"To you, maybe. Not to me."
I grab her arm. Not hard, but firm enough that she has to look at me. "Don't do that. Don't turn this into some noble crusade where you're willing to die for a principle. Tyler wouldn't want that."
"You don't get to tell me what Tyler would want. You don't get to decide what risks I take or what I'm willing to lose."
"The hell I don't."
The words come out raw, stripped of the control I usually keep locked down. Rainey's eyes widen. Not with fear. Withrecognition. She sees what I'm doing, sees the panic underneath the possessiveness, and instead of pulling away, she leans into it.
"You're scared," she says.
"I'm furious."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
I let go of her arm. She doesn't move away. We're close enough that I can see the pulse jumping in her throat, fast and irregular, belying the calm in her voice.
"Here's what's going to happen," I say. "We're staying at Flint's tonight. Tomorrow, I'm going to the Santa Fe event and I'm going to ride. Because if I don't show up, Merrick knows we're rattled, and that makes us easier targets. While I'm riding, you're going to stay here, go through every photo you've taken in the last three years, and find me something I can take to the press or the feds. Something that connects Merrick to Tyler's death directly, not just the money trail."
"And then what?"
"Then we burn him."
Rainey searches my face. Whatever she finds there, it's enough to make her decision.
"I'm not staying behind while you ride."
"Rainey."
"No. You don't get to sideline me. I go where you go, or I go on my own. Those are your options."
She means it. I can see it in the set of her jaw, the way her spine straightens, the amber fire in her eyes that makes my chest ache in ways I don't have vocabulary for. This woman walked into my life a few days ago with a camera and an attitude, and now she's the thing I'm most afraid of losing.
That realization hits like a sucker punch. I'm not just protecting an asset or a partner. I'm protecting the first person who's made me feel anything real since I watched Tyler die in the dirt.
"Fine," I say. "But you stay behind the chutes. No media pen, no wandering. You shoot from where I can see you."
"Controlling."
"Alive. The word you're looking for is alive."
She almost smiles. It doesn't quite make it to her mouth, but I see it in her eyes, a crack in the fear that lets something warmer through.
"Come inside," she says.
It isn't a request.
I follow her into the guest room that smells like cedar and old quilts. The bed is wrought iron, probably older than Flint himself, and the mattress dips in the center. Rainey stands in the middle of the room, fingers working the buttons of her shirt, and I can see the moment she decides to stop being scared and start being something else entirely.
"Rainey."
"Don't." She looks at me. "Don't ask me if I'm sure. Don't ask me if this is a good idea. We both know it isn't. I'm doing it anyway."
I close the distance between us. Take over the buttons because her fingers are still trembling, and I don't want her rushing through this. Not tonight. Tonight deserves to be deliberate.
The shirt falls open. She's wearing a plain cotton bra underneath, nothing designed to seduce, and it hits me harder than lace ever could. This is who Rainey is. Practical, unfussy, more concerned with function than performance. Real in a world of fabrication.
I trace the line of her collarbone with my thumb, and she pulls air through her teeth.
