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And this ache in my chest, the one that won’t go away unless I’m touching her, kissing her, claiming her?

It’s only getting stronger.

Her fingers clutch the reins like she’s expecting the gentle horse I saddled for her to take off at a dead sprint, which honestly, Peanut wouldn’t do if I paid him in sugar cubes and moonshine.

Still. She’s tense.

I ride slow, keeping my own mount close beside hers, every part of me tuned to her energy.

The little squeaks she makes when the horse shifts under her? I hear every single one.

The way she shifts in the saddle, trying to look casual while clearly bracing for death? It’s adorable.

And also—yeah—turns me on more than it probably should.

“You’re doing fine,” I murmur, keeping my voice low and steady. “Peanut’s trained. He’s easy. Gentle.”

She glances at me, eyes wide. “Easy for you to say. You look like you were born on a horse.”

“Not quite.”

“So, where’d you learn? I’m guessing you’re not originally from New Jersey.”

I smile. “Good guess.”

She raises a brow. “Let me guess. Texas?”

I snort. “Nope.”

“Montana?”

“Colder.”

“Wyoming?”

“Keep going.”

“Okay, I give up. Where are you from?”

My smile fades slightly. Not because I don’t want to tell her, but because how do I tell her?

How do I explain that I’ve never belonged to any one place?

That I was born into fire and exile and clawed my way across decades, trying not to become the kind of monster I saw in my own bloodline?

“Everywhere,” I finally say. “I’ve moved around a lot. Stayed long enough to learn a few things. Ride. Build. Fix what’s broken. And then, moved on.”

She studies me. “Sounds lonely.”

I shrug. “It was.”

I don’t add that it still is. That even with the Motley Crewd and their chaos and loyalty, I still feel like I’m one wrong move from being on the outside again.

She doesn’t push, but I can feel her watching me, sensing the gap in what I’m giving her.

Smart girl.

I like that about her.