Total pages in book: 43
Estimated words: 43512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 43512 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 218(@200wpm)___ 174(@250wpm)___ 145(@300wpm)
And then I hear it.
Boots on grass behind me.
Slow. Deliberate. Too close.
My body goes cold.
I turn.
Kyle Stroud stands a few feet away like he owns the air between us.
He’s dressed perfect—clean jeans, crisp button-down, hat angled just so. He looks like a man who’s never had to sweat for anything in his life. His smile is the same one he wore in high school when he’d lean close and whisper something nasty just to see if I’d flinch.
I don’t.
“Kyle,” I say flatly. “Leave.”
He tilts his head, amused. “That’s no way to talk to an old friend.”
“We’re not friends.”
His eyes slide over me like I’m inventory. “You always did confuse tension with dislike.”
I glance around, quick. The cart kid watches, worried. There are people in the distance, but not close enough. Not paying attention.
I raise my walkie. “Nash—”
Kyle moves.
Fast.
He grabs my wrist and yanks the walkie out of my hand so hard it skids across the ground.
My breath punches out. “Don’t touch me,” I snap, jerking back.
He keeps hold. His grip is bruising. His smile doesn’t change. “Relax,” he says, like I’m the unreasonable one. “We’re just talking.”
“We have nothing to talk about.”
“We do.” His voice lowers. “You’ve been making my family’s life difficult.”
My skin prickles. “Your family’s life isn’t my problem.”
Kyle takes a step closer, backing me toward the fence post. “It is when you sit on land we need.”
“You don’t need it. You want it.”
He leans in, eyes hard now, the charm dropping away. “Want. Need. Same thing when you have the money to make it happen.”
My heart starts pounding so hard I can hear it. “Let go,” I say through my teeth. “Right now.”
Kyle’s gaze flicks over my shoulder toward the festival. “Where’s your soldier boyfriend?” he asks softly. “Did you leave him to play hero?”
I don’t answer.
I won’t give him the satisfaction.
His grip tightens. “He’s inconvenient.”
My breath turns sharp. “If you’re behind what’s been happening to the ranch—”
Kyle laughs under his breath. “Oh, sweetheart.” He shakes his head. “You really think you’re the center of that story? You think a little cut fence line is about cows?”
His eyes gleam. “It’s about leverage.”
A cold, sick understanding crawls up my spine.
Me.
I pull hard, trying to wrench free.
Kyle’s hand snaps up to clamp around the back of my neck—controlling, possessive. “Stop fighting,” he hisses, the first crack in his smooth mask. “I’m not leaving without you.”
My stomach drops through the ground.
I twist, aiming my knee up the way Daddy taught me when I was fifteen and a boy in town wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Kyle anticipates it. He shoves me back, hard, and I hit the fence post with a sharp jolt that lights pain down my shoulder.
The cart kid gasps.
“Hey!” the kid blurts. “Sir—”
Kyle’s head snaps toward him. The kid freezes.
Kyle doesn’t even raise his voice. “Go sell your corn dogs,” he says, calm and terrifying. “Unless you want your mama crying tonight.”
The kid turns white. He stumbles backward, glancing once at me like he wants to help, then bolts toward the festival.
“No!” I shout after him. “Get Nash!”
Kyle clamps a hand over my mouth. The world shrinks to his palm, the taste of his skin and my own panic.
I bite him—hard.
He snarls and jerks his hand back, swearing under his breath, blood glistening on his knuckle. “You little—” His eyes go feral. He reaches into his pocket.
My body goes rigid.
Whatever he’s holding, I don’t wait to find out.
I shove him with everything I have and sprint along the fence line toward the open pasture, lungs burning, boots thudding, hair whipping my face.
I’m fast.
But fear makes men faster.
Kyle grabs a fistful of my shirt from behind, yanking me back so hard my feet leave the ground for a second. I stumble, catch myself, and swing my elbow—wild.
He catches me around the waist and drags me, my boots scraping furrows in the grass.
I scream.
The sound rips out of me, raw and loud.
Kyle’s arm tightens, crushing. “Shut up!” he growls into my ear. “You’re going to make this harder than it needs to be!”
I thrash, clawing at his arm, trying to break the hold, trying to breathe. My vision blurs at the edges.
Then I see it.
A pickup truck—idling near the tree line where the pasture dips. Dark paint. Tinted windows. Parked like it’s been waiting.
My blood turns to ice.
Kyle hauls me toward it, feet barely touching the ground as he half-carries, half-drags me across the grass.
I twist and slam my heel down on his boot.
He curses and stumbles. For half a second, his grip loosens.
I wrench free, spinning, and I run again—straight toward the festival, toward the sound of music and people and Nash.
I make it three steps.
A second figure appears from the truck.
Big. Broad. Face hidden under a cap.
He intercepts me like a wall, grabbing my arms.
I kick. I bite. I fight like an animal.