Page 42 of The Foreman
“You trust me?” he asked.
“Always.”
He laid her back on the bondage table, muscles steady as he tipped a spoon of melted wax onto her shoulder. The heat struck and she hissed, then exhaled in a long sigh as it spread like fire across her skin. He carved deliberate lines over her chest, looping circles around her navel, then dragged a molten trail down her thighs. Each drop branded, both sting and possession, both pain and devotion. Her body shivered beneath his control, not from fear but from the rush of sensation that rolled through her nerves.
Her gasp tore free when his path lingered just outside her breast, every nerve tightening with the torment of denial. The untouched peak throbbed with urgent need, her body arching as he drew a molten line into the tender hollow where thigh met pelvis, the mix of pain and pleasure snapping through her with brutal clarity.
“Color?”
“Green,” she breathed, voice husky.
He painted her like a secret map only he could decipher, every stroke a claim written in molten heat. When he finally set the candle aside, he worked the cooling wax away with oiled palms, the contrast of slick warmth soothing where the sting lingered.
His aftercare was as deliberate and commanding as the scene itself, steady hands easing her trembling flesh until she melted against him. He wrapped her snug in a blanket, pulled her tight against his chest, and let the cadence of her heartbeat align with his own, a tether of comfort after fire.
Trace pulled the box from his pocket, his voice rough. “Macy Dane, I don’t only want your submission here. I want your chaos in my kitchen, your sarcasm in my mornings, your name on everything I build. I failed once by holding back what mattered most. I will not fail you by staying silent now. Marry me.”
Her eyes widened, tears shimmering. “That’s not subtle.”
“In case you missed it, subtle isn't exactly my strong suit.”
She opened the box. The ring inside wasn't plain, it was a strong circle without a break, embedded with channel set diamonds and an enormous pear-shaped emerald. Her laugh broke on a sob. “Yes. Of course yes.”
He slid the ring onto her finger, his hands steady despite the thunder in his chest. She launched at him, kissing him hard enough to bruise, laughter and love tangled in every sound.
Later, tangled in sheets, Trace brushed his thumb over the new ring. Macy lay sprawled across his chest, her hair spilling across warm skin and the marks the wax had left. He whispered the litany she craved after scenes, each word a vow. “Safe. Good. Mine. Loved. Always. You are not a weakness,” he said into her hair. “You are the part that steadies my hands.”
She sighed into his skin. “Bossy.”
“Always.” He kissed her hair. “And yours.”
Normal came with its own battles. Grocery lists sparked arguments sharper than firefights. Fence repairs turned into contests of will. Reed dropped off cookbooks labeled field manuals. Hawke threatened random best man speeches. Gavin gave Macy control of strategy meetings and pretended it was about notes. Jesse adjusted the budget for the wedding barand called it an operational necessity. The team never stopped watching, never stopped ribbing, but pride lived in every glance.
The real curtain call came months later on a spring evening, all of Silver Spur gathered at the ranch. Reed at the grill, Hawke pouring tequila, Gavin running logistics like it was an op, Jesse arguing spreadsheets with Macy while Trace stood back and let them all fill the porch with noise. The family they had built through fire and scars.
The wedding came three months later, the barn strung with lights that glowed like fireflies against the dusk, the green hills rolling in the background as if nature itself had shown up to witness them.Macy walked toward Trace in a simple dress that skimmed her curves and shimmered in the glow of lantern light. No veil, no heavy trappings, only her—strong, radiant, every step carrying both defiance and devotion.
The officiant kept it short, which suited them. Reed stood as best man, trying and failing to look stoic. Hawke held the rings like they were contraband he intended to smuggle across a border. Jesse and Gavin flanked the aisle with the same watchful calm they carried into operations.
Macy placed her hand in Trace’s, and the rest of the world stepped back.
“Trace,” she said, voice steady, “you found me when I was hunted, and you never looked away. I promise to bring you my honesty when it is hard, my obedience when we choose it, and my fight when the world needs it. I am yours in the kitchen, in the club, in the dark, and in the light.”
Trace’s throat tightened. “Macy, I promise you structure when you crave it, freedom when you need it, and my protection even when you think you do not. I will shoulder the weight, share the quiet, and stand in front of the storm. You are mine, and I am yours.”
Hawke sniffed loud enough for the first three rows to hear. Someone elbowed him. He scowled and waved them off.
To Trace she was more breathtaking than any bride he had ever imagined, and in that moment she was entirely, irrevocably his. Trace said, “I will,” and for the first time in his life, the words felt not like duty or survival but forever, a vow carved into his very bones.
Reed wore sunglasses to hide the tears that kept sliding down anyway and insisted it was hay dust. Hawke stood up to toast and told two stories so obscene the crowd roared, and Macy flipped him off with a grin that made everyone laugh harder. Gavin kept his toast short, strong, and surprisingly heartfelt. Jesse dragged Keely onto the floor, where they ended up doing the dirtiest dance anyone had ever seen, until Reed ordered them to stand down and the crowd cheered.
Macy slid into his side, her ring catching the light. “You happy, cowboy?”
He kissed her temple, eyes sweeping over friends turned brothers. “For the first time, yeah.”
She smiled, sharp and soft at once. “Good. Because this is just the beginning.”
Trace believed her. Their war was over. Their future had just begun, and he was ready to live every stubborn, beautiful second of it with her.
