Page 130 of Knotting the Cowboys

"I wouldn't mind ice cream. Especially if I could be a bit... explorative with it."

The image that flashes through my mind—Cole's mouth, ice cream, sensitive skin—makes heat flood my face and pool low in my belly.

"Cole!" I hiss, glancing around frantically to make sure no one heard. "You can't say things like that in public!"

His chuckle is dark chocolate and whiskey, smooth and intoxicating.

"So you did catch what I was implying. Interesting."

"Oh my god." I slap his chest, mortified but unable to stop the smile tugging at my lips. "Shh! People will hear!"

"Let them." But he's grinning now, boyish and pleased with himself for flustering me. "Not my fault you have a dirty mind, James."

"I do not have a—you're the one who—" I sputter, face burning hotter than the morning sun. "You're impossible."

"And you're adorable when you blush." He tucks the bandana back in his pocket, fingers lingering against the denim in a way that draws my attention to his hands.

Strong, capable hands that could probably?—

"Of course, it wouldn't take you long to move on to some old rugged douche to get a roof over your head."

The voice cuts through our moment like a blade through silk, and every muscle in my body locks tight.

I know that voice.

Know it the way prey knows the sound of a predator's footfall—bone-deep, instinctive, wrong.

My spine goes rigid, every nerve ending screaming danger as I turn with the careful precision of someone defusing a bomb.

Because that's what this moment feels like—something that could explode and take everything good I've built here with it.

Blake stands twenty feet away, positioned strategically in front of the Sweetwater Inn—the same hotel that turned me away that first night. He looks exactly the same and completely different. Same sandy brown hair styled with too much product, same calculating blue eyes that never quite warm even when he smiles.

But the suit is new, expensive in that understated way that screams money, and his shoes shine despite the dusty street.

He's lost weight too, honed himself into something sharper, more dangerous.

My body responds before my mind can catch up. Emotions—panic, fury, bone-deep exhaustion—surge up like flood water, and I do the only thing I can:I slam them all down, lock them away behind walls I built during countless Iron Ridge pack meetings.

My face goes carefully blank, voice emerging steady despite the earthquake in my chest.

"What are you doing here, Blake?"

He steps closer, and I catch his scent—cedar and musk, that Alpha smell that used to make me feel safe and now makes my skin crawl.

"Well hello to you too, wife." The emphasis on the last word is deliberate, cruel. "Though I suppose that's ex-wife now, isn't it? Amazing how quickly some people move on."

"I asked you a question."

His smile is all teeth, no warmth.

"Business, actually. Funny thing happened after our divorce. Some interesting discrepancies came to light about undisclosed assets. Imagine my surprise when Iron Ridge's forensic accountants discovered your dear grandfather had quite the portfolio. Properties, investments, mineral rights." He gestures at the town around us with obvious disgust. "So here I am, come to assess what this shithole might be worth."

"The town's not for sale," Cole says, and I'd almost forgotten he was there, my focus so narrowed on the threat in front of me.

He moves smoothly, positioning himself between Blake and me with a casualness that doesn't hide the tension in his shoulders.

Blake's attention shifts to Cole, and his smirk deepens.

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