Page 43 of Branded By the Cowboy

His eyes flicker—hope and fear and disbelief all tangled together.

“You’ve seen what the worst of the world can do,” I murmur. “But I’m still here, Angus. Solid. Breathing. Fighting for you. Forus.”

A single tear tracks down his cheek.

I swallow hard and press my hand harder over his heart. “Don’t shut it down because it hurts. Caring for someone doesn’t mean you’re weak. It means you’re brave enough to risk it.”

I pause, my breath trembling. “And I’m not going anywhere. Not unless the storm takes me—and even then, I’ll fight my way back.”

I meet his eyes, steady and sure. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have tolet me in.”

He looks at our joined hands like they’re the scariest thing in the room.

Then, finally,finally, he whispers, “I’m trying.”

I squeeze his fingers. “Then that’s enough.”

He lets out a breath like it’s been caged in his chest for years. When he pulls me into his arms and buries his face in my neck, it’s not with heat or hunger—it’s with the need for comfort.

I comb my fingers through his wet hair, murmuring soft words that mean nothing and everything as he shakes against me, wetting my neck with his tears. His arms tighten around me like he’s afraid I’ll slip through his fingers if he loosens his grip.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says into my skin, the words muffled, aching. “Not the right way. Not with someone who matters.”

“You don’t have to do it perfectly,” I whisper. “Just let me stand beside you. Don’t push me away.”

He nods once against my shoulder, the motion jerky as if every part of him has been wound tight around pain and silence and the belief that he doesn’t get to have softness, and now it’s all coming undone.

He lets me hold him, lets me share the weight of all the things he’s never said. And for the first time since our wedding night, I feel himstay.

The storm outside rages on, but here in this room, we’re still. Tangled in grief and hope and something that feels dangerously close to love. And for the first time, I think maybe we’ll be okay. Not because everything’s fixed. But because he finally let me see the cracks.

Something profound flickers across his face when he pulls back, landing between us like a lightning strike.

And then he’s kissing me.

It’s not hesitant. Not graceful. It’s messy. Wild and unyielding like the storm raging outside.

His mouth crushes against mine, full of heat and frustration and something deeper he doesn’t know how to say yet. His hands slide into my hair, holding me there like I’m the gravity keeping him from flying apart.

I gasp into his mouth, and he takes it—takes all of it—like a man starved for warmth finally letting himself feel the fire. His tongue wraps around mine, hot and wet and wonderful. He tastes like rain and woodsmoke and grit.

I press closer, hands fisting in his flannel, pulling him to me because I want more. Need more. Because this? This kiss is different from every other kiss we’ve shared. It’s the kind of kiss that rewrites your DNA. A kiss that shatters and reshapes me in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

Angus pulls back a fraction, breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine. His voice is raw when he speaks. Hoarse. Like the words cost him something. “I walked into this marriage thinking I could keep my distance. Do the job. Keep the ranch. Keep you safe. But somewhere along the way”—his hands tighten slightly as he cups my face—“you stopped being the job.”

His gaze drops to my mouth and lingers. “I don’t know when it happened, but you’re mine. You’re the first person I look for when I walk into a room. The last thing on my mind before I fall asleep. You make this place feel like something more than duty and dirt and memories. You make it feel like home again.”

Angus takes my uninjured hand gently andslidesoff my wedding ring before I can object.

I blink, confused. “What are you doing?”

Instead of answering, Angus tips the band toward the light, his thumb brushing over the inside.

“Did you ever read the inscription?”

I frown as a flicker of memory surfaces—a flash of silver, a glimpse of something etchedinside the day he slipped it onto my finger.

“No. I—I forgot it even had one. I haven’t taken it off since you put it there.”

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