Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Grace
I'm still shaking when I pull into the circular driveway in front of the main house.
My hands grip the steering wheel so hard my knuckles are white, and I have to force myself to breathe.
In through my nose, out through my mouth.
Like I'm calming a spooked horse instead of my own racing heart.
Meet me tonight. Midnight. The north pasture gate.
Shadow's voice echoes in my head, low and rough and absolutely certain.
Like he already knows I'm going to say yes.
Like the decision was made the moment he stepped close to me in that barn.
Maybe it was.
I should go back inside.
Should have dessert with my family, help clean up, and act normal.
But my legs feel like jelly, and I'm pretty sure everyone will take one look at my face and know exactly what happened in that barn.
Dakota's going to ask questions. Mom's going to make comments. And if Dad notices...
No. I can't think about that right now.
I put the truck in drive and pull away from the house before anyone can come looking for me.
The gravel crunches under my tires, and I take the long way around the property toward my cabin, giving myself time to think.
Except I can't think.
All I can do is feel.
Shadow's breath against my ear.
His voice promising things that should terrify me but don't.
The way he looked at me like I was something precious and dangerous all at once.
If you show up, there's no going back. You're mine after that. Completely.
The words send heat spiraling through my belly, settling low and insistent between my thighs.
I'm in so much trouble.
My cabin sits at the edge of the property, tucked into a grove of live oaks that provide shade in the brutal Texas summers.
It's small—just under a thousand square feet—but it's mine.
Dad built it for me when I graduated vet school, said every woman needs her own space.
I think he just wanted me close to the ranch but not underfoot in the main house.
It works for me.
The exterior is rough-hewn logs, weathered to a silvery gray, with a metal roof that pings when it rains.
A small covered porch runs the length of the front, with two rocking chairs I never use and a porch swing that creaks in the wind.
Inside, it's all open concept—living room flowing into kitchen, with a loft bedroom upstairs, and two other bedrooms on the main floor, and two bathrooms.
I pull up next to my clinic truck and kill the engine, but I don't get out right away.
The clock on the dashboard reads a little after eight-thirty.
Three hours and thirty minutes until midnight.
He said if I didn’t show up, he’d know I wasn’t ready.
And the terrifying truth is... I think I'm ready.
I finally climb out of the truck and head up the porch steps.
The wood creaks under my boots—a familiar, comforting sound.
Before I can get my key in the lock, I hear the scrabbling of claws on the other side of the door and a sharp, excited bark.
Charlie.
I push inside and immediately drop to my knees as my red heeler limps toward me, her tail wagging so hard her whole back end wiggles.
She's wearing a cone—the plastic kind that makes her look ridiculous—and there's still some swelling around her back leg where the vet sutured her up after ACL surgery two weeks ago.
"Hey, girl," I murmur, running my hands over her head and shoulders, careful not to jostle her. "How you feeling?"
She licks my face in response, whining softly.
Charlie's been my shadow for five years—riding shotgun in my vet truck, sleeping at the foot of my bed, following me from room to room like she's afraid I'll disappear if she takes her eyes off me.
The surgery hit her hard.
She hates being stuck inside, hates the cone, hates not being able to jump and run like she used to.
I know the feeling.
"I know, baby. Just a few more weeks and you'll be good as new." I press a kiss to the top of her head and stand, moving into the kitchen.
The cabin smells like cedar and the lavender candle I burned this morning.
Everything is exactly how I left it—coffee mug in the sink, vet journals spread across the kitchen table, and my boots kicked off by the door.
Normal. Safe.
Except nothing feels normal anymore.
I feed Charlie her dinner—prescription kibble the surgeon recommended—and watch her eat from her bowl, the cone bumping against the side.
She's on restricted movement for another month, which means no vet calls, no following me around the ranch, just rest and short, supervised walks.
It's killing her.
I know that feeling too.
While she eats, I move through the cabin on autopilot.
Lock the door. Close the curtains. Turn on the lamp in the living room.
The couch is covered in a Navajo-print blanket, and there's a stack of vet textbooks on the coffee table I keep meaning to put away.
My riding boots are by the door, and my work bag is hanging on a hook.
Evidence of a life that's suddenly feeling too small.
I head upstairs to the loft, my footsteps heavy on the wooden stairs.
The bedroom is small—just enough room for a queen bed, a dresser, and a chair in the corner where I toss my laundry.
The ceiling slopes with the roofline, and there's one window that looks out over the pasture.
I stand there for a moment, staring out at the darkness.
Somewhere out there, Shadow is waiting.
Has he already left for the north pasture?
Is he sitting on his bike, checking the time, wondering if I'll show?
My stomach flips.
I need to clear my mind, and there’s only one way I can think of doing that.
A shower.
The bathroom is tiny—barely enough room for a shower stall, toilet, and sink—but the water pressure is good and the hot water tank is new.
I strip off my clothes, catching sight of myself in the mirror above the sink.
I look...flushed.
Wild-eyed.
My hair is a mess from where Shadow's fingers tangled in it—wait, no.
He didn't touch my hair. But he wanted to. I could see it in his eyes.
The memory makes heat pool low in my belly.
I step into the shower and let the hot water beat down on my shoulders, trying to clear my head.
But all I can think about is Shadow.
The way he looked at me in that barn.
The way his voice dropped an octave when he said darlin'.
The way he stepped close enough that I could smell leather, cigars, and something distinctly him.
I've been attracted to him for months. Maybe longer. Maybe since...
No. I'm not going there.
Except I am.
Because standing here under the spray of water, I can't help but remember the night everything changed.
Years ago.
When I was eighteen and stupid and my father made a deal that nearly destroyed me.
I don't think about the assault.
I've learned not to let my mind go there, not to relive those moments in Bronco's hands.
Therapy helped. Time helped. But some things you never fully forget.
What I do remember is after.
Shadow finding me upstairs.
His voice, so gentle when he asked if I was okay.
The way he looked at me—not with pity, but with fury on my behalf.
Like he wanted to kill Bronco all over again just for touching me.
He gave me his word that night. Promised to watch over me.
And he has.
For years, Shadow has been there.
Not hovering, not smothering, but always present.
Making sure I'm safe.
Scaring off men who get too close.
Keeping the promise he made to my brother before Shiver left.
A promise Shiver told me about years later—that Shadow vowed to protect me.
I've trusted him with the worst thing that ever happened to me.
Why am I so afraid to trust him with this?
I shut off the water and step out, wrapping myself in a towel.
My reflection stares back at me in the foggy mirror—twenty-six years old, and I've barely let anyone touch me since Bronco.
There were a few attempts.
A guy I met at a vet conference who seemed nice until he put his hand on my thigh and I panicked.
A rancher's son who asked me out three times before I finally said yes, then couldn't go through with a goodnight kiss.
I've been broken for so long I forgot what it feels like to want someone.
But I want Shadow.
God help me, I want him so badly it scares me.
I dry off and pad back into the bedroom, my skin still damp and warm.
Charlie has managed to climb the stairs—she's not supposed to, but she's stubborn—and is curled up on the rug beside my bed, watching me with those intelligent brown eyes.
"What do you think, girl?" I ask her. "Am I crazy?"
She thumps her tail once against the floor.
I'll take that as a yes.
I open my dresser and stare at the contents. Practical cotton underwear. Sports bras. Nothing remotely sexy.
Except...
I reach into the back of the drawer and pull out a set I bought months ago on a whim.
Sage green lace—delicate, feminine, and completely impractical.
A matching bra and panty set that I've never worn because who was I going to wear it for?
My hands shake as I hold it up.
I bought this after a Sunday dinner where I caught Shadow watching me across the table.
His eyes had been dark and hungry, and when I excused myself to the bathroom, I'd felt the weight of his gaze follow me across the room.
I went shopping the next day.
Told myself I was being ridiculous.
Put the lingerie in my drawer and tried to forget about it.
But I didn't forget.
And now...
Now I'm going to wear it for him.
I slip on the panties first—the lace barely covers anything, riding low on my hips.
Then the bra, which pushes my breasts up and together in a way that makes me feel feminine and powerful all at once.
I look at myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back.
She looks...confident. Sexy. Ready.
Over the lingerie, I pull on my favorite jeans—the ones that hug my curves—and a simple black tank top.
My boots. A denim jacket in case it gets cold.
I look normal on the outside.
But underneath…
Underneath, I'm wearing something just for him.
The thought makes my cheeks flush.