Page 187 of Knotting the Cowboys

Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong.

The scent hits my nostrils like a slap—expensive cologne failing to mask the rot underneath, alpha pheromones cranked to domination levels. My body knows before my brain catches up, every muscle tensing as fight-or-flight floods my system.

I spin toward the nursery door, and there he is. Blake Harrison, standing in Luna's room like he has any right to breathe the same air as her. His perfect suit is rumpled, his usually styled hair disheveled, but his eyes—his eyes burn with the kind of rage that precedes violence.

My fist connects with his face before conscious thought engages. The punch Mavi taught me—weight behind it, twist from the hip, follow through. Blake's head snaps back with a satisfying crack, blood immediately streaming from his nose.

"You fucking bitch!"

But I'm already moving, muscle memory from those training sessions taking over. Drop low, go for the knees, create distance. My body flows through the movements even as my mind screams about Luna, about getting him away from her crib.

Blake recovers faster than I expect, alpha strength and fury driving him forward. He blocks my knee strike, grabs my wrist when I swing again. We grapple, crashing into the wall, and I manage to rake my nails down his face before he pins my arms.

"Did they teach you that?" he snarls, blood dripping onto his expensive shirt. "Your collection of broken alphas playing at pack? Think a few self-defense lessons make you strong?"

I slam my forehead into his already-broken nose, feeling savage satisfaction at his howl of pain. But he doesn't let go. If anything, his grip tightens, and now I can smell his rage pheromones mixing with something else—planning. Purpose.

We struggle across the nursery, me trying to keep him away from Luna's crib, him using his superior strength to control the fight. I manage to get one arm free, swing for his throat, but he catches my fist and twists until I cry out.

"I should have killed you properly the first time," he whispers, pressing me against the wall next to Luna's crib. She's stirring now, tiny whimpers that will soon become full cries."Should have made sure you burned with that shithole house. But this is better."

His hand comes up with something white—a cloth that smells sickly sweet. I thrash, trying to knock it away, but he's got my arms pinned with one hand now, alpha strength making a mockery of all my training.

"My next revenge will be far better," he continues conversationally, like we're discussing the weather instead of my murder. "You'll stay alive a little longer. Long enough to really suffer."

I hold my breath, turning my face away, but he follows with patient persistence. The cloth presses over my nose and mouth, and eventually, biology wins. I have to breathe.

The drug hits fast, making the world go soft around the edges. My struggles weaken as my muscles stop responding to commands. Behind Blake, Luna's beginning to cry in earnest, and the sound breaks my heart even as consciousness fades.

"Cole," I manage to whisper against the cloth, a prayer and a plea combined. "Find us."

Blake's laugh is the last thing I hear before the darkness swallows me whole.

Consciousness returns in waves—first the pounding in my skull, then the raw ache in my throat, finally the cold metal circling my wrist. My body knows this feeling too well: drugged, chained, discarded like an object that's outlived its usefulness. But this time, rage burns through the fear before it can take root.

My eyes snap open, scanning frantically in the dim light. Not the ranch. A barn—old wood and hay bales, neglected tack hanging from rusted hooks. Moonlight filters through gaps in the boards, painting silver stripes across the dirt floor. And there, blessed sight that makes my heart restart—Luna.

She's in a portable cot ten feet away, still sleeping despite everything. Her tiny chest rises and falls with healthy rhythm, one fist curled near her face in that way that means she's deep in baby dreams. Relief hits so hard I almost sob, but I swallow it down. No time for breakdown. Only assessment and action.

The chain attached to my wrist is looped through a metal ring bolted to what looks like a converted stall. My right hand is free, left secured—Blake either didn't remember I'm right-handed or didn't care. Sloppy. The kind of mistake that comes from rage clouding judgment.

I test the chain quietly, feeling for weakness. Solid, but the wood of the stall shows its age in places. My fingers explore the grain, finding soft spots where moisture and time have done their work. Not enough to break through quickly, but maybe...

That's when I smell it.

Smoke. Not the clean wood smoke of a fireplace or the acrid chemical smell of Blake's cigarettes. This is smoke with intent—accelerant and old hay, planned destruction. My throat tightens, remembering too well how it feels when smoke replaces oxygen, when heat makes breathing impossible.

He's going to burn us. Again. The twisted poetry of it would be laughable if Luna weren't here, if this weren't his idea of justice. But I'm not the same woman who froze in her bedroom while flames ate the walls. Mavi's training drums through my muscles—assess, plan, act. River's patient lessons about staying calm under pressure. Austin's teachings about breath control. Cole's fierce insistence that I'm stronger than I know.

My free hand searches the floor around me, fingers sifting through loose hay and dirt. There—a nail, probably fallen from the deteriorating walls. Not much, but tools don't have to be complex to be effective. I palm it, already working it against the lock mechanism of the shackle.

The smoke smell grows stronger, and I can hear something now—the crackle of hungry flames finding fuel. Not close yet, but coming. Blake's probably watching from somewhere safe, waiting to see panic set in. He always did like an audience for his cruelties.

"Come on," I whisper to the lock, forcing my hands steady despite the urgency screaming through my veins. The nail slips, catches, slips again. I've watched Mavi pick locks during his security demonstrations, explaining how most restraints are about psychology more than physics. Make someone believe they're trapped, and they'll trap themselves.

Luna stirs in her cot, probably sensing the smoke on some primal level. Her little face scrunches in displeasure, but she doesn't wake. Not yet. I need to get free before she does, before her cries might draw Blake back to gloat or escalate.

I close my eyes, picture Cole's face when he realizes we're gone. He'll know immediately—the man catalogs my breathing patterns from across the room. River will track scents with that uncanny skill of his. Mavi's already got surveillance on every route off the ranch. Austin will keep them centered, focused on finding us rather than tearing Blake apart.

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