Page 4 of The Foreman (Cowboys of Silver Spur Security #6)

MACY

T he ride to his ranch was mostly silent. Except for the hum of tires on wet asphalt and the occasional crackle of the radio. Trace didn’t talk. Just drove. Like a man who knew what came next, wasn’t in any rush to get there, and wasn't inclined to share that information with her.

Macy had never known him to be a talker, not in scenes, not in passing. But this silence felt different. It wasn't brooding. It was deliberate. Dominant. It wrapped around her like a hand to the throat—steady, unrelenting, and laced with control.

She remembered another night, years ago, when he’d pulled her aside after she’d mouthed off to a Dom twice her size. He hadn’t said a word. Just stared at her until her pulse fluttered, until she couldn’t decide if she wanted to slap him or sink to her knees.

That same heat prickled at the edges of her now.It shouldn’t have felt like foreplay. But damn it, it did.Macy's whole erotic system buzzed with agitation, adrenaline and arousal. That was rarely a good thing.

She'd never meant to go back to the Iron Spur. Had never thought she would need the services of the Silver Spur Security team. Still, here she was headed to the middle of nowhere with the man who’d once banned her from the only place she’d ever felt remotely seen.

The man she used to have filthy dreams about. Dreams that left her needing a cold shower when she woke. Swell, just swell.

The storm still raged when they turned onto a long gravel drive. The headlights hit a split-rail fence and a low stone ranch house tucked against the tree line.

He pulled behind the house and parked. Smart man. The truck wouldn't be easy to spot unless you were close to the house and outbuilding. Macy was sure by then Trace's security system would have picked up any intruder.

"Is this the part where you threaten me with a whip and chain?" she asked.

He arched an eyebrow. "Whip? Maybe. Chain? Never. That may have been your kink, but it was never mine."

She snorted. "It was hypothetical."

"Sure it was."

Inside, the house was clean, sparse, masculine.

Wood floors. Leather furniture. Exposed beams. Everything was dark and hard, a deliberate extension of the man who’d brought her here.

There were no frills, no warmth, no softness.

Yet the tension that tightened in her chest wasn’t from fear.

It was a heady mix of anticipation and arousal.

This was a Dom’s space. Controlled. Uncompromising. Designed to keep the outside world at bay.

Her fingers twitched against her thigh as she crossed the threshold. It was the kind of house that didn’t just demand respect—it commanded it. And somehow, standing in the middle of it, Macy felt both completely intimidated and completely seen.

She swallowed. Her heartbeat thudded harder than the rain outside. And her body, traitor that it was, responded to the power in the air like it had just found home.

"Nice digs for a grumpy cowboy."

"Try not to break anything."

He set her bag by the door. Not that she’d packed—just a beat-up duffel she’d grabbed on the way out of her apartment.

"You’ll sleep in the guest room. Eat when I tell you. Sleep when I tell you. Stay inside. You don't go outside without my telling you that you can. Stay out of the barn, the paddocks, and my office."

She opened her mouth.

He held up a finger."You get one warning, Macy. One."

Her jaw clicked shut.

He stepped closer. His body heat wrapped around her like a noose. His gaze locked on hers. Dominant. Steady. Deep.

"You broke the club rules. You defied authority. You didn't accept responsibility or discipline. And you ran your mouth and caused chaos."

She blinked. "Are we still talking about three years ago? Or this week? Because while I will deny the first..."

"Accepting discipline is a rule for subs."

"Okay, but I didn't break any other rules. But for the record, I routinely do all the rest."

His lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

"Why does that not surprise me?"He backed away, slow and sure. "This is your last chance saloon, sweetheart. My house. My control. My rules."

"And if I break them?"

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Then you’ll find out exactly what it means to be under my protection. And the spanking you took tonight will feel like a distant and pleasant memory."

The air between them sparked with tension. Not quite a threat, and just short of a promise.

Trace’s gaze lingered on her face for a moment, then slid down her body in a deliberate perusal that made her skin flush. "Have you eaten dinner?"

She blinked. "Yes. Sort of."

His lips quirked into the barest hint of a smile. "That’s not a yes."

"It’s not a no, either."

"Close enough. Go to your room."

Her brow lifted. "Excuse me?"

"You're staying under my roof, you're following my rules. You get cute with an answer to a question or refuse to answer it and you can go up to your room and consider the consequences of being a brat. Now, upstairs. First door on the left."

She opened her mouth, but he was already turning away.

As she passed him, he swatted her tender backside with a sharp, deliberate smack that was hard enough that she felt it through the sweats and made her jump.

"Ouch. I felt that."

"You were supposed to. House rule: No panties."

Macy flushed from head to toe, pulse kicking hard, the sting of his palm lingering on her skin like a brand. And damn it, she didn’t argue. She just kept walking.

"Has it been so long that you've forgotten what you say to acknowledge you heard me?"

She turned and smiled. She hadn't forgotten one damn thing, except for how much she craved this. There was such peace to be found in submission to the right Dom.

"Yes, Sir," she said sweetly, grabbed her bag and turned to go up the stairs.And some small, secret part of her thrilled at every step.

She wasn’t sure anymore if the real danger was back in the city, or standing behind her at the foot of the stairs.

all the muscle, authority, dominance and control she couldn’t stop craving.

Trace didn’t just command a room. He bent it to his will.

God help her, some reckless part of her wanted to be bent too.

She’d never been good at safe. And Trace McRae wasn’t just danger—he was the storm that followed it. The kind that made you ache to stand in the path and dare it to strike.

And as she climbed the stairs, her backside still stinging from his palm, Macy realized one terrifying truth: she may want and need protection from whatever or whoever was out there trying to destroy her life. But here in this ranch house with Trace, she didn’t want to be safe anymore.

TRACE

Trace stood at the foot of the stairs, arms folded across his chest, jaw locked, and body coiled tight with tension that had nothing to do with the storm hammering the windows.

He’d watched Macy climb the steps to the guest room ten minutes ago, her spine straight, her feet silent on the wood, that damn sway in her hips still messing with his head. And he hadn’t moved since.

That woman was going to be the death of him.

He hadn’t wanted this. Hell, he’d told Reed no before the man even finished explaining. But the second he saw her, sopping wet, sassy as hell, her chin lifted like she wasn’t two steps from falling apart, Trace knew he was screwed.

Because it wasn’t just unfinished business with Macy Dane.

It was heat and chaos, the memory of a firestorm he’d never managed to extinguish.

Even after all this time, the spark she carried still smoldered under his skin, ready to flare up and consume every inch of reason he had left.

He’d buried it. Locked it down. Told himself he was done.

But the truth twisted inside him now, undeniable.Macy Dane had never stopped being dangerous. And deep down, he didn’t want her to.

She’d always been his personal brand of catnip. Mouthy, disobedient, smart as a whip, and just vulnerable enough to make a man think twice before turning his back. And now she was under his roof, under his protection, and worse... completely under his control.

He pushed off the newel post, moving to the security panel tucked inside a narrow cabinet by the front door.

His fingers flew across the interface, double-checking the perimeter settings and external sensors.

Rain still beat hard against the windows, but the sensors were clear.

Fence line intact. No movement beyond the gate.

He quickly reviewed the camera footage, more for form than anything else. His system was monitored by Silver Spur and if there'd been a problem, he'd have known long before he arrived.He thumbed the secure line on his phone and hit Jesse Bryant’s number.

Jesse answered on the second ring. “You do know it’s past midnight, right?”

“Status update.”

“You mean about the fugitive brat you’ve got holed up at your place?” Jesse drawled.

"Reed Malone's got a big mouth and for the record he was pretty insistent about getting his way on it."

“Yeah, yeah, we all heard. He gave me the heads up to be ready to assist. You do know Keely and the others are all atwitter.”

Trace grunted. “Just what I need. Anything I actually need to know about?”

“Quiet so far. No flags on known assets or corporate goons in the area. But I’ll keep an eye out. You think it’s serious?”

“I think she’s not lying.”

There was a long pause. Then, “Well, hell. That’s almost romantic, coming from you.”

Trace growled.

Jesse chuckled. “Okay, okay. Just tell me one thing, where’s she sleeping?”

Trace finally answered. "The fucking guest room."

"For how long?"

Trace growled again.

More laughter. “That’s what I thought. Night, cowboy.”

He hung up with a muttered curse and looked up toward the second-floor landing.