Page 171 of Knotting the Cowboys

"You saved me too," he whispers, echoing his words from the porch. "Let me show you how much."

When he slides inside, it's with a reverence that brings tears to my eyes. We move together slowly at first, learning each other's rhythms, building something that's more than physical. His hands worship every inch they can reach while his mouth speaks praise against my skin—how good I feel, how perfect we fit, how he's never letting go.

The desperation builds gradually, inevitable as sunrise. Our movements become urgent, chasing something that feels bigger than pleasure. When I fall apart in his arms, it's with his name on my lips and the taste of redemption on my tongue. He follows me over, my name a broken prayer as he buries his face in my neck.

We lie tangled afterward, both of us shaking with the intensity of what just happened. Cole pulls a blanket over us, tucking me against his chest where I can hear his heart still racing. His arms band around me like he's afraid I'll disappear if he loosens his grip.

"That was..." I trail off, not finding words big enough.

"Yeah," he agrees, pressing a kiss to my hair. "It was."

We're quiet for a while, just breathing together, letting the reality settle. Outside, I hear Mavi's voice in the distance, probably pointing out constellations to Luna. The normal sounds of our unconventional family carrying on while Cole and I have shifted something fundamental between us.

"The pack's going to fight for you," Cole says suddenly, his voice rumbling through his chest where my ear is pressed. "Whatever it takes, whatever it costs. We're going to make sure Blake never touches you or this ranch again."

"I don't want you to bankrupt yourselves for me," I protest weakly.

"Too bad." His arms tighten. "You're ours now. Pack. Family. That means your fights are our fights. Your enemies are our enemies." He pauses, then adds more softly, "Your victories are our victories too."

I prop myself up on an elbow to look at him. His gray eyes are serious in the fairy light, all that earlier vulnerability transformed into determination.

"I've already lost too much to fire," he continues, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. "I won't lose you too. None of us will."

"You won't," I promise, catching his hand and pressing it to my cheek. "I'm not going anywhere. This is my home now. You're my home."

Something shifts in his expression, wonder mixing with the determination. "Say that again."

"You're my home," I repeat, meaning it with every fiber of my being. "All of you. This place. This life we're building. Home."

He pulls me down for a kiss that's gentle and fierce all at once, sealing the promise between us. When we break apart, I settle back against his chest, tracing idle patterns on his skin.

My fingers find the phoenix tattoo again, following the lines of wings spread in flight. Rising from ashes. Being reborn. It feels like a metaphor for all of us—burned by our pasts but building something new from the ruins.

"We should get dressed," Cole says eventually, though he makes no move to release me. "Mavi will be back with Luna soon."

"Five more minutes," I bargain, burrowing closer.

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me. "Five more minutes," he agrees, pulling the blanket higher.

But we both know it's a lie. Five minutes or five hours or five years—it'll never be enough. Not when we've finally found what we've been looking for all along.

Safety. Home. Second chances that actually stick.

And a love strong enough to fight dragons for, even when the dragon wears an expensive suit and files legal briefs instead of breathing fire.

Especially then.

Blake’s Escalation To Acquire The Present

~WILLA~

The December farmers market spreads through Sweetwater Falls' main square like a promise of normalcy I'm desperate to believe in.

Canvas awnings flutter in the morning breeze, their cheerful stripes at odds with the knot of anxiety that's lived in my chest since Thanksgiving.

Luna babbles from her carrier strapped to Austin's chest, tiny mittened hands reaching for the colorful displays while I pretend to examine Pearl Chen-Morrison's selection of winter squash, letting the familiar rhythm of small-town Saturday morning wash over me like a protective spell.

"The butternut's especially good this year," Pearl says, her weathered hands arranging the gourds with the same meticulous care she brings to her store. "Would make a lovely soup for that baby."

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