Page 10 of Harvest His Heart (Alphas Fall Hard Collection #6)

Chapter

Nine

LACEY

The smell of apples and cinnamon still clings to the air, but something colder slips in behind it.

Anson crosses to the cabinet, grabs two glasses, and fills them with bourbon from the pantry. Barely an inch of amber liquid, but my breath snags. My pulse spikes. The sound of pouring becomes the roar of memory … too loud, too close.

The scent hits—smoke, oak, a flash of red. My fingers go numb on the dish towel.

“Lace?” His voice is careful now. “Talk to me.”

“I’m fine.” I’m not. The lie scrapes my throat. My eyes lock on the glasses like they might grow teeth.

He follows my stare, clocking the tremor in my hand, the way my breath goes shallow. No questions. No push. He moves. In one smooth motion, crossing to the sink, tipping both pours. Water hisses; the scent loosens its sting.

“Not worth it,” he says simply. He rinses the glasses, sets them upside down to dry. “Tea?”

I nod, once, grateful and undone. He fills two mugs from the kettle on the stove—warm cider, cinnamon steam—and sets one within easy reach, not crowding me.

“Do you want space,” he asks quietly, “or company that doesn’t touch unless you say so?”

The floor steadies under my feet. “Company. No touching. For a minute.”

“You got it.” He leans a hip against the counter, hands visible, voice easy. “For what it’s worth, I don’t drink much. Habit from the teams. Clarity keeps people alive. Reaching for it was … automatic. Won’t make that mistake again.”

I breathe in the apple heat and let my shoulders drop. “Thank you.”

“How about a deal?” His voice lowers, steady as rain. “Don’t need the details when something triggers. Just the warning. When the thunder starts building behind your ribs—when you feel it coming on—tell me it’s a storm day. I’ll be your shelter until it passes.”

A laugh breaks loose—small, shocked, relieved. “You want me to give you a storm warning?”

“Forecast. Barometer reading.” A ghost of a smile. “Whatever works.”

“Okay.” My voice steadies. “Then… whiskey is thunder, lightning.”

“Copy that.” He taps the counter once, an easy cadence. “Thunder and lightning mean tea, fire, and distance unless you ask otherwise.”

Something soft and aching unfurls in my chest. “Distance for now. Maybe not later.”

“Understood.”

Silence settles—the good kind. The oven pings; the room smells like cinnamon and browned sugar. He opens the door, heat rolling out, and slides the pie onto the stovetop. The crust shatters like thin glass under the knife.

He offers a fork. “Taste test?”

I take a bite. Butter, apple, a whisper of lemon. “It’s missing something,” I murmur, then meet his eyes. “Time. It needs to cool so everything can set.”

His gaze lingers, warm and knowing. “Then we let it rest.”

We don’t touch. We don’t rush. We stand with steaming mugs and watch the pie breathe. After a while, he says, “You keeping the flannel?”

“For now.” I tug the sleeve, hiding a smile. “It helps with the weather.”

He huffs a laugh, quiet and pleased. “Then consider it issued gear.”

Outside, the wind changes. Inside, the house holds steady—cider and cinnamon, flannel and firelight—while somewhere between us, the clouds part, and a sliver of sunlight breaks through.

There’s no formal dinner tonight, just pies cooling on racks. A cookie tin occasionally raided. No judgmental stares, backhanded comments about my curves, or what diet I should conform to. No pain, no past anywhere.

Another round of tea, cozy conversation, and I grab two dessert plates. Anson goes for the knife, pie server, insisting he slice.

I groan, eyeing the lattice-work suspiciously.

“What?”

“They aren’t especially appetizing-looking.” I’m much better at writing about food than making it.

“What are you talking about? Can’t wait to get my lips around a piece.

” Cautiously spoken, a hint of naughtiness, but taking his time, letting me get used to this.

What it’s like to be with a good man … a safe one.

Even though everything about his sexy looks and dark voice scream danger of the most delicious kind.

“Besides, pretty sure I was behind the top of this one.”

I cock my head. “Maybe you’re right.”

Candelight like golden pools bleeds into the rustic wood grain where Anson takes our plates and forks.

He sits at the head, me next to him. Like our first dinner together.

Intimate temptation. But this time, instead of apprehension or concern, I’m flooded with contentment, gratitude. Like maybe I deserve this.

“Tell me if it’s got enough love this time.” He winks, grabbing his fork, slicing off a piece and offering it to me.

My tongue darts out, catching a sugary, spicy drop of filling. His eyes go black, nostrils flaring, face flushing.

Cinnamon, butter, a faint apple tang burst on my tongue. The fire pops contentedly in the living room. Large windows soaking up the ethereal glow of twilight in Big Sky Country.

I laugh, mock-serious. “Needs more practice. Guess you’ll have to bake another.”

He takes a forkful, rolls it around on his tongue, deliberate, contemplative. My mind wanders to other places I’d like to feel that heated velvet.

“Not spicy enough for my pepper?” he says it like a joke, but my throat tightens, chest tugs at the possessive pronoun. My. Could that really happen?

My past, the pain feels like lifetimes ago. Like I could blink and make it go away. It’s a risky thought, the kind that leads to guards down, the wrong kinds of invitations.

“When your eyes get that haunted look, what are you thinking about?”

My gaze flickers to his, how the candlelight dances over his skin—a revelation. “Wish things were different. That I had made better choices. Didn’t have so much baggage.”

“You don’t have to carry it alone now.” He says it like a man who knows. His scar flashes, dancing in the warm glow of fire.

“His name is Cary Brantley. Former Marine. Dangerous man. Obsessive, stalker, psychotic…” I breathe through my mouth, voice trembling. “Violent, narcissistic. Demonic on alcohol.” My hand goes to my neck, finger tracing an almost imperceptible scar.

Anson’s eyes drop to the pad of my finger, recognition flaring.

I inhale slowly, trying to separate my words from the weight they still carry. “He can never find me. But he already has—”

I exhale, looking down. He covers my hand with his.

“The cut fences. Open chicken coop.”

He nods, face stern but steady, letting it sink in.

I level my gaze. “The other night, in the middle of dinner. When I got that text. It was from him. Ugly words, nasty intent … and a photo of the welcome sign for Forest Grove.” The last words burn my tongue like dry ice.

His fingers glance over the inside of my wrist, tiny circles grounding me to this moment—to him. “Easy. Take your time.”

“Went to town to report things to Chief Patrick. You already know about that.”

He nods, jaw tensing. “Couldn’t tell me much, confidential. But he said to keep you close.”

“Is that really what’s best, though?” My voice hitches. “Safest for you and Ash, Willow and Ro, Eldon and Laura? All the people I’ve only just met but who already feel like family.”

“You are family,” he says quietly. “Knew the first time I set eyes on you. And family sticks together through the good and the bad, no matter what.”

I shake my head, the backs of my eyes dangerously stinging. I hang on by a thread, throat tightening against the sob I fight. “But if anything ever happened to you, to anyone here at the ranch, I could never forgive myself … for coming here, hiding here, tangling you in my mess.”

“You’re not hiding here, Lace. You’re healing. There’s a difference.”

The words slam into me. My fork drops mid-bite, sharp metal against solid stoneware. “Sorry, it’s just—”

“Don’t apologize.” He pushes back from the table and his empty plate, rising. “Come sit by the fire with me.” Voice dark, sensual, as alluring as the too-high apple in the glowing, sun-slanted orchard.

We settle on the couch in front of the fire. He keeps a distance like the other night. But space between us no longer works for me.

I snuggle against him, chest pooling with warmth, voice soft. “I didn’t think I could still feel safe anywhere. Didn’t even know how to feel human again until I came here. Met you.”

His corded arm wraps around me, drawing me tight, thumb tracing my cheek.

“Soft as spring petals,” he says, exploring me incrementally the way I’ve seen someone gentle a horse. Easy touch, small nuances, smaller steps.

Something breaks inside. It’s no longer enough for me. I want to live again. I want to want … and take. Whole, complete. Unafraid.

I lean into his touch, lips parting, stretching up to capture his mouth as warmth envelopes us. The scent of woodsmoke from neighboring hearths lingers in the distance, the pulse of trust and restraint aching between us.

His hand caresses my shoulder, massages, accustoming me to his touch until my throat’s too tight to breathe, body aching, the juncture at the top of my legs throbbing, urgent. What would it feel like to be with this man? To let passion take over, ignite like dry cheat grass to spark?

I have to know. No other choice. Yearning pulses through me. I grab his work-hardened hand, drop it lower to cup my breast. My heart explodes, a ragged sigh escaping his lips.

“Lacey,” he says like a whispered prayer.

“Your hand is trembling,” I say as his thumb glances over my nipple. I gasp.

“Don’t want to hurt you, push you too far,” he says, low rumble vibrating through me.

“Don’t want to stop or let you go,” I whisper. Tired of leading a half-life steeped in fear.

I shift, animated by heat and desperation, crawling into his lap, straddling him on the couch. The air escapes his lungs as I feel his firm arousal digging into the soft flesh of my thigh. Heat and passion swirl in his eyes, the temptation of the orchard taking root.