Page 163 of Knotting the Cowboys

I blink, returning to the present to find my knuckles bloodless where they grip the casserole dish. Everyone's stopped what they're doing. River hovers nearby like he wants to help but isn't sure how. Mavi watches with those sharp eyes that miss nothing.

"I'm fine," I insist, but my voice comes out high and tight.

"No," Cole says simply, "you're not."

His hands come around me from behind, gently prying my fingers from the dish. I resist for a moment, some primitive part of me afraid to let go, afraid that if I stop moving I'll shatter like poorly fired ceramic. But his touch is patient, persistent, and eventually my hands release their death grip.

"There we go," he murmurs, setting the dish safely in the drainer. His arms come around my waist, pulling me back against his chest. "That's better."

I'm suddenly aware that I'm shaking. Fine tremors run through me like aftershocks, and Cole just holds me tighter, becoming an anchor in the storm of my thoughts. He smells like leather and turkey and home, and I want to sink into him until the rest of the world disappears.

"He's not going to ruin this," Cole whispers against my ear, and I realize I must have been talking out loud again. Bad habit I've developed lately, letting my thoughts spill out when my guard drops. "I won't let him."

"You don't know Blake," I whisper back, my wet hands clutching at his forearms where they cross my stomach. "He doesn't let go of things. Ever. He'll keep coming, keep pushing, keep trying to destroy everything good because he can't stand losing."

"Then he'll learn." Cole's voice carries that edge of barely controlled violence that reminds me these men aren't just gentle caretakers. They're predators when they need to be, protectors with teeth. "The hard way, if necessary."

River and Mavi exchange looks over my head, some silent communication that makes Mavi nod and quietly leave the kitchen. River follows, and suddenly it's just Cole and me and the cooling dishwater and the weight of everything unsaid.

"Breathe," Cole instructs, his chest expanding against my back in demonstration. "In through your nose, hold for four, out through your mouth."

I follow his lead because it's easier than fighting. In for four, hold for four, out for four.

His breathing guides mine, steady as a metronome, until the shaking starts to subside.

"He won't let go until he gets what he wants," I confess on an exhale. "Him and Iron Ridge Pack themselves. They're all like that—taking and taking until there's nothing left."

Cole turns me in his arms, and I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. His hands come up to cradle my face, thumbs brushing away tears I didn't realize had fallen.

The calluses on his palms are rough against my cheeks, working man's hands that have built and protected and saved.

"We're prepared for that," he says, steel in his voice. "River's been tracking their finances—did you know they're bleeding money? Bad investments, worse management. They need your ranch to stay afloat."

"That's why Blake married me," I admit, the words tasting bitter. "For the inheritance he knew was coming."

"And now they're desperate." Cole's thumbs make another pass across my cheekbones. "Desperate men make mistakes. We're ready to counter whatever they try."

He searches my face like he's trying to read my thoughts, those steel-gray eyes intense with concern.

"Can you trust us to handle it? Can you genuinely trust this pack to protect you?"

The question hangs between us like a challenge.Trust.Such a small word for such a monumental ask. Trust means letting go of the hypervigilance that kept me alive. Trust means believing these men are different, that this pack is different, that I can have something without it being ripped away.

I open my mouth to answer—to say yes, of course I trust them, how could I not after everything—but my phone buzzes against my hip, loud in the quiet kitchen. We both freeze, some instinct warning that this interruption isn't coincidence.

"Check it," Cole says quietly, but his hands don't leave my face.

I pull the phone from my pocket with trembling fingers. Unknown number, but there's a photo attached.

My stomach drops as I open it, the image loading with painful clarity.

Legal documents. Official seals. Blake's signature bold across the bottom.

The text below is brief:

Hope you enjoyed your last Thanksgiving on MY ranch. Divorce contested. Filing for full custody of all marital assets, including property. See you in court.*

The phone slips from my numb fingers, but Cole catches it before it hits the floor. He read the message, and I watch his face transform from concern to fury so pure it makes the air feel electric.

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