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CHAPTER SEVEN-KOA

I thought a run would help.

A quick five miles to burn off the restless, caged energy that’s been gnawing at me like an animal with its leg in a trap.

Thought I’d sweat it out.

Pound it into the track and leave it behind.

But I was dead wrong.

I’m still wired.

Muscles tight.

Blood hot.

And my cock? Half-hard and heavy, just from thinking about her.

Damn it, Red, why’d you have to pick this season to come storming into my life?

I’ve been trying— and slowly failing —to keep her at arm’s length.

I swear, I’m two seconds from losing my goddamn mind.

I’m supposed to be focused. This is my season. My career.

The chance to leave a legacy.

To prove that I’m not just muscle and rage.

Not just a good pair of hands.

Not just a fucking ‘almost was’ who never quite made it.

But how the fuck am I supposed to do that when all I can think about is her?

Her laugh.

Her tits.

Those round as fuck hips.

Her saucy goddamn mouth.

I think I might be losing my mind.

Easy fix , the devil in me whispers. Stop resisting the delicious redhead and fuck her already.

But I know better.

See, if I touch her— if I taste her —I won’t stop.

And I don’t do halfway. Not with a woman like her.

Because Finley isn’t a fling.

She’s not some quick release to take the edge off.

She’s everything I never knew I always wanted.

Attitude and curves and clever fire wrapped in a body built to drive a man wild.

And if I have her?

If I take even one sip from her supple lips?

I’ll want to keep her.

I’ll want to own every inch of her.

Body, mind, soul.

But I don’t know how a woman like Finley would react to that kind of hunger.

That kind of claim.

Growing up Māori and Pākehā— that’s what we call people of European descent back home —I had one foot in each world.

Two cultures. Two bloodlines.

Two sets of expectations, beliefs, and traditions braided together inside me like rope.

Tight, complex, impossible to untangle.

From one side came the fire of ancestral ties so deep they echo in my bones.

From the other, a sense of structure and silence. A pressure to fit cleanly into a box that never really fit.

I was raised with stories of warriors and land, of mana and wairua— spirit.

I was taught to feel deeply, to honor instinct, to fight for what’s yours with your whole fucking soul.

And now?

Now I’ve got this woman threatening to upset my entire balance.

I know without a doubt if I touch her it will change my life.

Finley. Fuck. Why now?

This brilliant, sharp-mouthed, stubborn-as-hell woman challenges everything I thought I could ignore.

She walks through life like no one can touch her.

Like she’s already done the work of loving herself and dares the world to catch up.

She’s loud, unfiltered, fierce in her joy, and fuck, it makes me feel like I’m vibrating from the inside out.

But I don’t think she understands what she’s doing to me.

How deep this thing runs.

How my desire for her isn’t just physical.

It’s spiritual.

Cellular.

A kind of knowing that lives in my blood.

She looks at me like I’m just some grumpy athlete with an attitude problem.

And maybe I’ve let her believe that because the alternative?

Letting her see what’s really under the surface?

That’s a risk I don’t know if I’m brave enough to take.

Because if she did see?

If she understood how much I crave her. And not just to fuck her, but to claim her. To tether her to me so completely, there’d never be a moment when I didn’t feel her breath in my chest.

Would she run?

Would she think I’m insane?

Or worse—would this modern bombshell laugh it off, call it some caveman fantasy, and walk away with a little shake of her head, leaving me gutted?

Because here’s the truth I haven’t said out loud, even to myself:

I don’t want just her body.

I want her mornings.

Her moods.

Her midnight snack runs.

Her off-key singing and her unfiltered opinions.

I want to build something with her.

Something rooted. Something unshakable.

But that kind of want? It’s too much for most people.

It’s old, primal.

The kind of love my ancestors would have fought wars over.

The kind that says you are mine, and I am yours , and nothing can undo that.

Not distance.

Not doubt.

Not even death.