Page 18 of The Foreman (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #6)

MACY

T he SUV jolted violently as Hawke wrenched the wheel into a savage turn, tires shrieking against asphalt.

The sudden force slammed Macy against Trace’s chest, his arm snapping tight around her as if he could hold the chaos itself at bay.

The impact stole her breath, but she didn’t fight him.

The solid heat of his body, the steady press of his hand anchoring her, was the only thing stopping her pulse from spiraling completely out of control.

The roar of the engine wrapped around her, every nerve lit sharp with fear and adrenaline, yet she clung tighter, finding steadiness in the cage of his arms.

“Hang on,” Hawke barked from the front. “Two more on our tail. I’m going to take them home and let them meet the family.”

Reed grinned. "We called ahead to tell them we're coming in hot. They'll have the welcome mat rolled out."

Macy coughed through the haze of adrenaline. “Is this your idea of a good time?”

Reed twisted in the passenger seat, his rifle balanced against his knee. “Smart mouth still works. Good sign.”

Trace’s voice rumbled low near her ear. “Ignore them. Focus on me.”

For Macy, that had never been a problem. Every time his voice dropped like that, steady and commanding, it reached under her skin and tugged at something she couldn’t ignore. She clung tighter, her pulse racing for reasons that had nothing to do with the chase outside.

Headlights carved closer, white beams knifing across the night as gunmetal sedans bore down on them. Hawke’s shoulders flexed, his jaw tight as he cut the wheel again. The SUV fishtailed, corrected, then surged toward the familiar sprawl of the Iron Spur’s warehouse compound.

Macy’s breath caught. She had left this place only hours ago, yet the sight of it again made her chest tighten, memory and dread crowding her ribs. Now, every muscle in her body tightened at the sight of its walls rising out of the dark like a fortress.

And then she saw them.

The Silver Spur team stood in the floodlit mouth of the lot, a wall of men armed and ready. Gavin Briggs, calm as a stone at the center. Jesse flanking him. Other operatives fanned out with rifles, their stances steady, their focus locked. The kind of presence that made smart enemies think twice.

They split ranks in perfect synchronicity, creating a channel for the SUV to surge through. The instant its tires cleared the line, the operatives sealed the gap again, rifles lifted, a human barricade of steel and will standing shoulder to shoulder to meet the danger head-on.

The vehicles chasing them braked so abruptly the shriek of tires tore through the night, headlights flaring wild across the lot.

Engines bellowed in protest, metal snarling as drivers hesitated at the sight of the armed wall awaiting them.

One by one, the sedans faltered, peeled off, and vanished into the darkness, swallowed whole by the Texas night.

Relief slammed through Macy’s chest in a rush so fierce it made her ribs ache, leaving her breath jagged and unsteady.

Hawke let out a sharp laugh. “Guess they’re not suicidal.” He swung the SUV into the lot and braked hard enough to slam them all forward.

Trace shoved the door open and hauled Macy with him, his grip fierce around her hand. Cold concrete met her boots, the night air cutting sharp against her skin, and Jesse was already striding toward them, eyes sharp and focused.

“Drive,” Macy said, fumbling in her pocket. Her hands trembled as she held out the small device that felt heavier than any weapon. “Proof. Metadata. Ghost signatures. Enough to nail them.”

Gavin’s eyes lit with approval as he took it. “Good work.” His gaze flicked to Trace. “Get her inside. Head back to the room. I'll have food sent up. We’ll debrief in the morning after extraction protocols.”

Trace gave a curt nod and tugged her toward the entrance.

Her legs threatened to buckle under the flood of adrenaline, but his unyielding grip steadied her.

As they walked past the barricade of armed men, Macy couldn’t stop a shaky laugh.

“You guys really know how to roll out a welcome wagon.” Jesse shot her a look equal parts stern and amused, and Trace’s squeeze on her hand told her to save the sass for later.

Crossing the threshold, the outside world fell away. The pounding in her ears no longer belonged to the chase; it pulsed with something rawer, more intimate, as if every step drew her deeper into a storm that belonged only to the two of them.

The secure safe room swallowed them once the locks engaged.

Steel bolts slid home with a resonant thud, the air chilled and dry, the silence pressing in so thick it felt alive.

Monitors stared back at them blank and dark.

Every sound echoed—the hitch of her breath, the steady rasp of his—as though the whole space held its breath.

Trace planted both hands flat against the door, head lowered, his shoulders trembling with the effort of holding everything in.

For the first time since this nightmare began, he looked stripped of armor, worn to the bone.

The warrior was gone, leaving only the man beneath, raw with exhaustion and haunted by ghosts that clung close.

“Trace,” Macy whispered.

He shook his head once, as if to deny weakness, but his body betrayed him. She touched his back, sliding her palm across the scarred muscle. He went rigid under her hand, then slowly, carefully, turned. His eyes were dark, storm-heavy, searching hers like he needed permission to breathe.

“You’re not alone anymore,” she told him.

For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them, heavy and charged, thick with every word unsaid and every truth trembling on the edge. Then Trace moved, closing the distance in a surge that felt inevitable, like gravity finally claiming them both.

The kiss wasn’t about fire this time. It was slow, aching, a question asked and answered all at once. His lips moved over hers like he needed to relearn what tenderness felt like. Her chest squeezed tight, because beneath all his strength, he was breaking—and trusting her to hold the pieces.

When he pulled back, his voice rasped. “I need you, Macy.”

The words stripped her bare.

She cupped his jaw. “I thought we settled that earlier. I'm yours.”

They closed the door to the bath and peeled each other’s clothes away slowly, every button and zipper yielding like armor surrendered after battle.

Each layer that fell left them more exposed, more vulnerable, until there was nothing left to hide.

Stepping into the shower, it roared to life above them, hot water pounding over their shoulders and backs, steam swelling thick around them until the world outside dissolved, leaving only the rush of water and the raw closeness of their bodies.

Trace’s hands trembled as they slid over her, the pads of his fingers chasing rivulets across her skin. Each touch carried a reverence that sent shivers darting through her.

She answered in kind, her palms roaming his chest and shoulders, mapping every line of hardened muscle and every scar etched into him. Her fingertips lingered on each mark, not recoiling but caressing, a vow written in touch that she would never turn away from his shadows.

His breath faltered when her lips followed, brushing tenderly across one scar, then another, her body molding to his in the haze of steam until they were stripped of more than clothing, bared in every way that mattered.

“Too many scars,” he muttered, almost ashamed.

She kissed one, then another. “Each one means you lived. And now you’re mine.”

Something broke open inside her chest, a fierce rush of need and relief tangled together until she could hardly breathe.

Trace hauled her against him, his mouth claiming hers with a hunger so raw it made her knees weaken.

Water slicked their skin, the scrape of tile rough against her back as he pinned her there.

His body caged her completely, yet beneath the strength there was an aching tenderness that stripped her bare and left her trembling with desire.

Using the tile for leverage, he lifted her effortlessly, the strength in his arms making her gasp before he eased her down onto his cock.

The stretch stole her breath, heat flooding through her as he filled her completely.

It wasn’t rough or punishing; it was deliberate, a claiming as intimate as it was consuming.

Their foreheads pressed together, mouths brushing with each uneven breath, their rhythm slow but relentless, every slide and thrust heavy with meaning. Each movement felt like a vow etched into her body, each shuddering gasp a promise binding them tighter.

“I love you,” she whispered, the words spilling out like truth finally freed.

His eyes flared, fierce and bright. “Say it again.”

“I love you, Trace McRae.”

His thrusts deepened, his hand gripping hers tight. He met her gaze without wavering. “I love you, Macy Dane. More than this fight. More than the scars. More than anything.”

Pleasure rose sharp and relentless, each wave cresting higher until it swallowed her whole.

She shattered around him, her cry of his name echoing off the tile as her body convulsed with release.

Trace followed with a guttural groan ripped from his chest, thrusts driving deep as he clutched her hard against him, as if anchoring himself to the storm of her climax.

He held her through it, body locked to hers with a desperate intensity that promised he would never let her go.

After, they lingered with towels in hand, dragging soft cotton slowly over skin that still quivered with the memory of release.

Her touch was tender but insistent, sweeping across the planes of his chest and shoulders as though memorizing every inch.

He allowed her to fuss at his side, though his jaw tightened when she uncovered the injury he kept trying to downplay.

The angry bruise and wrapped bandage drew her closer.

She bent and pressed a kiss to the edge, the taste of clean skin and faint antiseptic filling her mouth as her heart clenched with worry and fierce devotion.

“Let me be your anchor,” she whispered.

“You already are.” His voice broke, then steadied. “I’ll never let you go.”

He scooped her up, carrying her to the bed as if she weighed nothing, his arms closing around her with a strength that felt both protective and claiming. Every step pressed her deeper into the dangerous truth that what bound them now was more than desire—it was love, fierce and undeniable.

She curled against him, her cheek pressed to the solid warmth of his chest, listening to the steady drum of his heart reverberating through her ear.

Each beat anchored her more firmly, easing the last of the tremors still rippling through her.

For the first time since this nightmare began, it felt like they were no longer running from the world.

They were standing still, together, claiming a fragile moment of peace that belonged only to them.

But just as her eyes drifted closed, the secure line crackled to life, Jesse’s grim voice slicing through the quiet.

“Haines was never the architect. Every channel Macy dug, every false log, it all threads back to one man—Dorian Kells. He isn’t new.

He’s the hand behind everything. Tomorrow we don’t regroup—we go after the real master. ”

Trace’s body went rigid beneath her, his hand tightening around her waist. Macy’s heart slammed hard, the warmth of their fragile peace shattered in a single breath.

The fight hadn’t ended. It had only shifted into something far more dangerous, and the real battle was still waiting for them.