Page 24 of The Steel Beast’s Heart

I find Garrett at the truck. He opens the passenger door without a word. I climb in without arguing about it.

The coast highway runs south. Garrett drives steady and quiet and doesn't require conversation, that's exactly what I need right now. I watch the tree line scroll past the window and I replay the conversation in the kitchen.

He made four calls before he even told me what happened. My stomach still turns when I think about it. Standing in his kitchen in his shirt while he talked past me to the phone, his voice flat and efficient, the same tone I heard in conference rooms for eleven years.

But the longer I sit with it, the less it fits.

The firm organized around me because I produced results and results justified the structure. My manager scheduled my calendar because an optimized Isla generated more revenue. They didn't care what I wanted. They cared what I yielded.

The firm managed me to keep me productive. Thomas managed me because he couldn't stand still and watch me hurt.

Those aren't the same thing. They aren't close, and I walked out of his kitchen treating them as identical, the look on his face when I left carried a weight I've spent the last few hours pretending I didn't see.

Garrett pulls through the compound gate. The lot sits quiet under the security floods, bikes parked, the garage dark.

"Thanks for the ride."

He nods. I close the door and he pulls the truck forward to the garage bay.

I push the side door of the garage open and find him on the workbench stool, glasses off, eyes closed. Elbows on his knees, hands loose between them. Without the glasses his face changes, and the exhaustion sits in every line. He hasn't moved from this stool in hours.

I stand in front of him.

He opens his eyes.

"You tried to fix things without even telling me what happened."

His gaze holds mine. Brown, tired, nothing hidden. "I did."

"Because you're scared."

He's quiet for a long time. His hands hang between his knees and the tremor lives in his fingers still, faint enough to miss if I weren't looking for it.

"Because I thought if I moved fast enough, I could fix it before it hurt you. Get Knox on surveillance, get Colt running plates, line up a crew—have the whole thing handled before you even had to see what they did to your place." His voice stays level but the effort to keep it there shows in his shoulders. "I told myself I was protecting you. But I wasn't asking what you needed. I was deciding for you. And I see that now." He's quiet for a beat. "I should have woken you up. Told you what Diane said. Asked you what you wanted to do. Made the plan with you, not around you."

I let the words sit. "You know why I left the firm. You know what it did to me, having people make decisions about my life without asking, trying to control every little thing I did." He nods, slow. "That's what it felt like in your kitchen. And I know that's not what you meant. But it's what I felt."

I step closer. His knees bracket my hips and I put my hands on his jaw, his fur warm and coarse under my palms. "Stop managing me and start asking me. I don't need you to call a bunch of people. I need you to ask me. Ask what I want. Stand next to me while I do it." His pulse hammers under my thumbs. "I chose you, Thomas. Not your plan. You. We're a team."

He stands. The stool scrapes back and he grips my waist and pulls me against him, and the noise that comes out of his chest isn't a word. The purr hits first, low and continuous, the vibration running through my ribs where his body presses against mine. I slide my hands up his jaw and find his horns.

My left hand wraps around the intact horn near the base, and the purr drops the way it did two nights ago, deep enough to reach my spine. My right hand finds the broken one.

The sound changes.

A different sound, rough and fractured at the edges, the purr splintering into a noise that carries every year he's held still. His body locks, every muscle rigid, his breath gone shallow against my forehead. His fingers tighten on my waist hard enough that I'll feel it tomorrow.

I don't pull my hand away. I run my thumb along the jagged edge where the horn ends rough instead of curving smooth, and the breath he lets go sounds like it's been locked in his chest for years. "Isla." My name comes out broken.

His mouth finds mine and the kiss lands with everything he's held back. He drags his hands down my hips and lifts me onto the workbench, I wrap my legs around him and pull him between them. His mouth moves down my neck, my throat, and the purr fills the garage.

I keep hold of his horns. Both of them.

He peels my shirt over my head and his mouth follows, his breath hot against my skin, and every time my fingers move on the damaged horn the noise out of him gets rawer, more wrecked. He unhooks my bra and cups my breasts, his thumbs drag across my nipples and I arch against him. My jeans and underwear come off with his help, his fingers pulling at the button, my hips lifting off the workbench so he can get them down my legs. His follow.

Then he drops to his knees.

The workbench puts me at the right height and he doesn't hesitate. His mouth finds my pussy, my hand flies to his horn and grips. His tongue drags flat against my clit and my thighs fall open, my other hand braces behind me on the workbench because I need something solid. He licks into me slow and deliberate, his hands wrapped around my thighs, pulling me closer to the edge. I can feel the purr against my skin where his mouth presses, the vibration running through every nerve I have. My fingers tighten on his horn and the sound he makes between my legs sends me over. The orgasm hits hard and sudden, I clench around nothing, my hips rolling against his mouth while he works me through it.