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“Yes,” I breathed, heat pulsing on my skin. Would he see the goosebumps raised by the faintest trace of his breath across my collarbone?

I didn’t open my eyes until he told me it was safe to look.

From that moment on, my status changed. Étienne didn’t touch me or flirt with me, and sometimes he barely talked to me, but at every single gathering, he was beside me.

Sometimes he showed me how to play mumblety-peg or carve simple figures into wood.

But mostly he made sure no other men talked to me.

And visit by visit, I realized he had stopped paying the other women any attention.

When I turned 21, my Da wasn’t surprised when his Da sent a message that I was the one Étienne wanted to marry.

By then, the powerful Étienne Bastide could have had anyone or anything he wanted.

And he wanted me.

Now at 24, I was lucky enough to sit in our baby boy’s massive nursery folding tiny onesies, wondering when I was going to go into labor and who he was going to look like.

Would he be dark-haired and tanned like Étienne? Or pale and auburn-haired like me?

How beautiful and perfect it all was, here in the sprawling massive Bastide house, here in the mountains where ivy and roses grew up the side.

Lucky and blessed beyond belief. My only sorrow was that my beloved Gran wasn’t here to see this.

Even though she was always skeptical about Étienne back in the day, I knew she would have been so happy to come over and quilt or knit with me, while away the long, lonely hours during the day when my husband had to work.

I straightened a little stuffed coyote on a shelf as I passed by the nursery. All of these were local animals. So our son would know right from the beginning that his daddy was from the mountains and the mountains were a part of his daddy.

I could feel him kicking too, baby boy wanting to come out and see the world. I knew it was better that he cooked just a little bit longer, but I was so excited to meet him.

Étienne and I hadn’t agreed on a name yet, but my husband’s idea would probably win. He had the much stronger will, it was the way of things that I could never stand my own up against his.

I hurried—well, waddled, really—into the bedroom.

Excited to get back out there and take my husband’s hand, so proud to be seen with him.

I peeled the wet dress off and adjusted the bra over my aching breasts, then checked my hair in the mirror, making sure my auburn curls didn’t look too wild.

That was when I saw somebody in the shadows.

Whirling around so fast I hit my elbow on the doorknob, I saw my brother-in-law emerge from the rumpled bed.

“Mano, what are you doing here? Get out!”

He strode toward me. Casual, relaxed. Like he had any right to be in my bedroom half-naked, no shirt on, his pants hanging low on his hips.

Clutching the wet dress to my chest, I stumbled backwards.

“Stop! What are you doing?”

But Mano only put an arm around my thick waist and pulled so I was flush against his body. He was like a shorter version of my husband, his chin covered in stubble that he dragged along my throat.

“Kiss me,” he rasped.

“Ew, what is wrong with you?”

Just then the door to the bedroom was thrown violently open, crashing against the opposite wall.