Page 13 of Claim Me, Colt

Before I can respond, there's a sharp knock on the door.

I take a deep breath, smoothing my hands over the flannel shirt I’m wearing, and walk to the door with Colt beside me.

When I open it, my father's pale blue eyes take in my appearance with barely concealed horror. The daughter he groomed for political perfection is standing barefoot in a mountain cabin, with paint under her fingernails, color in her cheeks, and grizzled mountain man by her side.

It's probably his worst nightmare.

"Simone." His voice is controlled, but I can hear the steel underneath. "Glad to see you’re in better shape than the car."

"Hello, Dad."

His gaze shifts to Colt, taking in the way he's positioned himself protectively at my side. "Mr...?"

"Colt." No last name offered. No handshake extended.

"I see." Dad's tone could freeze water. "Well, Mr. Colt, I appreciate you providing shelter for my daughter, but we'll be taking her home now."

"Will you?" Colt's voice is deceptively mild.

"Of course. She's had her little adventure, worked through whatever pre-wedding jitters she was experiencing. It's time to return to reality."

The casual dismissal of my choices—reducing my desperate flight to "pre-wedding jitters"—makes anger flare in my chest.

"I'm not going back," I say clearly.

Dad's practiced smile doesn't waver. "Sweetheart, you're upset. Understandably so. Planning a wedding is stressful, and I know Jonathan's schedule has been demanding lately—"

"Jonathan was cheating on me."

The words drop into the silence like stones into still water. Dad's smile finally slips.

Marcus Turner shifts uncomfortably behind my father. The crisis management woman makes a note on her tablet.

"Personal relationships can be complicated," Dad says carefully. "But the bigger picture here—"

"The bigger picture is that you tried to sell me to the highest political bidder," I interrupt. "And I'm done being sold."

His mask of paternal concern finally cracks, revealing the ruthless politician underneath. He takes a step closer, lowering his voice to the tone he uses for behind-closed-doors negotiations. "You have responsibilities. Obligations. The Morrison name means something in this country—"

"The Morrison name is the only thing that's ever mattered to you," I say. "Not me. Not my happiness. Just the political capital I represent."

"That's not fair—"

"Isn't it?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "When was the last time you asked me what I wanted, Dad? When was the last time we had a conversation that wasn't about poll numbers or public perception?"

He opens his mouth, then closes it. Because we both know the answer.

Never.

"I'm twenty-eight years old, and this is the first decision I've ever made entirely for myself," I continue. "I'm not going back to D.C. I'm not marrying Jonathan. I'm staying here."

"Here?" He looks around the cabin like it's contaminated. "With him?"

His dismissive tone makes Colt straighten, and I feel the dangerous stillness that radiates from him.

"Yes," I say firmly. "With him."

"Absolutely not." Dad's voice turns cold, authoritative. "I won't allow it."

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