Page 31 of Knotting the Cowboys

Mine.

I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms.

Control. I need control.

She deserves better than another Alpha overwhelmed by his sexual needs, viewing her as territory to mark.

Deserves patience, space, and the chance to choose without pressure or obligation.

Even if every instinct in me roars against the restraint.

Regardless of whether her scent is already winding through our home, marking it as surely as we've marked it.

No matter whether I can feel the future reshaping itself around her presence, inevitable as gravity.

She's here. After months of waiting, wondering, keeping faith with a dead man's wishes—she's finally here.

Now I just have to keep myself from fucking it all up by wanting her too much, too fast, too desperately.

Simple as that.

The barn doors roll open with the smooth silence of well-oiled tracks, and Willa's soft gasp of amazement shoots straight through my chest like an arrow finding its mark. Six months we spent on this renovation, River and I working sunrise to sunset, replacing rotted beams and rusted hardware while maintaining the character William loved.

Now, watching her eyes go wide as she takes in the soaring space, every splinter and aching muscle feels worth it.

"This is... this isn't the same barn," she breathes, stepping inside with something close to reverence. The late afternoon sun streams through the new windows, turning dust motes into gold and catching the rich tones of the restored wood. "Grandpa's letters described it as barely standing."

"It was." I follow her in, maintaining careful distance even as her scent blooms stronger in the enclosed space. Vanilla and maple, yes, but underneath something wilder—like honeyed whiskey with an edge of flame. "Took some doing to save it, but the bones were good. Just needed someone to care enough to do the work."

She trails her fingers along the nearest stall door, and I track the movement like a predator watching prey.

Except she's not prey—she's something far more dangerous.

A catalyst.

A lit match in a barn full of dry hay, threatening to burn down everything stable we've built here.

"The woodwork," she murmurs, examining the carved details we painstakingly restored. "Grandpa made these. I remember him talking about learning carpentry from his father, how every cut had to be perfect."

"He taught me some of it." The admission slips out before I can stop it. "Those last months, when his hands weren't steady enough for detail work. Showed me how to read the grain, work with the wood instead of against it."

Her eyes find mine, that extraordinary amber-gold gaze hitting like a physical touch.

"He taught you?"

"Said someone should know. That skills like that shouldn't die with him." I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from reaching for her. "Guess he was preparing us to be caretakers before any of us knew it."

She turns back to the stall, but not before I catch the sheen of tears she's fighting.

The need to comfort, to pull her into my arms and promise everything will be alright, rises so strong I have to lock my knees to stay in place.

But she doesn't need another Alpha crowding her.

She needs space to process, to grieve, to discover what's been kept safe for her.

River appears in the doorway with his usual perfect timing, reading the tension like he reads everything else.

"The horses are eager to meet you," he says to Willa, but his eyes flick to me with a silent warning:Control yourself.

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