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It takes all I have in me not to growl in frustration. I don’t fucking believe this. She’s on the run, in goddamn danger, for Christ’s sake, and she’s arguing with me.
The fact that it turns me on only pisses me off more.
“You’ll always be my problem, Dakota.” My breath comes out in a harsh exhale. “And you’re not alone. Not anymore.”
Her mouth parts, but she stays silent.
I unlock the doors and hold out my hands. “No lock and key, okay? No house arrest. You go and do what you want. And I’ll be there.”
This time, a hint of a smile plays on her face. “Like a…bodyguard?”
I raise an eyebrow. “I used to do this, you know. I’m good at it.”
She presses her lips together, looks down at her stomach. “Right. Fine.”
We exit the truck, and I come around to Dakota’s side. She stands there for a long second, dark head swiveling as she takes in the ranch, swathed in shadows. The wild howl of the winter. The sting of the winter air. And yet, all I see is her.
Fuck me.
Dakota McGraw is one beautiful woman. In the moonlight’s glow, her beauty shines. Full lips, hourglass curves that I long to run my hand over. Her long dark hair flutters in the wind like a raven’s wing. My hands clench into fists, my cock thickening at the thought of tangling my fingers in those dark locks, weaving each strand around my—
“Davis?” Dakota blinks at me. “Should we go inside?”
“Yeah.” I grab her bag. “C’mon.”
Christ, when did I lose control of my facial expressions?
Hands to yourself, Montgomery.
She’s not mine. She never has been. She’s pregnant, for Christ’s sake. Traumatized. The last thing she needs is a man. The last thing she needs is me.
Duty means keeping her safe. Discipline means keeping my fucking hands off her.
We make it halfway to the lodge when I hear footsteps.
My heart trips, and I freeze when Dakota curls a hand around my bicep.
“Davis,” she whispers, leaning into me. “Someone’s there.”
Tensing, I follow her eye line. I hear it again.
The squeak of the front porch, wooden floor boards rattling. The low shuffle of boots. I feel Dakota trembling beside me, the way her breath has picked up, the way her shoulders could meet her ears.
“Breathe, Koty,” I say, palming the small of her back, before moving in front of her.
I reach for my hip, cursing under my breath.
I left my Glock in the truck.
Already, I’m fucking up.
Bone-white moonlight dances across the lodge, and a shadowy figure descends the stairs.
I move into a fighting stance, mentally calculating how fast I can turn a duffel bag into a weapon of mass destruction, when there’s a hoot from the darkness. “Y’all make it back?”
Fucking Ford. I wonder if my idiot brother knew just how close he was to getting his head bashed in by a duffel bag.
With a ragged breath, Dakota lets loose of my arm. The loss of her contact does strange, herky-jerky things to my heart.
