Page 15 of Wild Hearts (Ruby Ridge #1)

carter

. . .

T he silence should make it easy to sleep, but my mind won’t shut off.

I lay in bed, one arm thrown behind my head, as I stared up at the ceiling, watching the faint glow of moonlight spill across the walls, stretching long, crooked shadows into the dark.

The sheets are cool against my skin, but none of it fucking matters.

My body is too wired, too restless.

Because all I can fucking think about is her .

Her stupid attitude and smart mouth. The way she stared me down across the bar like she wanted to tear me apart, or let me do the same to her.

How her body felt against mine, her soft curves fitting so perfectly against my rough hands when I spun her around and held her there like she belonged to me.

Fuck, the way she let out that soft, breathy little moan when my thumb brushed over her bottom lip. Like she couldn’t help herself, like maybe she wanted it as badly as I did .

She’s fucking intoxicating. Every part of her—the sass, the fire, the stubbornness—it’s a goddamn drug I can’t stop tasting, even when she’s not around.

The drive back wasn’t any better either; the way she looked at me in the truck, as if she didn’t know what to do with the fact that someone stood up for her like it wasn’t something she was used to, something she never expected.

Especially not from me.

And fuck, if I’m being honest, I didn’t expect it either.

A groan escapes my lips as I drag a hand through my beard. This thing, whatever the fuck it is, I can’t let it go any further.

I can’t want her, not like this, not as badly as I do. She’s off limits, she’s Vartan’s daughter.

As much as he can be an asshole, I won’t do it. I won’t cross that line.

Turning my head slightly, the red numbers on the nightstand come into focus—just past two in the morning. I let out a rough, exaggerated sigh and scrub a hand down my face, the bristles of my beard scraping against my palm.

Sleep isn’t happening, not tonight.

My body’s exhausted, my mind’s a goddamn battlefield, and my dick’s been hard for so long it’s starting to feel like a permanent condition. Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I stand.

The floor is cool beneath my bare feet, grounding me just enough to push through the bone-deep frustration humming under my skin. I make my way down the stairs, each step creaking loudly in the oppressive stillness that settles over the ranch at night.

When I reach the kitchen, I yank open the cabinet, grab a glass, and fill it under the tap. The water hisses against the sides, the only sound in the silence. I take a slow sip, letting the cold seep into my chest, trying to calm the restless energy buzzing in my veins.

A small, choked-off sound reaches my ears, it’s faint, almost imperceptible.

I still, the glass halfway to my lips.

Did she stay down here all night?

Setting the glass down with a quiet clink, I follow the sound, my stomach twists into knots, something sharp and sick curling low inside me.

When I step into the dimly lit living room, I see her curled up on the couch, knees pulled to her chest, her entire body shaking with silent, wrecked sobs. Her fists clutch the front of her sweatshirt, like she’s trying to hold herself together physically, but failing.

Fuck, she looks small.

So fragile, so goddamn breakable .

Without mustering a thought about why I shouldn’t do this, I slowly move, crossing the kitchen in slow, hesitant strides.

“Catalina,” I say, keeping my voice soft, not wanting to startle her.

Her head snaps up, her tear-filled eyes go wide.

She looks unrecognizable, almost like she’s trapped somewhere else, lost deep inside whatever’s eating her alive.

Her breathing comes in quick, shallow gasps, chest heaving in a way that rips right through me.

Her skin is pale, glistening under the faint light, and sweat clings to her like a second, suffocating skin.

She’s having an anxiety attack. She shakes her head violently and claws at her chest like she can’t pull enough air into her lungs.

My heart fucking shatters at the sight.

I’m moving again before thinking—dropping to my knees in front of her, crowding into her space. Gently, I reach out, cupping her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing across her damp cheeks, wiping away the steady stream of tears pouring down her beautiful, wrecked face.

“Catalina,” I say again, firmer now, but still soft. “Look at me, darlin’. Right here. Look at me.”

Her glassy eyes finally lift, meeting mine.

She looks so fucking broken it guts me.

“Go away, Carter,” she chokes out, her voice cracking apart. “J-just go away. Please.” Her hands weakly push at my chest.

Not a chance in fucking hell am I leaving her like this.

“Stop being stubborn,” I murmur, caressing the soft skin underneath her eye. “Listen to me, just listen to the sound of my voice.”

Her wide, tear-glossed eyes stay locked on mine, desperate and drowning.

“Deep breath in,” I coach gently, my thumb still swiping the steady flow of tears.

She attempts and lets out a shaky, ragged gasp that barely fills her lungs, but it’s something.

“Good,” I whisper, “now out.”

She exhales, still uneven, but there’s a fraction less panic in it. A sliver of space was cracking open between her and the spiral, trying to drown her.

“Again,” I say, firmer now, anchoring her to me.

We fall into a rhythm.

In. Out. In. Out.

I continue coaching her breathing until her body stops trembling, and her breaths find a steady, broken rhythm.

A steady stream of tears kept falling, leaving streaks along her cheeks.

Her face is so tired, so hurt, and it feels like a punch straight to my ribs—chipping away at the walls I’ve put up around my heart.

I shouldn’t fucking ask, I should let it be, and let her keep her walls up if that’s what she needs.

But I can’t fucking help it.

I lean in, so close our foreheads nearly brush, my voice rough with something I can’t even name.

“What’s wrong?”

She sniffles, her chestnut gaze drops to her lap, and her hands tremble as they twist the fabric of her sweatshirt. For a long second, I expect her to push me away, to shove those walls back up and tell me to fuck off.

But then, in the smallest, softest voice I’ve ever heard from her, she whispers.

“My mom.”

My chest tightens so hard it’s almost fucking painful. I stay still, giving her room, letting her find her way through it.

She swallows thickly, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “Sh-she was the only one who saw me,” she says, her voice cracking around the edges. “The only one who made me feel like I was enough.”

She hiccups, and her breath stutters briefly.

“And then she was just g-gone.”

I don’t say anything, nor do I rush her. I stay right there, steady, letting her pour it out because I know what it’s like.

Fuck, do I know.

She exhales shakily. “She got sick. One day she was fine, and the next, she wasn’t. It was like the ground just disappeared under me.”

She pauses, biting her trembling lip. “And my dad… God, it was like she died; he buried whatever was left of himself right alongside her. He shut me out, like I didn’t fu cking exist anymore.

” Her fingers pick harder at the hem of her sleeve, frantic now.

“He just threw money at me. I did whatever I wanted. As long as I stayed out of his way, as long as I didn’t bother him, it was easier for him.

” She lets out a hollow, bitter laugh that sounds more like a sob.

“So I got good at it. Drinking. Partying. Spending his money. Trying to fill this gaping fucking hole in my chest, trying to make the emptiness go away.”

Her glassy eyes meet mine again, and fuck if the look on her face doesn’t rip me wide open.

“I kept trying to become what he wanted. I tried to be easier, quieter, more acceptable—anything that might make him see me. I thought if I worked hard enough, twisted myself into the version of a daughter he could tolerate, maybe he’d finally love me.”

Her voice finally cracks apart, splintering into a whisper. “But it never worked.”

My chest feels like it’s cracked in two. A deep, brutal ache I can’t remember feeling in a long time. I don’t know what to say, how do I even fix this?

But what I do know is that no one should ever have to feel the way she does right now.

Broken. Unwanted. Alone .

I reach up, my fingers tremble a little, and gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Her eyes, red-rimmed with unshed tears, hold my gaze. She looks so fucking broken, so raw, so real. I feel my heart shatter into pieces as I look into those big, lost chestnut eyes.

I do the only thing that feels right, the only thing that might make the shaking stop—even if it’s just for a second. I pull her into my arms, tucking her snug against my chest, wrapping myself around her like I can somehow shield her from all the shit she’s been carrying alone .

And the craziest fucking part?

She lets me. She doesn’t fight me or shove me away with one of her sharp little quips.

Her body melts into mine, trembling but willing.

It fucking wrecks me.

The truth is, I love sparring with her. I love her attitude, her fire, and the way she never lets me have the last word without a fight.

Seeing her like this?

Wrecked. Shattered. Vulnerable .

It fucks with my psyche, it changes something I didn’t even realize could change.

Right here, right now, I realize I’d burn the fucking world down if it meant putting her back together.

Catalina is light in my arms, her body limp with exhaustion as I carry her up the stairs, one careful step at a time. She’s breathing evenly now, soft little exhales brush against my throat, but her fingers stay curled tight into the cotton of my shirt.

I push open her door with my shoulder, stepping into the soft wash of moonlight spilling across her floor.

Her bed is neat, untouched, like she hadn’t planned on sleeping in it tonight.

Maybe she intended to stay downstairs, trapped inside her thoughts, just like I do sometimes, when the dark gets too heavy and too loud to outrun.

The thought settles like a weight in my chest as I cross the room, keeping her tucked securely against me.

I lower her gently onto the bed, and her body sinks into the mattress with a soft sigh.

She stirs, just a little, a broken sound slipping from her lips that I can’t quite make out.

Her brows furrow, like whatever nightmare she’s trapped in isn’t finished with her yet.

I stand there for a beat, my hand brushes lightly against her hair, wishing like hell I could take every ounce of hurt out of her body and shove it into mine instead.

I drape the blanket over her, tucking it carefully around her shoulders, and my fingers purposefully caress the soft skin of her arm.

Fuck.

I should leave, turn back around, walk back to my room, and pretend none of this ever happened. I should continue to act like I’m still the grumpy asshole I’ve always been—the one who doesn’t get involved, who doesn’t get attached, and who doesn’t fucking care .

A brief moment of hesitation dances across my mind.

I look back down at her, at her peaceful face, her dark lashes still damp from the tears she cried into my chest not even thirty minutes ago.

The same woman who stomps around this ranch like she owns the damn place, flipping her long hair, glaring at me from under those pretty lashes, pushing every fucking button I have, and now she just looks so fragile it fucking breaks me.

I exhale sharply, raking a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the weight pressing down on me.

Against my better judgment, I don’t leave.

I grab the spare pillow off the chair in the corner and drop it onto the floor beside her bed. I ease myself down, stretching out on my back, my shoulders pressing into the hardwood.

At thirty-four years old, it’s reckless. It’s fucking stupid. It’s crossing lines I swore I never would .

But I can’t bring myself to leave her, not tonight. Because what if she wakes up gasping for breath again, lost in that panic, alone and terrified? What if she needs someone to anchor her back to reality, and there’s no one there?

No fucking way, not while I’m still breathing.

I stare up at the ceiling, my jaw clenched so tight it aches, willing myself not to look at her. Forcing myself to ignore the pull in my chest and the ache in my hands to reach out and touch her again.

She’s making me forget all the reasons I built these goddamn walls in the first place.

I don’t fucking believe in love, not anymore.

I believed in it once, when I slid a ring onto a woman’s finger and promised her forever. When I spent countless years busting my ass to build something solid, something she could be proud of. Every hour I put into this godforsaken ranch was for her.

For us.

Without hesitation, she fucking walked away. She looked me dead in the eye and told me I wasn’t enough, screamed at me that she was sick of the dirt, the work and the life I built with my bare fucking hands. She made it clear she didn’t want a man like me and told me loving me wasn’t worth it.

I learned my lesson that day.

Love is a fucking lie.

It’s temporary. Conditional. It’s something people take when they need it and throw it away the second it stops being easy. I swore I’d never let anyone close enough to cut me open like that again. I swore I’d never feel that kind of pain again.

Catalina is slipping through the cracks .

I should be fighting it. I need to fucking fight it. Because this isn’t just a bad idea, it’s impossible.

She’s Vartan’s daughter. She’s young, reckless, and a spoiled little brat who tests my patience every second she’s breathing near me.

I know I can’t have her. I tell myself that every fucking day.

And yet, she’s the light I so desperately need in my life.