Page 14 of Branded By the Cowboy

But looking at Luna was like standing barefoot at the edge of a frozen river, knowing damn well the ice could crack—and stepping forward anyway.

And now she’s here. Sleeping under my roof. Tied to me by a contract and a ticking clock.

And God help me, I already want more than I should. Fuck, I even jacked off in the shower last night, imagining her full lips and soft curves.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been intimate with a woman—years, not since before I was injured in Kandahar. And even then, my liaisons were few and far between. I’m no virgin, but I’m no lothario either. Besides, the scars riddling my body would be enough to scare off most women, even if the trauma from my time in Afghanistan didn’t.

I shove the covers off with a growled curse and swing my feet onto the cold floor. The bite of winter against my skin is a welcome distraction from the heat pooling low in my gut.

No use trying to sleep now. I have fences to mend. Feed to haul. Things that require strong hands and no thinking. Exactly what I need.

I grab my boots, moving quietly, but when I step into the hallway, I catch it—the soft creak of floorboards.

Her door stands cracked open an inch—just enough.

Lunastands with her back to me, morning light turning her sleep-tousled hair to gold.

She’s pulling on one of her new sweatshirts—Shay took her clothes shopping in town yesterday—the hem riding up over curves way too dangerous for a man trying to keep his damn head straight.

Soft hips. Bare legs. Those smooth thighs disappearing under fabric. I should look away. Should turn around. Should remember why she's here and why wanting her is the worst mistake I could make.

The floorboard betrays me with a creak. She turns, slow and easy, and our eyes lock.

Everything inside me goes very, very still. Apart from my cock. That fucker inflates like a life raft on the Titanic.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t scramble for cover. She just stands there, breathing harder, nipples pressing against her sweatshirt as if she feels it too. I tear my gaze away first. Like a coward. Like a man one heartbeat away from doing something real stupid.

I head downstairs, putting distance between me and my tempting mail-order bride.

In the kitchen, I pour black coffee into a tin mug and lean against the counter, looking out the window. It’s the kind of morning when the frost still bites, and the sun is pretending spring might eventually show up.

Shay hums behind me as she scribbles on the chore board. She’s already made cinnamon rolls and declared herself “lightly possessed by domestic witchcraft.” Her words, not mine.

I sip and wait for the house to shift.

And right on cue, I hear the creak of the stairs and soft footfalls on wood. Luna.

She walks into the kitchen like she’s always belonged here. Hair now in a loose braid that somehow highlights her high cheekbones and the scattering of freckles across her nose. Faded jeans and scuffed boots added to the sweatshirt. The old coat she came in with folded over her arm. Eyes calm but alert, as if she’s still waiting for the moment someone tells her to go.

“Morning,” Shay chirps. “Sleep well?”

“Well enough,” Luna replies, her voice quiet but not meek. It’s measured. I like that about her already. She doesn’t waste a word.

I wipe my hands on a dish towel and jerk my chin toward the pot. “Coffee’s hot.”

She nods once, avoiding my eyes as she crosses to the coffee pot. But I see the blush bloom on her cheeks—soft and rising, like a ripple in still water.

Is she remembering that moment in her room? Because I sure as hell am. The vision of her standing by the window is etched into my retinas.

Luna pours her coffee with steady hands, but I notice how she stands—shoulders a little straighter, chin a little higher. Like she’s daring the world to notice her without making a scene.

And I do.

I notice everything.

The way her braid brushes the dip of her back. How her lips part slightly before she speaks. How she doesn’t flinch or fuss or fill the silence with noise.

She’s calm in a way that rattles me. Like she’s not scared of me. As if she’salready figured me outand decided to stay anyway.

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