Page 91 of Branded Hearts

Oh my. Okay, then.

A warm flush spreads across my cheeks as I read over his texts. I can’t help but imagine his smirk as he typed those words. He always knows just how to tease me, and here I am, blushing like a schoolgirl caught passing notes in class.

If my heart could leap out of my chest, beating rapidly, it would happen right about now.

30

Stand and Deliver - Patrick Droney

It’s Saturdaymorning, about six fifteen, but it doesn’t matter if it’s a weekday or the damn weekend—I can never sleep in. Never have been able to. The morning air is crisp, biting at my skin as I step outside. The house was silent before I slipped out the back, seeking the familiar presence of my father. I head to the stable, the scent of hay and horse shit hitting me like a punch in the gut.Fucking hell, it reeks.

Inside, I find him, shuffling bits of hay on the ground. The horses in their stalls whinny and shuffle, sensing the movement. I walk over to Blue, reaching out to stroke his mane. I’ve never been much of an animal person, but I can see why Xavier took to these creatures so quickly. They’re majestic, calming in a way I can’t quite explain.

It’s quiet without the dogs here all the time. Xav took them home with him, bringing them over every day when he’s here. The barn feels different without their constant presence, but there’s a certain peace in the stillness.

“Morning,” I say, breaking the silence.

Dad looks up, a smile tugging at his lips. “Morning, son. Couldn’tsleep?”

I shake my head. “You know me.”

He just nods, a silent understanding passing between us. I’ve become like him in many ways, communicating through nods, grunts, and actions instead of words. In a way, I’m proud to be like my father. He raised my brother and me with our heads screwed on straight, leaving no room for fuck-ups.

It was his way of teaching us to be disciplined and reliable.

But part of it bothers me. Sometimes, I don’t want to be so tightly wound. I want to feel free, have some fun. Xavier did, and look where it got him—married with a baby on the way. Sure, he was a bit of a dick along the way, but a carefree dick nonetheless.

Carefree. I crave that sometimes.

We fall into a comfortable silence, the only sounds being the soft rustle of hay and the occasional snort from the horses. Blue nudges my shoulder, and I can’t help but smile.

Dad breaks the quiet. “Wanna go for a ride?”

“Me? Ride?” I say, pointing to myself, eyes wide.

“Yeah, mate. Come. I’ll teach ya.” Dad moves slowly to the horses. Age has slowed him down, and I can’t help but worry about the day he won’t be around. My thoughts drift to Isla, enduring so much on her own. Losing both parents—no child should face that. Pushing these sombre thoughts aside, I focus on helping Dad prepare the horses.

After we’ve stabled the horses, I can confidently declare that I’m never doing that again or volunteering to be a mounted police officer. Fuck that. My groin is aching, and I rub the tender parts of my inner thighs, letting out a groan. Dad chuckles, and I roll my eyes. How Xavier manages this 24/7, I’ve got no fucking clue. Just then, my phone rings, and my heart drops when I see the caller ID:Faulkner.

I answer after the first ring.

“Mitchell.”

“Mitchell. I need you to get over to two-fifteen Koala Road. It’s not good, mate, and I need my best men,” Faulkner says urgently.

With no questions asked, I hurry back inside, grab my things, and go.

Dread eats its way through me as I do.

As I arrive at the scene, it’s definitely not what I was expecting, so early in the morning.

The accident scene is a fucking mess, lights flashing and sirens blaring, casting a creepy glow over the wreckage. Two cars, a Toyota Hilux and a Holden Commodore, are all mangled up. The Hilux is smashed next to the Commodore, metal twisted and crumpled. Inside, a young guy and girl are trapped, metal crushing around them. From a glance, I have a sinking feeling that the woman is no longer breathing. The Commodore is scrunched in from the passenger side,and I head over with Faulkner beside me.

The elderly man inside looks disoriented, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead. Paramedics rush past us, their voices urgent as they assess the situation and attend to the injured.

“Clear the area!” one of the paramedics shouts, directing other officers to block off the road. I lean by the window of the Commodore.

“Sir, my name is Constable Mitchell. Can you hear me?” I ask, my voice firm and direct. The man looks at me with wide eyes, nodding slowly.

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