Page 45 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy (Wild Hearts Ranch #1)

“I didn’t want you to pity me,” I say, quieter now. “Didn’t want to be the one you felt obligated to bond with. Not just because you were a match with Walker and Cash.”

“Then don’t think for a second I feel sorry for you.” Her voice is rough, shaky. “You pulled me out of that river, Ridge. You saved me. Broken or not, you were the only one I wanted when I thought I was slipping under.”

A noise escapes my throat, half laugh, half sob. Like she cracked me open, a part of me I didn’t know was still breakable.

And even drenched and shivering, she’s still the most beautiful damn thing I’ve ever seen.

Tears mix with river water on her cheeks. She’s trying to say something but can’t get the words out between the coughing and tears.

She pushes herself up, facing me fully. Her eyes blaze with fierceness despite how she’s trembling.

“You’d better not ever drown on me again,” I say. “That’s an order. Now, do you need me to give you some mouth-to-mouth?” I grin.

A weak smile tugs at her lips. “Maybe you should. Might have been worth drowning for.”

My laugh comes out strangled. “Don’t tempt me. ”

I stand, lifting her into my arms. She weighs nothing, feels too fragile.

“Where—”

“Getting you warm and dry. No arguments.”

She doesn’t protest, just burrows closer, and I feel that purr starting in her chest. Faint, but there. A sign of trust that threatens to undo me completely.

I carry her straight to my room, kicking the door shut behind us. My bathroom is bigger than the entire guesthouse bedroom, with a huge claw-foot tub and enough towels to dry a small army. I set her on the counter, her legs dangling, and grab towels from the cabinet.

“Let’s get you out of these wet clothes,” I say, turning to give her privacy by facing the door.

Her hand suddenly grabs my wrist. “Don’t leave me. Please.”

The raw fear in her voice stops me cold. This isn’t about modesty or propriety. This is terror, bone-deep and real.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

We stand in silence for a moment.

“Nolan tried to drown me once,” she admits softly.

The words come out in a rush, like she’s been holding them back with a dam that just broke. Her whole body starts shaking violently, teeth chattering.

“Fucking bastard.” I step nearer, wrapping my arms around her so she’s closer to my body, my warmth .

“In our pool,” she continues. “He… he held me under. Said maybe he’d be better off getting rid of me. Make it seem like an accident so he didn’t have to look at me anymore.”

Her lips pinch to the side like she’s trying to fight off sorrow, and my heart is shredded to hear her words.

“He said I was embarrassing. That I didn’t deserve to be his Omega. That the sight of me made him sick. And then he pushed me under and held me there until I stopped fighting.”

Rage floods through me, hot and violent enough to burn away any remaining cold. If that asshole wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him myself. Slowly. Make him suffer every second of fear he gave her.

“He pulled me up just before I passed out,” she says, voice breaking. “Laughed. Said he was just kidding, that I needed to learn to take a joke. But I never learned to swim after that. The water… every time I’m near deep water, I hear his voice. Feel his hands on my head, pushing me down.”

“He’s gone now,” I say softly, trying to keep my voice level when all I want to do is tear through time and rip his throat out. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

She nods faintly, but then her lips tremble. “I know. But when I went under today…” Her voice cracks. “All I could think was that he was right. That I was going to die alone in the water just like he said I deserved.”

Something sharp splinters inside me. Not rage. But helplessness laced with grief that she ever believed that. That someone carved those words into her like truth.

“You’re not alone,” I say, stepping between her knees, cupping her face gently. My thumb brushes a tear from her cheek, then another, and still they come. “You’ll never be on your own again. I swear to you, Sophia. Not as long as I’m breathing.”

Her shoulders quake, and she folds into me without warning, pressing her soaked face into my neck. I hold her tighter, closer. I don’t care that we’re both dripping.

Gradually, her breathing evens out. The sobs soften into quiet trembles, then stillness, her fingers curling gently into the fabric of my shirt. She pulls back just enough to look up at me, eyes red-rimmed but clearing. Her lips twitch, and then a small laugh escapes.

“God,” she says, voice scratchy but lighter. “You must think I’m a total mess.”

I brush my thumb over her cheek, not smiling but not serious either. “I think you nearly drowned. I think you were terrified. And I think you’re still standing, even if it’s with help. That doesn’t make you a mess. That makes you strong.”

Her eyes shimmer again.

She huffs out a breath and looks down, plucking at the wet hem of her shirt. “Guess I should get out of these clothes before I freeze.” Her fingers move to the first button, struggling a little with the tremble still in her hands.

But she doesn’t get far.

“Help me?” she whispers, almost too quiet to hear. “I can’t… my fingers won’t work right. Everything’s numb.”

“I’ve got you.”

I ease her gently from the counter like she weighs nothing. She leans into me, half standing, and her hands quiver at the hem of her shirt, fumbling.

So I reach for her hands, cover them with mine, and slowly lift the wet fabric over her head.

I try to be clinical. Gentle. Detached. But nothing about her feels clinical to me, not the way her breath hitches, not the way her skin prickles under my touch, not the way she looks at me like I’m the only thing holding her together.

She’s shivering in just her soaked jeans and a thin, white cotton bra now, goose bumps breaking out across skin I’ve only ever imagined touching.

And fuck me, she’s stunning.

The bra clings to her like a second skin, translucent from the water, revealing the soft swell of her breasts and the perfect curve of her cleavage, those delicious pink nipples.

My gaze flicks there before I can stop it.

I want to bury my face in that softness, kiss my way down every inch, feel her arch under my mouth.

Pale, perfect skin scattered with faint freckles, like stars someone tossed across her shoulders. A soft dip at her waist I want to memorize with my mouth. She’s exquisite. Vulnerable. Mine .

But I don’t let myself linger.

Not now.

Not when she’s trusting me to help, not devour her. Later, maybe. When she’s ready, when she’s begging. But right now, I shove the hunger down deep and try to breathe through it.

She fumbles with the button of her jeans, fingers trembling too badly to get it undone. “Stupid wet denim,” she mutters, cheeks flushed, not just from cold anymore.

“Let me,” I say roughly, kneeling before her.

Her breath hitches as I undo the button and slowly pull down the zipper of her soaked denim jeans. I take my time, careful not to tug too hard, careful not to look too long at the way her hips shift to help me. My knuckles brush her thighs, and she shivers.

I slide the jeans down inch by inch, over her hips, past the curve of her thighs, her soaked panties sticking to the denim and slipping down with them. She doesn’t stop me. Just breathes, slow and shallow, her hands still braced on my shoulders, her legs slightly parted to help me.

By the time I reach her ankles and tug the whole mess off, she’s bare. Somewhere between removing her top and me peeling those jeans and panties away, she must have ditched her bra too.

She’s completely naked. Wet. Shivering. Glorious.

And I can’t look away.

She’s all soft curves and pale, lightly freckled skin, flushed from cold and adrenaline.

Her nipples are tight from the chill, and God, her breasts are bouncy and perfect.

Full and high and made to be held, to be worshipped.

A line of red curls leads down between her thighs, and just the sight of it makes my vision darken around the edges.

My mouth waters. My cock throbs so hard it’s painful. And still I don’t move. Not unless she asks.

Her voice is barely a whisper. “Your turn.”

“You don’t have to?—”

“I want to.” Her fingers reach for the buttons on my shirt again as I get to my feet. “Please. I need… to feel warm. To feel alive. To know this is real.”

The hunger in her voice urges me on.

I let her unbutton my shirt, helping when her fingers falter. Every brush of her hands on my skin is electric, every second I spend standing still takes a Herculean effort not to drag her into my arms and bury myself in her warmth.

She pushes the shirt from my shoulders, and her hands don’t fall away. Instead, they slide across my chest, fingers tracing the pale scar down my ribs, then the puncture mark on my side. She’s memorizing me. Not flinching. Not pitying.

“Jesus, Sophia,” I rasp. “You’re gonna break me.”

She looks up at me, still damp, still flushed, completely naked and entirely the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

“Then break,” she whispers .

My jeans are next, and I have to help with the belt, the button, everything. Her hands are too unsteady. I take it all off, kick them aside. When I’m standing there in nothing, she steps closer, pressing against me, skin to skin.

The contact lights up every nerve ending. She’s ice cold but warming quickly, and I wrap my arms around her, trying to share my heat.

“You’re so warm,” she murmurs against my chest.

I grab a towel, starting with her hair, trying to focus on the task instead of how perfectly she fits against me. The towel moves down her shoulders, her back, and she makes this small sound, not quite a moan, not quite a sigh, that goes straight to my cock.

“Turn around,” I murmur. “Let me dry you properly.”

She turns, and I have to bite back a groan. The curve of her spine, the perfect roundness of her ass, the way her hair falls wet down her back. She’s going to be the death of me.