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Eryn
Steam clung to my skin as I stepped out of the shower, the crisp scent of eucalyptus oil still lingering in the air. A towel wrapped snugly around me, I padded across the cold tiles with a bounce in my step, excitement bubbling up inside me like champagne fizz. Tonight Bella Blue would bring a new life into this world, and I couldn't wait to witness it.
I stood in front of the foggy mirror, swiping a clear path with my palm. My reflection grinned back at me, eyes alight with anticipation. Witnessing the birth of a foal wasn't something you saw every day, especially not for a city girl turned country by a twist of fate—and one seriously hot cowboy with blue eyes and a dirty mouth.
I twisted my damp brown hair into a loose bun. This wasn't just any birth; it was Bella Blue's. The mare was special—I could see that on my own—but knowing how special she was to Gray, seeing how gentle and loving he was with her, well, it made my feelings for him and for the ranch even stronger.
The miracle of birth—that raw, pure moment of life coming forth—felt sacred, and I was about to be part of it.
Peppered with thoughts of soft nuzzles and tiny hooves finding their strength, I turned to the neat stack of clothes I’d placed on the counter and slipped into my favorite pair of worn jeans and a cozy sweatshirt. The Montana nights were cool in the summer, and I didn’t know how long we’d be out there in the stables.
After a quick brush of my teeth and a slather moisturizer on my face, I slipped on my new boots and pushed open the door without a second thought, but Gray’s bedroom, normally warm and welcoming, echoed with a silence that prickled at my skin, a prelude to unease.
I felt him before I saw him.
Mitch Nelson. Not outside barking orders or offering a weathered smile to anyone passing by, but here, inside, perched against the wall of Gray’s room like a vulture cloaked in denim and deceit.
“Wha—“ My voice was a strangled gasp, a sound alien and jagged in the stillness of the room. “What are you doing here?”
His eyes, those eyes I'd mistaken for kind, now bore into me with a chilling focus, stripping away any pretense of safety. The air grew thick, heavy with danger, and I could feel it—a scream clawing its way up from the depths of my throat, shattering the fragile peace as it burst free, raw and piercing.
“Mitch!” The name was both an accusation and a plea, a desperate attempt to reconcile the image before me with the man I thought I knew. But the Mitch I knew wouldn't lurk in shadows waiting, watching, with intentions as unreadable as the lines etched deep into his leathery face.
“Gray?!” I called out, a thread of hope woven through the tremor of fear, but the house remained silent, betraying me with its indifference. No footsteps rushed to my aid, no comforting presence to chase away the nightmare that unfolded in slow motion.
“Shhh, Eryn. He’s not here. No one is.” His voice was a serpent's hiss, and I recoiled, backed against the wall, my heart thundering against my chest—a trapped bird frantic to escape its cage.
“Get away from me.” The words were a whisper, a flame flickering in the dark, refusing to be extinguished.
My breath hitched, a cold sweat breaking across my brow, as Mitch came closer. Instinct took over, my body coiling tight and ready to spring. I had to get out. Away from whatever it was he wanted with me.
He took yet another step closer, his boots thudding ominously against the hardwood floor. That was all the cue I needed. With a burst of adrenaline, I darted towards the door, trying to slip past him, desperate to reach the safety of the open spaces beyond Gray's bedroom walls.
But he was quicker than I gave him credit for, an old coyote with tricks up his sleeve. His hand shot out, grabbing my arm with an iron grip that belied his age, pulling me back against him. Panic flared, igniting my resolve. I wouldn't go down without a fight.
“Let me go!” I snapped, twisting in his grasp, kicking at his shins. My yoga-honed muscles were strong, but Mitch was all wiry strength and raw power. His fingers dug into my flesh, each attempt to break free only tightening his hold.
“Easy there, little filly,” he taunted, a wicked spark in his eyes. “You're not getting away that easy.”
I pulled at his tie, yanking it down hard, hoping to throw him off balance. We stumbled, a clumsy dance of predator and prey. My other hand clawed at his collar, fabric tearing beneath my frantic fingers. This close, I could see the years of sun etched into his skin, but there was nothing warm about him now.
“Stop fighting, Eryn.” He growled the command, but I heard the strain behind it. I had to keep struggling, keep moving—anything to escape this nightmare.
“Never,” I spat back with venom, twisting violently, trying to use his momentum against him. My heart hammered a staccato rhythm, the only soundtrack to our struggle. Every move was instinct, every thought focused on survival.
Mitch grunted, a sound of frustration as he fought to contain my thrashing limbs. But I wouldn't relent. I couldn't. The knowledge that freedom was just beyond that door fueled my determination. I was a wildfire, burning bright and fierce, refusing to be snuffed out by the likes of him.
“Gray!” I screamed again, voice raw, even as I knew the futility of the call. If he was at the stables, there was no way he’d hear me.
This was between Mitch and me—a showdown I never anticipated in this sleepy town where the biggest excitement was the annual rodeo.
“Quiet!” Mitch's voice was a whip-crack, but I was past fear, past reason. There was only the fight, the will to survive. And I would survive. For myself. For Gray. For the love that had just begun to bloom in the most unexpected of places.
“Get off me!” I cried out, putting every ounce of defiance I possessed into my words, into my actions. This wasn't how my story would end—not here, not now.
But Mitch's hands were like iron clamps, his weathered face twisted into a mask of determination that mirrored my own. I just didn’t know why.
“Enough!” His voice was the growl of a beast as he wrestled with me, overpowering my spirited but ultimately futile attempts at defiance. My fingers clawed at his shirt collar, frantically pulling at his tie in desperation.
