Page 27 of Branded By the Cowboy

She lets out a sleepy laugh—a puff of air against my collarbone.

“I want to do this right,” I whisper against her hair. "You deserve more than rushed sex on a barn floor.”

Her body softens trustingly, her face tucked into my neck like she belongs there. Because she does.

But what if I can’t hold on to something this good? What if I’m not good enough and break it, like everything else?

Chapter8

Luna

Shay fusses with my hair like it's a national emergency, her reflection hovering behind mine in the antique vanity mirror that's been in the ranch house since before either of us was born.

“You're not nervous,” she says, pinning a stubborn curl behind my ear with the practiced precision of someone who's spent their life corralling unruly things. “You're just under-caffeinated.”

“I’ve had two cookies and a coffee the size of my head,” I mutter, watching dust motes dance in the afternoon light streaming through the lace curtains.

“Exactly. Barely a baseline.” Shay adjusts the wildflowers she's been weaving into my hair for the past thirty minutes—delicate blue cornflowers and white daisies gathered from the meadow at dawn. “Deep breath. You look beautiful.”

The dress I’m wearing is my newest purchase from town yesterday. It’s simple, with lace along the sleeves and soft ivory that catches the light like candle smoke. It fits like it was made for me, snug through the bodice and flowing from the waist down in a way that’s understated yet graceful. Nothing flashy. No frills. Just something clean and real like the promises I'll make today.

I stand, letting Shay help me into it, the fabric cool against my skin as it settles into place. The wooden floorboards creak beneath my bare feet as I turn to face the mirror.

“Perfect,” Shay whispers, her hands steady on my shoulders

Shay insisted on a touch of makeup—“just enough to stun your silent cowboy into using full sentences”—along with wildflowers braided into my hair.

“He won't know what hit him.” Shay steps back, hands on her hips, and gives me an appraising once-over. “You look like a woman who’s about to make three Sutton men cry and one pretend he has allergies.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And which one is Tom?”

“Oh, Tom’s already crying.” She grins. “He started when I plugged in the fairy lights.”

I laugh. And it startles me a little. Not the sound but how easy it is to make. How natural it feels here.

Then, before I can stop myself, my thoughts drift to my soon-to-be husband.

Growing up in the system, I learned to read men like they came with secret warning labels. The smooth talkers, with their practiced smiles and eyes that followed me when I turned away. But Angus doesn't try to impress me. He doesn’t fill the silence with empty flattery. His blunt words and awkward pauses show me he's not playing a role—it’s who he is: rough-edged, uncomfortable, genuine.

Something about him puts the frantic bird in my chest at ease. His gruffness isn't something to fear; it's the surface of a man who doesn't know how to pretend to be anything but himself.

And it’s something I like about him. Very much. More than I should, considering this is supposed to be a marriage of convenience. Only now, I’m having feelings that are veryinconvenient.

Especially after last night in the stables. I shiver as I remember Angus’s hand fisting in my hair like he didn’t want to let go. The way his mouth moved against mine—slow at first, then rougher, like he’d been holding back for too long. He kissed and touched me like he needed it. Neededme. The woman who’s never been anyone’s first choice.

I remember the thrust of his tongue between my legs, hot and wet and devastating. The way I shattered—boneless and breathless—into hands that didn’t simply take but gave me something I didn’t know I was starving for.

And after, when my body was still trembling, he redressed me with those big, calloused hands and held me. Like I mattered.

Which is the part I can’t stop circling back to.

We’re getting married today. On paper. For the land. For the clause in Ruth Sutton’s will. But marriage is more than paperwork. It means I’ll wake up in this house every morning. It means sharing a name, a roof, and a life.

And if I’m staying for real, shouldn’t I stop pretending this is only a transaction?

Because something about Angus Sutton doesn’t feel temporary. Something about him makes me want to dig in my heels and fight for this place. For him. For us.

Even if I don’t know what “us” looks like yet.

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