“You are extraordinary,” he murmured, his voice soft with something that sounded dangerously close to tenderness.
“That was...” She searched for the right word. Incredible? Mind-blowing? Nothing seemed adequate.
“Not enough,” he finished, his lips brushing her forehead. “Not nearly enough.”
She turned in his arms to face him, studying his face in the dim light. His usual mask of control had slipped, leaving him open, vulnerable in a way she’d never seen before. She traced the line of his stubbled jaw with her fingertips, marveling at this man who could be so commanding in bed yet so gentle afterward.
“Owen.” She whispered his name just because she liked the way it felt on her lips.
It was so much better than Ghost, because he wasn’t a ghost. Not when he was holding her like this, warm and solid. He was the most real thing she’d ever touched.
He shuddered and squeezed his eyes closed. “I love my name on your lips.”
She made a vow right then that she would always use it from now on.
He wasn’t Ghost anymore.
She refused to let him be.
thirty-two
Sunlight slicedthrough the gap in the curtains, painting a warm stripe across Naomi’s bare shoulder. She stirred, reaching instinctively toward the other side of the bed, seeking the solid warmth of Owen’s body. Her fingers found only cool sheets and empty space. She blinked awake, the last wisps of sleep falling away as she confirmed what her hand already knew. He was gone.
Naomi pushed herself up, wincing slightly as her ribs protested the movement. The bruises had faded from deep purple to a sickly yellow-green, but they still ached when she moved too quickly. She ran a hand through her tangled hair and glanced at the bedside clock. Nearly ten. She never slept this late, even on her days off.
She stretched, cataloging the pleasant soreness in muscles that hadn’t been used in far too long. Three years, she’d told him. Three years since she’d been with anyone, and none of those encounters had come close to what she’d experienced with Owen. The memory of his hands on her skin, his voice in her ear, the way he’d taken control so completely—it sent heat curling through her belly even now.
Her fingers drifted to her throat, finding the delicate silver fox pendant he’d given her. It was warm against her skin now, almost as if it had absorbed some of her body heat through the night. One press sends a signal directly to me. No matter where you are, I’ll know you need help. I’ll be there. A promise made physical. She traced the curve of the fox’s back, the tiny gems of its eyes catching the morning light.
The thought of him planning this gift, selecting it specifically for her—it was almost too much to bear. Owen Booker didn’t do sentiment. He didn’t do vulnerability. Except last night, he had.
With a sigh, Naomi swung her legs over the side of the bed. She couldn’t lie here all day, revisiting every touch, every whispered word. He was out there somewhere on the ranch, probably throwing himself into work to avoid thinking about what they’d done. About what it meant.
She found his flannel shirt draped over the foot of the bed and pulled it on. It smelled like him—cedar and gunmetal and that indefinable scent that was uniquely Owen. It was ridiculous, wearing his clothes like some lovesick teenager, but she couldn’t help herself. It felt like armor, like protection.
In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face and assessed the damage. Her cheek still bore a faint yellow shadow where her captor had struck her, but the split in her lip had healed to a thin pink line. She looked... different. Not just because of the bruises or the shadows under her eyes. There was something else, something in her gaze that hadn’t been there before.
She wasn’t the same woman who’d walked out of this cabin days ago, determined to prove she didn’t need Owen Booker’s help or protection. That woman felt like a stranger now.
After a quick shower, she dressed in jeans and a tank top, pulling Owen’s flannel over it. All the rain last week hadknocked the colorful leaves off the trees and ushered in cooler temperatures. Before long, she’d need her winter coat.
She made her way to the kitchen, where she found a pot of coffee still warm on the hotplate.
He’d made coffee before he left. The small consideration made her throat tighten unexpectedly. She poured a cup, added a splash of creamer, and took a sip. Perfect, as always. The man couldn’t express his feelings in words, but he could brew coffee exactly the way she liked it.
Through the kitchen window, she watched as the day unfolded across the ranch. It was a beautiful Montana morning, the sky an endless blue vault overhead, the mountains rising purple and majestic in the distance. Workers moved between buildings, attending to their chores. Dogs raced across the yard, playing some canine game only they understood. Life at Valor Ridge continued, utterly indifferent to the fact that Naomi’s world had tilted on its axis last night.
She needed to find Owen.
Not to force a conversation he wasn’t ready to have, but just to see him.
Naomi set down her coffee cup and stepped out onto the porch, letting the door swing shut behind her. The morning air was fresh and cool, carrying the scent of hay and horses and the rich, earthy smell of the mountains. Somewhere on this ranch, Owen was hiding. And she was going to find him, even if she had to search every barn, cabin, and paddock to do it.
She started down the porch steps, determination straightening her spine. The fox pendant bounced lightly against her skin with each step, a silent reminder of his promise. He would always come for her.
Now it was her turn to go to him.
The barn door stood half-open, warm golden light spilling onto the packed dirt outside. Naomi paused at the sound of Jonah's voice drifting out—low and steady like a heartbeat, the words indistinct but the tone unmistakably gentle. Something about it drew her closer, curiosity momentarily overriding her search for Owen. She stepped into the shadowed entryway, careful to keep her boots from scraping against the concrete, and peered around the corner.
