Page 2 of The Foreman (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #6)

MACY

T he rain hammered down like the universe was pissed off personally, and Macy was pretty sure the sentiment was mutual.

The tires squealed as she pulled into the circular drive, storm lashing at the entrance. She jumped out, hoodie soaked within seconds, and ran for the doors.

The Iron Spur hadn’t changed. Leather-clad doors. Heavy scent of wood polish and bourbon. An air of discipline so thick it probably had its own safe word. She hadn’t walked through these doors in three years, and yet her pulse still kicked the same traitorous rhythm it had the first time.

The receptionist—a bored-looking blonde with librarian glasses—looked up in mild alarm.

"We’re closed, except to private appointments. Do you have an appointment?"

"Tell Reed Malone Macy Dane is here," she snapped.

The woman typed in her name and clucked her tongue. "I'm sorry, Ms. Dane, but my records indicate you've been banned."

"Then call security. Or Reed. Or whoever the hell's in charge tonight. Just don't leave me standing here. I swear, if one more thing jumps out of the dark, I might scream. Not that I scare easy or anything. Obviously."

The woman hesitated. Macy crossed her arms. The receptionist tapped her keyboard.

Two minutes later, the door swung open, and Reed Malone stepped into the foyer like a storm of his own. Tall, hard-edged, and assessing. His gaze swept Macy from head to toe, taking in the drenched hoodie, the wild eyes, the desperate edge.

"Macy."

"Reed."

"Why are you here?"

She laughed. It came out more brittle than brave. "Because someone framed me for murder, and I figured getting spanked by Trace might actually be the less painful option."

He didn’t smile. Just nodded once and gestured. "Office. Now. Sit tight. One of us will be with you shortly. How much trouble are you in?"

"So much that I'm here. This is the last place I'd ever thought I'd be again. But I think you're the only ones who can help me."

Reed nodded as she moved past the open door and heard a sound that caught her attention coming from one of the minor stages on the dungeon floor.

A low, feminine moan threaded with the soft hiss of leather.

The club’s walls muffled most of the noise, but the acoustics of this place were intentional. Always had been.

She shouldn’t look. She didn’t mean to.But she did.

A woman knelt on a padded bench, arms bound overhead, her back arched in perfect submission.

A man in a dark tailored vest traced a leather crop along the curve of her spine, his voice murmuring something Macy couldn’t hear but felt anyway.

The woman shuddered and whimpered, but there was no fear in the sound. Only anticipation and hunger.

Macy felt it like a phantom touch against her own skin.

Memory surged. Trace’s voice, low in her ear. His hand closing around her wrist in that measured, dominant way. The exact kind of restraint that had once made her curious enough to burn.

She stopped for a moment and then tore her gaze away as she stumbled forward. But her heartbeat didn’t settle.God help her, she missed this. Not just the club, but the tension, the structure, the dizzying power exchange that flipped everything inside her upside down.

And Trace? He was the worst of it...or the best, depending on your point of view. He was the Dom she wanted to push. The man who always pushed back harder.

This time, she wasn’t here to play. She was here because someone had set her up to take a fall she couldn’t afford. And as she'd told Reed, she had nowhere else to go.

Ten minutes later, after the receptionist brought her a towel and a warm robe, she was dry, furious, and pacing the office like a cat on cocaine. Reed entered the room and leaned against the desk. Silent. Watching. Which only made her nerves worse.

When the door opened again, she nearly tripped over the hem of the robe.

Trace McRae walked in like he’d been carved out of granite and brooding.

Sun-worn skin. That same steel-cut jaw. And eyes so calm and cold they could freeze time.

The last three years hadn’t softened him one bit.

If anything, they’d made him harder, rougher, more lethal in his stillness.

Her breath hitched before she could mask it. Her thighs clenched as heat flared low in her belly, unwelcome and immediate. Her body remembered things her mind had spent years trying to forget.

Like how it felt to kneel between his legs, her hands resting on her thighs, palms up, her heart thudding in time with his steady breathing.

The heat of his body, the command in his gaze, the way he’d wrap her hair around his fist and pull her close.

Not cruel, but unyielding. And then, when she was trembling and still, he’d lean in, his breath skimming her ear, and purr, low and rough, 'good girl. '

She crushed the thought down hard, but it thrashed beneath the surface like she’d grabbed a downed power line.

Her breath caught, chest tightening as her thighs clenched around a pulse she couldn’t blame on adrenaline.

It wasn’t fair how one look from him could rob her of air, heat her skin, and leave her mind flickering with memories she shouldn’t still crave.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn’t put you back out in the rain," he said.

Macy dragged her fingers through her damp hair and let her hand drop to her hip, planting her stance like she had every intention of going toe-to-toe with him.

Her chin lifted a notch. Her shoulders squared, jaw tight.

Her legs, traitorous things, shifted subtly as if trying to root her in place.

Everything inside her screamed for movement, for flight, but she stood her ground with clenched fists and a breath she barely remembered taking.

Her breath caught for a beat before she forced it steady again.

Raising her chin, she said, "Because I’m not lying this time. Of course, I wasn't lying last time..." Trace said nothing, merely folded his arms, and quirked an eyebrow. "But I digress, and because if you do, I’ll probably be dead by morning."

That seemed to catch their attention. She told them everything. The job. The approach from law enforcement. Her refusal. The visit to her apartment that ended in blood and terror.

And then she saw it again.

Chet Wrigley's face, framed in the harsh glow of her kitchen light. The smug twist of his mouth. The way he’d leaned in close and sneered, 'Should’ve taken the deal, Macy. You’d have been well paid for keeping your mouth shut.'

She'd caught something in his eyes then. Something cold and calculating. Not the usual lab-rat arrogance. It was fear. Or maybe guilt. Like he knew he wasn’t getting out of that room without a mark.

She braced her hands on the desk and looked up at Reed and Trace.

"It was Chet Wrigley. He came to my apartment. He said it was about the quarterly review and that it couldn't wait, but he locked the door behind him and started talking about the deal I turned down. Said I should’ve played ball. That it wasn’t too late. "

Trace didn’t blink. Reed’s eyebrow arched, skeptical. "And you said what?"

"I told him I wasn’t interested in planting intel for some covert corporate war.

He got aggressive. Grabbed my arm. I pushed back.

We struggled." She swallowed hard, her eyes flicking from one man to the other.

"I clocked him pretty good. Left a bruise I was proud of.

Then he went down hard... just kind of collapsed. "

"Was he breathing?" Reed asked.

"Yes," she said, nodding. "I checked. Pulse, too. Shaky, but it was there. I panicked, but I didn’t run. I waited. Watched. And when he didn’t get back up after a few minutes, I called his boss. Told him something happened. That there’d been a fight.

Next thing I know, I’m on every news site in Texas. "

Trace narrowed his gaze. "And you’re saying you had nothing to do with the emails? The badge swipes?"

She whirled on him. "I should have known this was a mistake," she said, clutching the robe around her and trying to leave with as much dignity as she could.

"That's enough, Macy. No one's trying to hurt you, but we need to know what we're dealing with."

Taking a deep breath, she continued, "I’m saying someone set me up.

There were files in my sent folder I didn’t write.

Access logs I never triggered. And a flash drive in my place that I refused to touch when they first tried to pull me in.

" She ran a hand through her hair. "It’s like they knew I’d say no. And they planned for it."

The room went still.

"So someone wanted you out of the way," Reed said.

"Or silenced," agreed Trace. He exchanged a glance with Reed,then nodded slowly. "Okay. Let’s say we believe you. What do you want from us?"

Macy met Trace’s eyes. "I want protection. I want Silver Spur Security. I think I’m next."

Reed looked at Trace.

Trace shook his head. "Only if she agrees to my terms."

Macy rolled her eyes. "This again? Really? What am I, your charity brat project?"

"You want my protection, you live by my rules. My discipline. My control. No arguments."

"You want me to submit to you? Just like that?"

"No," he said. "I want you to choose to submit because you know it's the best way to keep you alive."

Reed straightened from his position. "I'll leave you two to work it out. I’ll be in the war room."

"Why does it have to be him," she said, unable to decide if she was thrilled or scared to death.

"Because it does," answered Reed. "Business has been good and we're going to need to keep this one off the books. So it's Trace or you find someone else. I can refer you to several other good agencies here in Texas, or you can take your chances with law enforcement."

The door clicked shut.

Trace stepped closer. "This isn’t a game, Macy. You want help? You want safety? You do it my way. You follow my lead. And you take what I give you. Including the consequences."