Page 99 of For Cowgirls and Kings

“The king, of course,” he states, not looking at me. Some part of me both feared and hoped for that answer, and now that he’s requested a“single bed at the inn”I have no doubt the cards are heavily in my own hands.

What do I want? What does he want besides another chance to fuck me? Am I okay if it’s sex and nothing else? Is he?

It feels potentially cliche—the single bed at the inn trope happening in my very real, friends to whatever the fuck it is we are becoming plot line, but this is different. We aren’t forced to share a bed. Mateo’s choosing it. He’s deciding to be as close to me as he can get, forcing his space to blend with my own. And something about that feels far more powerful than any of the other versions of this story I’ve read about.

“Here’s your keys. Enjoy your stay,” the clerk says tartly, dismissing us to usher the next customer forward. Mateo leans down, his lips only an inch from my ear.

“Seeing you jealous turns me on.”

My heart pitter patters at his words, and I force a teasing smile, “Easy, your highness. She might get the impression we’re more than friends.”

At least, a girl can hope.

I walk into the massive room, admiring the clean white bed contrasting against the dark wooden beams in the ceiling and the bright watercolor horse painting hanging above it. It’s the prettiest hotel room I’ve ever been in, and not for the first time today, I feel swept up in the magic of living someone else’s dream life. None of it feels real.

I note a bag I didn’t pack, overflowing with all of my bathroom things, sitting on a stand on the left side of the bed, farthest from the door, and a large black clothing bag spread across the white comforter.

I’ve always known Mateo to be sweet and affectionate, kind to a fault even sometimes. But to know he’s capable of such an act as this—planning a getaway including all of my overnight items—feels like something else entirely. This feels a little too close to beinglovedby someone who thinks you’re the worldand deserve just as much, and that’s not a feeling I can afford to let myself feel. Not in regards to Mateo.

“Hello?” I call into the room, only to be met with silence.

After getting to our room, Mateo informed me he had booked me a massage for the time he had to go to a meeting. I’ve never even had a massage, but it was fucking incredible, and I’ll be asking him to book me one every year for Christmas as a special treat.

I did expect him to be done with his meeting by now though, and the fact that he’s not sends a pang of nervousness to spear through me. This is the first time I’ve been alone since being kidnapped, outside of the fortress of Mateo’s house, and I feel the effects of my trauma gripping around my throat like a vise.

I stumble toward the bed, panic crawling across my skin with renewed heat. I can feel myself spiraling, and without someone here to pull me back, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to save myself.

With shaky fingers I pull out my phone, dialing Mateo’s number. The fact that he’s in a meeting doesn’t even register until he picks up, panic in his own voice.

“Dale, is everything okay?”

I restrain a sob, the lump in my throat feeling like a weighted ball, as I try to form other words. “You weren’t here when I got back.”

“I’m sorry, I’m still in my meeting. But I can come up now if you want. Is something wrong?” His voice is gentle and tender, just the concern in it enough to soothe my racing heart. I look back around the room for anything out of place or concerning.

Finding nothing I sigh heavily, the fiery panic fleeing my body almost as quickly as it ignited. That's the thing about trauma—the feelings it leaves behind come and go without rhyme or reason. “No, I’m…I’ll be okay.”

“If you need me, you call. I’ll pick up no matter what. But if you’re okay, I’m going to finish this meeting, and then you can get dressed and meet me at the bar at six for dinner. Is that okay?”

I could cry at the tenderness in his voice. It’s not something I’m used to, or something I’m sure I even deserve. “I’ll see you at six.”

“I’m serious, Dale. You can always call me; I’ll always answer.”

I hang up without response—no word feels worth the weight of the vow like statement he just made and that terrifies me. I don’t know if I can rely on him like that.

What if I’m already relying on him like that?

Taking a shaky breath, I set the phone down, running a hand over the dark bag, the brand in a circle on the front. Did he go back and get me something else?

The bag is taut, like it’s stuffed with pieces, and I pull the zipper down. My mind races as I take in each of the items layered within the bag—all dark colors, the fabrics and patterns of pieces I’d been drawn to when wandering around the store draped over wooden hangers.

Did he buy every item I looked at?

I pull on every hanger, the various extravagant western pieces more incredible andexpensivethan the last.There’s thousands of dollars here.What the fuck is he doing?

I notice a large box under the bag, the same logo on the top, a silken ribbon wrapped around it. My heart both soars and sinks at the sight of it.

I’ll never be able to pay him back for this show of wealth, but I also know myself well enough I won’t want to return whatever lies inside either. So I’ll either be heart broken when I can’t keep it, or live with the knowledge that I’m basically indebted to Mateo Reyes.Forever.