Page 31 of The Lasso Master

"It’s not for show," he said. "You don’t wear it for them. You wear it for me. And for you. Because you chose to stay."

She didn’t argue. A beat passed, her eyes locked on his, emotions flickering like firelight—pride, fear, need. Then she drew a slow breath and turned, lifting her hair with both hands. Her fingers trembled slightly, but her spine stayed straight. It wasn’t submission. It was something fiercer. It was trust.

He fastened it around her neck, the click of the clasp loud in the stillness, like a lock sliding into place. His fingers lingered at the base of her throat, brushing over the sapphire, now warm from her skin. It looked bold against her bare skin—brazen and perfect. And God, it hit him harder than he expected.

This wasn’t just a collar. It was a declaration, a future, a terrifying, beautiful truth made visible. She was his. And somehow, impossibly, he was hers. Every inch of his body knewit. It pulsed in his fingertips, in the sudden tightness of his chest, in the urge to drop to his knees and thank whatever twist of fate had brought her to him.

It was more than an accessory. It was a vow, forged in metal and meaning. A symbol of choice, of surrender, of power balanced in trust. And it left him breathless.

She turned back to face him, eyes stormy, but lips curved. "If I wear this, you know what that means, right?"

He stepped into her space. "That you’re mine. Fully. Officially. Permanently."

"And you’re mine."

He growled—low and pleased. It rumbled from his chest like a promise, a sound meant only for her. It wasn’t just desire—it was certainty, satisfaction, possession steeped in devotion. She wasn’t just his. She was home.

The next time he took her—right there, bent over the cold granite of the kitchen island—it wasn’t just about hunger. It was about dominance, about devotion. About anchoring every inch of her to him with his hands, his mouth, his body. Her palms flattened against the surface, fingers splayed, nails dragging across stone as he yanked her hips back to meet his. She gasped as the first thrust claimed her deep and hard, the sting of cool air clashing with the heat of their bodies.

He pulled her hair, just enough to lift her head, to force her to meet her own reflection in the darkened glass of the oven door across the kitchen. Her mouth parted, eyes wide and already glazing, as he drove into her with relentless force. The sight of her—flushed, trembling, owned—undid him. And she watched, shaking, as she shattered for him again and again.

He didn’t just take her. He consumed her. Worshiped her. Every breath, every growled command, every bruising thrust sang the same truth: she was his. And the way she gasped his name, breathless and desperate, swore she felt it too.

They didn’t make it to the recovery op briefing on time.

"Do you think they’ll notice?" Harper asked as they strode through the front entrance of the Silver Spur offices.

"You’re wearing a diamond-studded collar and my shirt from last night. What do you think, little thief?"

She grinned, smoothing her jacket just enough to let the sapphire glint beneath. "So… subtle isn’t our thing. Got it."

"Was it ever?"

She snorted. "You’re lucky you’re good with a rope."

"You’re lucky I didn’t tie you to the bed this morning."

"Don’t threaten me with a good time, boss man."

Reed chuckled, low and lethal, as they stepped into the conference room.

No one said a word when they walked in together. Not when Harper’s collar sparkled beneath her leather jacket. Not when Reed kept a possessive hand on her lower back. Not even when Dawson muttered something and got promptly elbowed by Gavin.

The new client was a high-level antiquities broker—one of the few who operated above board. But even legit players found themselves in murky waters when relics like this surfaced. The artifact in question was a carved obsidian idol, its surface studded with contraband emeralds and a hidden cipher etched so fine it took a UV light to catch. Something about it stirred a chill in Reed's gut—it wasn't just the craftsmanship or the illicit stones. It was the feeling of a trap hidden in plain sight. Like Harper, the idol was more than it appeared—scarred, altered, dangerous. But also holding secrets worth unearthing.

The symmetry wasn’t lost on him. Neither was the warning. The moment Reed laid eyes on the image, his gut clenched.

The danger wasn’t hypothetical. Surveillance teams had already flagged two foreign operatives tailing the client. Worse, the exchange site had been compromised. And Reed had a damngood hunch who was behind it: someone still loyal to Stuart, or perhaps the man himself, pulling strings from deeper shadows.

Now that Harper was officially on the team—as a consultant, though she thumbed her nose at the formality of it—she brought more than just grit and lock-picking. She knew the artifact inside and out. She could quote half a dozen forged provenance trails it had moved through.

And she recognized the false Aztec signature for what it was: a deliberate mislead. But more than that, she knew how the old network moved—how they manipulated, how they made threats disappear. She could feel it in the air. This wasn’t just another job. It was bait. And it had her ex-mentor’s fingerprints all over it.

She leaned over the table, her expression sharp as she tapped the grainy photo. Beneath the focus in her eyes, though, flickered something tighter—an unease that twisted low in her gut. The last time she’d seen something like this, it had ended in blood and betrayal.

She tamped the feeling down, hard, and masked it with a mischievous grin. But the sensation didn’t fade. Not with the artifact looking back at her like a warning. "You think this is real Aztec? The inlay looks too modern."

"It’s authentic," Reed said, eyes on the map overlay. "But altered. On purpose. Someone wanted to hide what it really does."

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