.”
My brain flatlines. I avoid eye contact. Like he knows what I did last night. I tell myself he’s just a placeholder for blowing off steam. Anyone will do.
He adds lowly, “Was it about Aiden?”
I blink. “When did I tell you that?”
“In the hospital,” he says, an edge creeping into his voice. “You told me you don’t sleep.”
The heart in my chest tenses. Not ready, never ready, to talk about that asshole. Especially not with Wyatt. Being weak, admitting how I fucked up, is too painful. Too real.
And we don’t do real. We can’t.
I lift a shoulder. “Must have been the meds.”
Wyatt reins in his eyeroll. “How you feelin’?”
I palm the counter, using the leverage to hold myself up. My hip throbs. My hard, staccato breathing echoes in my ears. “I feel old,” I admit. “Old and mangled. I hate it.”
The spatula dips in his hand. “You ain’t, though.”
I don’t look at his face, not wanting to see the sympathy there. Instead, I scan my kitchen. The window that overlooks the backyard. Cheery sage-green cabinets. Wood shelves stacked with little ceramic mugs I picked up at thrift stores.
My attention snags on a bouquet of red roses. “You shouldn’t have.”
Wyatt’s blue eyes flick to me. “I didn’t.” His square jaw works. “Secret admirer. Left this on the porch.” He tosses a card my way.
Brows rising, I slide a finger under the flap and open it.
Get better soon.
Great. Cryptic Instagram messages, now flowers. Two for two for annoying creeps.