Page 32 of Branded By the Cowboy

But I don’t.

Because something about the way he watches me—tense, waiting—tells me he’s not ready to speak those memories out loud.

So instead, I let my hand move over the scar without question. Not ignoring it. Accepting it.

All of him.

“You’re beautiful,” I whisper because he is.

His eyes darken, jaw tight. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

I cup his jaw, relishing the scrape of his stubble against my palm. “I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t.”

The air shifts again. Thicker now. Charged. And when he lowers himself to kiss down my throat, my breath stutters.

“I don’t know how to do this gently,” he mutters against my skin.

“Then don’t.”

And he doesn’t.

He worships instead.

With every kiss. Every touch. Every shuddering breath. He undresses me like I’m something holy, like he’s not simply undressing a body but a history. A woman who’s only ever known how to survive.

But tonight, with him, I get tofeel.

Because it’s not just about sex. It’s not even about comfort or heat.

It’s about being wanted. Chosen. Seen.

And in his arms, with his mouth at my shoulder and his breath against my throat, I start to believe it might be real.

That this—us—was always going to be more than a contract. More than survival.

It feels like home.

Chapter9

Angus

Luna holds out her hand, and I don’t even remember deciding to move. One second, I’m standing in the doorway like an idiot who doesn’t know what to do with everything he’s feeling, and the next, I’m sitting on the edge of the bed with her fingers curled in mine like she’s been waiting for me to stop hesitating.

Like she wants this. Wantsme.

That should be reassuring. But all I can think about is not fucking this up.

Her skin is warm, her palm soft. I run my thumb over it in slow circles, letting the weight of the day settle. The jokes, the damn goat stickers, the way she smiled at me when my family decided a discussion about farts was appropriate at the dinner table.

This woman—this brave, steady,ridiculously strongwoman—is now my wife.

And she’s sitting beside me, eyes wide and full of something I’m scared to name.

Then she kisses me.

Soft at first. Sweet. But there’s heat underneath—slow and building, curling between us like smoke. When her fingers slide into my hair and she tugs, I groan. And everything I’ve been holding back comes loose.

I kiss her deeper, hungrier, tasting the pie on her tongue, the fear, the fire.

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