I step away to grab my toolbox, needing space before they beat their chests or launch a pissing contest against the barn wall. “If you’ll excuse me, I've got work to do.”
Marcus follows, hovering too close as I check the electrical connections. “How about dinner tonight? Be good to hang out before the fundraiser. There’s a new place in town?—”
“Can't. Working late.” It's the same answer I always give him every time I see him and every time he calls, but he never seems to hear it.
Just like Dad never seems to hear that I don't want the life he's trying to plan for me.
“Come on, George.” Marcus’s voice drips with patronizing charm. “We both know where this is heading. Your father thinks we'd be perfect together. Why fight the inevitable?”
Beckett materializes before I can tell Marcus where to shove his dinner invitation, his hazel eyes swirling like a storm.He radiates a deadly grace—loose-limbed, steady-eyed, already mapping out every angle like it’s second nature.
And in that instant, I know.
It’s the way he moves—fluid but alert, like his body’s always half a second from action. Controlled. Efficient. Ready.
That’s not something you fake. It’s combat. It’s training. It’s muscle memory.
My dad moved like that, too, especially when he thought trouble was coming.
Whatever Beckett’s hiding, it’s not small. And ‘Shadow’ sure as hell isn’t just a nickname.
The temperature seems to drop ten degrees as Beckett towers over Marcus. His presence fills the space, a living wall of barely contained aggression.
Marcus instinctively steps back, his Adam's apple bobbing as his survival instinct overcomes his inflated sense of authority. His hand twitches toward his belt—not his weapon, but a nervous tell that broadcasts his uncertainty.
“George.” Beckett's voice is quiet. Dangerous. Like thunder before lightning strikes. “Angus needs the south speaker checked.”
The deputy's cocky swagger evaporates. He retreats with a jerky tip of his hat, trying to salvage what's left of his dignity. His boots scuff against the wooden floor as he backs away, shoulders hunched, before finally turning tail.
I've never been so grateful for an excuse to escape. I need to think. To process what my instincts are telling me about Beckett.
But as I pass him, he catches my elbow. The heat of his palm brands my skin through my shirt sleeve. “You need me, just say the word.” His thumb traces a small circle on the sensitive skin of my inner elbow, and my traitorous pulse skips.
He shouldn't affect me like this. I don't do overprotective alpha males who think they can swagger into my life and rearrange everything. But my body hasn't received the memo because every cell feels magnetically drawn to him, like iron filings to a lodestone.
Beckett is everything I swore I didn’t want.
I grew up under the rule of one military man. And I’m not about to sign up for another if my gut instinct is right about Beckett.
Dad has spent my entire life planning my future for me, deciding what’s best, pushing me toward his version of stability. It’s why he keeps shoving Marcus in my direction, as if a shiny badge and an inflated ego are all I need in a man.
Beckett carries the same commanding presence, the same expectations that people will fall in line.
I know his type. He was trained to lead. To give orders. And my entire life has been spent fighting against that very thing.
So why the hell does my body betray me every time he gets close?
Why did I let myself fall into his arms that night at The Honey Pot, let him break down all my carefully built walls as if he was born to do it?
Why do I crave the way he watches me like I’m worth protecting and claiming?
I clench my jaw, shoving the thoughts aside. That’s not my life. He’s not my future.
Even if a part of me, the reckless, foolish, traitorous part, wants him to be.
I square my shoulders, pretending I don’t rememberexactlyhow good he looked without his clothes. Like I don’t remember the way his hands—big, rough, commanding—slid over my skin or the way his mouth and cock ruined me in the best possible way.
Nope. Not thinking about that.
