Page 38 of Song Bird Hearts (Green River Hearts #4)

Valerie

T he world is soft at the edges as dust paints itself over White Stag Pastures.

I hold my guitar case in one hand and reach back with the other, grabbing the fingers of whoever will take it. It ends up being Gilden, because of course it is. He always offers his hand before I ever think to ask.

“Where are we headed, mon rossignol ?” he asks, easy and warm.

“My favorite place,” I answer. “Come on.”

The three men follow without question, their boots crunching on worn pasture grass as we pass the last fence line and head west, where the Green River winds its slow, lazy way past the ranch.

The trail narrows ahead of us, wildflowers thriving under the spring sun brushing against my jeans as we pass them.

Crickets start to chirp as the sky darkens, singing us their song like we belong among them.

Somewhere nearby, a nightbird trills, high and morose, as if he’s still looking for his mate.

I lead them to the small area that kisses the edge of the water, a flat open bend where the river curves shallow and wide.

The stones here are worn smooth, the grass lush from the runoff, and as the sun drops lower, the fireflies begin to blink into existence.

At first, it’s just one or two, then a dozen, then too many to count.

The air shimmers like it’s been dusted in stardust.

“This is. . .” Knox mutters behind her, his voice low and reverent. “Somethin’ else.”

“I know,” I say, smiling, before I let myself sink down into the grass and open my guitar case. “Sit. Relax.”

Gilden drops beside me, laying back in the grass.

With his legs outstretched and his arms behind his head, he looks completely at ease here in the tall grass.

Knox hangs back for a second before slowly folding down next to me on the opposite side, ever-watchful as he pretends he isn’t.

Wolf sits carefully, the edge of his expression tight with pain, but when my eyes meet his, he nods.

“You shouldn’t have come out here with cracked ribs,” I say gently.

“You brought music,” he murmurs. “I’d rather die than miss that.”

I bite back the flutter in my throat and focus on tuning the guitar.

My fingers are as familiar with the strings as my lungs are with breathing, the muscle memory wrapping around notes like home as I begin to pluck the strings.

It’s the same guitar I’ve been carrying around, the one my mama gave me.

It makes me feel a little more at home to see the songbird on the front of it. It makes me feel a little more like me.

The song bubbles up in my chest, one I’ve never sung on a stage, but that’s been tucked away inside my journal for a few weeks. The label will never let me sing it, always claiming my stuff is too raw, but I know my fans would love it. Maybe I’ll play it for them anyways.

In the hush of the fireflies and soft grass, I start to play, the notes soft and rhythmic.

“I’m goin’ out west to chase cowboys,

Not the kind that stay in line.

Give me boots on the dash, whiskey lips,

And hands that know they’re mine.

I ain’t lookin’ for a white picket future,

Just a lasso and a little bit of sin.

I’m goin’ out west to chase cowboys,

Hope I never catch one again.”

The last note rings out soft, trembling off the water in front of us.

The men don’t speak at first, all clustered around me silent.

The moment feels holy, in that same way some nights just are.

When the land holds its breath and you’re reminded that you’re alive because someone is looking at you like maybe you hung the moon in the sky just for them.

“When did you write that?” Gilden asks, his eyes on me.

I shrug. “Bits and pieces throughout the last few weeks. It’s a good one, right?”

He nods. “When we get on the other side of this, I expect you to play that one on a stage.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me. “You write any for us?”

Grinning, I strum the guitar again. “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see, mon coquin .”

I’ve never seen a man’s eyes light up more than when I use the Cajun French endearment I’d looked up.

It means ‘my rascal’ and had felt like the perfect name for my brilliant Louisianan sunshine of a man.

He laughs, that charming sound filtering through the night and making me feel all warm in ways that I know I’ll never feel for anyone else other than these three men.

This is it for me, no matter if I live or die after this.

Wolf reaches for my hand and I let him have it, but Knox doesn’t say anything. I can feel him hovering, the heat of him near me like a brand. The silence stretches out, long and heavy and warm, and then I lean forward and kiss Wolf, slowly, careful, needing to feel connected to them in this moment.

He groans softly before pulling me into his lap despite the pain in his ribs, one arm around my waist, the other buried in my hair.

“Careful,” I warn, even as I straddle him. “You’re still hurt.”

“I’m always hurting,” he murmurs against my mouth. “This kind of hurt just feels better.”

I laugh against him, my breath catching as he tilts his head and deepens the kiss. My fingers splay against his chest, part of me still worried how fragile he is right now. But the rest of me, it lights up like the fireflies surrounding us.

Gilden’s hands find my hips next, warm and steady, always there to keep me grounded. And Knox—silent, brooding Knox—watches from the edge of the river, his jaw locked, his chest rising hard. He doesn’t say anything as he watches, the tension exuding from him heavy in the air.

“Knox. . .” I whisper, breaking the kiss.

“I’m not stopping you,” he says hoarsely. “I just. . . need a second.”

I nod, respecting it. If he’s not ready for something like this, none of us will force him.

It has to be his decision, not mine. I’d love nothing more than him to join in, but I can see his struggle right now.

He needs time to adjust, and later, maybe I’ll tell him how much I actually do want him to join.

Gilden leans into my neck, his teeth nipping playfully.

“You sure?” he asks quietly, brushing my hair back and kissing down the curve of my throat. “This little riverbed’s about to turn into somethin’ real pretty if we continue.”

“Yeah,” I say, closing my eyes. “I’m sure.”

I straddle Wolf’s lap, my guitar forgotten in the grass, my mouth tingling from his kiss.

His hands are gentle, reverent, as one curls around my thigh and the other presses against my lower back, holding me steady as he breaths through his pain.

Beneath me, he’s already hard despite his cracked ribs and battered state, the pain of his injuries doing nothing to diminish his arousal.

It isn’t urgency that charges the air this time.

It's worship.

“You’re starin’, cher ,” Gilden drawls, leaning forward from his spot beside us, his palm sliding over my knee. “Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

“You,” I answer honestly. “Wolf. Knox.”

“Good,” he murmurs, brushing a kiss against my shoulder. “Tonight is all about you.”

Knox hasn’t moved. He sits cross-legged just beyond the edge of our light, his jaw still tight, his fists clenched on his knees. But he isn’t looking away. No, he’s watching me like he’s dying of thirst and too stubborn to drink.

I hold his gaze. “You don’t have to do anything,” I say softly, my voice barely carrying over the hum of crickets and rushing river water. “But I want you here.”

“I’m here,” he replies, throat tight. “I’m always here.”

Wolf’s lips curl against my neck. “He can’t look away from you.”

“Neither can you,” I whisper.

“I never could,” he answers, teeth grazing my skin. “Not from the moment you walked into that party and destroyed my whole goddamn world.”

Gilden’s fingers join his at my hips, warm and sure. “Let’s take our time, cher, ” he says, his Cajun drawl like honey over stone. “Let you feel us one at a time ‘til you can’t tell where you end and we start.”

I lean back against Gilden, my body already pulsing with heat as I let them guide me.

Gilden’s lips burn my shoulder, slow and teasing, while Wolf’s hands roam my waist with practiced grace.

He’s hurting—I can feel it in the tension of his muscles—but he holds me like I’m the only thing dulling the ache.

My breath hitches when Wolf slips his hand up my shirt, his palm flat and warm against my bare skin. Gilden hums, pleased, and pulls my boots off gently, kissing my ankle before setting it back down in the grass.

“You’re going to ruin us,” Wolf says, rasping low. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I hope so,” I whisper.

“That’s my girl,” Gilden grins, sliding in closer so that I can be nestled between them, cradled by their warmth.

My breath catches as Wolf unfastens my jeans with slow precision, every touch deliberate, every brush of his knuckles like a question I can only answer with a gasp. I tip my head back against Gilden’s chest, my lips parted, and watch as Knox slowly stands.

He doesn’t speak. He just crosses the space between us and crouches at my side, his hand brushing then hair from my cheek. His eyes are on me, only me.

I reach for him and he lets me, no protest coming from his eyes or his lips. His thumb sweeps over my lips, and he lets out a breath like he’s been holding it in since the first time he’d seen me.

“I don’t know what the hell this is,” he says quietly. “But I can’t walk away from it.”

“Then don’t,” I murmur.

The stars blink to life overhead, lazy and bright, as if they know what’s unfolding in the hush of the firefly-lit pasture. A whole symphony of night sounds surround us, welcome us into their fold, until we’re just other creatures who belong out here.

I lay in the grass with three men around me, my men. There are no other words for them. Not anymore. We’ve forged this bond in the midst of danger, in the middle of a literal battle for my freedom, and I won’t ever let them go.