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Aiden’s voice is like a gaping black hole following me around. Growing even when I’m out of his dizzying orbit.
Gritting my teeth, I focus on the ball of my fist. The hard dig of my nails into the meat of my palm.
On a shaky breath, I take a step forward.
Just one step.
My gaze returns to the bag of flour. It would be so easy to dip my fingers in the silky texture, add a fine layer to the countertop, and whip up a batch of cinnamon rolls.
When I press my good hand on the cool marble of the countertop, I gasp. Pain zings through my broken arm. So intensified it feels like it’s the first time all over again. My ears ring.
And then I’m back in my kitchen.
Back there. With him.
My tears on the steel countertop. My screams. His threat.
He dipped low, clammy fingers on the back of my neck, his rough voice at my ear. “Remember this, Dakota. I will fuck with your life until you don’t have one.”
And then—
I blacked out.
A week later, I found out I was pregnant.
And I knew I had to get out.
Shivering, I squeeze my eyes shut and take a breath. My good hand is numb. Chills run through my body as my breath comes out in a shallow ragged pant. I feel like I’m dying in broad daylight.
“Breathe,” I hiss through my teeth.
In and out. In and out.
I turn and press my cheek against the cool kitchen wall. The sensation brings me back down to earth.
How in the hell am I going to get my life back together if I can’t even set foot in a kitchen without losing it?
Aiden broke my arm that night.
But really, he broke all of me.
I stay like that until the sensation in my good hand comes back, the tightness in my chest ebbs. Wiping my eyes, I look around the kitchen, grateful I’m still alone. Grateful Davis hasn’t picked this opportunity to ride to my rescue once again. He can’t see me like this. He’s already done enough, strong arming me into living on the ranch for God knows how long.
If Aiden came here…Davis and his family could be in danger.
The thought is too awful to comprehend, so I shake my head, clearing it.
After grabbing my parka from the front door coat rack and tossing on a mitten, I exit the lodge through the back double-glass doors.
The morning air is biting and crisp. Exactly what I need to anchor myself in the present.
I step through the light powder of fine snow on the back porch just in time to see Wyatt Montgomery tear across the pasture on a gold-colored gelding. He flashes his trademark cocky grin and tips his Stetson toward me before redirecting his attention to the cowboy in the field.
My father told me Wyatt’s been training cowboys in the off-season, including Fallon. I’m surprised she lets him, considering what he said about her. But if I know my sister, she’s planning to eat the hearts of all those who have wronged her.
Wyatt’s sharp snap of command cuts the crisp air, and the cowboys are off, running loops around the pasture. I shield my eyes from the sun, unable to hide my smile—looks like the wayward Montgomery boys have grown into successful men.
When I turn the porch corner, I gasp.
