Page 14 of The Lasso Master

Whatever was coming next would not be quiet. It would roar through both of them, tearing at old scars and testing every fault line they thought they’d buried. War was coming. And Harper—complicated, cunning, impossible Harper—wasn’t just the spark anymore. She was the fuse, the fire, and maybe the thing that would burn them all down if he couldn’t hold the line. In the distance, a single lightning strike split the dark sky—brief, blinding, inevitable. Just like her.

7

HARPER

Reed's flannel shirt still smelled like him. Warm cedar, worn leather, and something uniquely him that made her pulse trip and her thoughts scatter. It shouldn't have made her feel anything, but it did—a gut-punch cocktail of comfort and danger, like being curled up with a loaded weapon cocked and ready. Harper wasn't sure whether she wanted to hug it tighter, bury herself in it until the world quieted—or set it on fire just to watch it burn and prove she still had control over something. Destruction had always felt more honest than surrender. At least when things broke, it was on her terms. It was a lesson Stuart had taught her early: if you can't escape the fire, make damn sure you're the one who lit it.

She padded barefoot into the kitchen, fingers tracing the edge of the counter as if it might ground her, like if she let go she might float straight out of her skin. Sleep had been a joke—just flashes of half-dreamed panic and Reed’s voice looping in her head like a metronome she couldn't shut off:We go in as Master and submissive. Public. Documented. Exclusive.

It wasn’t the roles that rattled her. It was how easily her name fit in his mouth, like it belonged there. Every time he said it, he seemed to repair something she thought was broken. Therewas no hesitation, no question—just that quiet certainty that he’d already seen a future with her in it, and was calmly waiting for her to stop pretending she didn’t want it too. And that, more than anything, scared her. Because what if he wasn’t wrong? What if she did want it, but had no idea how to keep it without breaking it the way she’d broken everything else?

Exclusive.

A word that curled in her chest like smoke. Dangerous. Final. Intoxicating. It wasn’t just a label—it was a tether, a claim. And for someone who’d spent her whole life running, the idea of belonging to anything, anyone, felt like standing at the edge of a cliff with gravity whispering seductions in her ear.

She poured herself a coffee she didn’t want, just for the comfort of the ritual—the warmth in her hand, the clink of the spoon, the illusion of control. But she didn’t drink it. Just stared at the dark surface, watching it ripple slightly as if it might reflect something other than her own doubt. The kitchen was clean, quiet, too quiet. Every creak of the house sounded like a footstep she hadn’t invited. She hated still. It left room for memories she didn’t want, ghosts she hadn’t buried, and questions she wasn’t ready to answer.

"You're up early."

She turned. Reed stood in the doorway, fresh from the shower, sweatpants hung low around his hips and wet hair clinging to his neck. Water still glistened on the hard cut of his chest, drawing her gaze down over chiseled abs that looked like they belonged on the cover of a tactical fitness magazine. Broad shoulders filled the frame of the door, and his arms—roped with muscle and casually crossed—looked capable of violence or comfort, depending on his mood. It should’ve been a crime, looking like that before caffeine.

"Technically, I’m still up," she said. "Sleep didn’t like me last night."

"Not the only one." Reed walked in, and the room seemed to shrink around him. His presence enveloped her like a heatwave—heavy, confident, unbothered by permission. Every step he took pulled her into his gravity, made the air hum. Muscles flexed along his arms as he reached for the mug in her hands, veins subtly raised beneath golden skin still damp from the shower. He set the mug aside like it was an afterthought, but his eyes never left her. "You’re spinning," he said, voice all grit and command.

"Wow. Insightful. Have you been spying on my browser history again, or is that just your shirt’s superpower—psychic fabric woven from judgment and dry sarcasm?"

"Talk to me, Harper." His tone was calm, but his eyes tracked her like a hunter who already knew the rabbit hole she was trying to disappear into. "That wasn’t banter. That was you dodging."

She opened her mouth, but the words tangled before they reached her tongue. Closed it. Swallowed. The truth felt sharp in her throat, jagged with regret and old fear. She tried again, quieter this time, like maybe if she said it softly enough, it wouldn’t hurt as much coming out.

"You ever trust the wrong person so hard it cracked something inside you—something important—and you didn’t even realize how bad it was until every decision after started tasting like doubt? When every unfamiliar face felt like another test, and you failed half of them just by flinching?"

Reed didn’t answer. Not out loud. But he stepped closer, a steady wall of warmth and tension. His silence wasn’t retreat—it was precision. He watched her the way a seasoned tracker watches a skittish animal, knowing that pushing too fast would send her bolting. And she felt it—that tense stillness, the heat behind his patience. Her pulse kicked, low and sharp, equal parts instinct and arousal. Still, there was nothing passive abouthim. Every inch closer felt intentional, like he was telling her with his body: I see you, and I’m not going anywhere until you decide I can. And God help her, part of her wanted to say yes.

"His name was Stuart. My friend, my mentor, my mistake. He trained me, sharpened me, shaped me into what he needed—something useful, something lethal. He said I was the best he’d ever seen, said I was family. Then he sold my intel to the highest bidder and sent me in, anyway. I walked into a trap because I believed him. And worse—I kept going back. Kept proving I could finish the job. Kept hoping he’d see me as more than just a pawn. I didn’t know how to stop."

Reed’s jaw ticked. "You do now."

"Do I? Because I’m standing in your kitchen in your shirt, in your space, having had your hands all over me like they already know how to hold every fractured piece of me together. I can’t tell if you’re the next disaster I survive, or the one that finally breaks me in a way I don’t want fixed."

His eyes flared, sharp and focused. "Then stop waiting for someone else to decide. You want a future, little thief? Choose. Stop running. Stand your ground."

That hit harder than she expected. She turned away like it would help, like if she could just keep her back to him, he wouldn’t see the sting in her eyes or the fracture widening behind her voice. But he did. Of course he did. Reed had the kind of vision that cut through armor and distraction, that didn’t flinch at mess or damage. She’d lived most of her life slipping past people unnoticed. But him? He noticed everything. Especially the things she tried hardest to hide.

He stepped up behind her, not touching yet—just close enough that she could feel his breath at her neck, the heat of him seeping into her spine. His nearness pressed in like a summer night—heavy, charged, and full of unspoken promise. She felt the shadow of his chest at her back, the faint tickle of air whenhe exhaled—every nerve in her body suddenly attuned to him, to the way he held himself still, controlled, a predator in waiting.

"Give it up," he said, voice low. "All of it. The walls. The weight. The fight. Just for now."

She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Her breath caught in her throat, not from fear but from the terrifying temptation to lean back into him, to surrender. Every muscle screamed to hold her ground, to resist. But her heart, traitorous thing, beat against her ribs like it was begging her to let go.

"Harper."

The sound of her name in his mouth wasn’t just a trigger—it was a key. A low, deliberate pull that reached past her defenses and scraped open something old and aching inside her. It was the way he said it—slow, grounded, like he already owned every broken part and wasn’t afraid of what he’d find. It unlocked something she hadn’t realized she’d bolted shut, something tender and terrifying all at once.

When she turned, he was right there, so close she could feel the heat rolling off his skin. His hands found her hips with unyielding certainty, fingers spreading possessively across the curve of her body like he was memorizing the shape of surrender. She barely had time to draw a breath before his mouth was on hers—hungry, claiming, devastating. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful. It was the kind of kiss that demanded a response, and she gave it to him with everything she’d been holding back. Their mouths collided like they’d done this a hundred times before. Like it was inevitable and had been stalking them since the first moment they met.

His kiss wasn’t soft. It wasn’t polite. It was dominance made flesh—possessive, demanding, the kind of kiss that stripped her down from the inside out. Her body reacted before her mind caught up: knees going weak, hands fisting in his damp hair, lips parting to let him in deeper. It was a command she didn’t wantto disobey. Maybe that was what made her come undone—how effortlessly he took control, and how completely she let him. And that terrified her. Letting go wasn’t just foreign—it was reckless, like handing someone the detonator and hoping they didn’t press the button. But with Reed, it didn’t feel like falling apart. It felt like letting someone help her hold the pieces together.

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