Page 29 of Wild Hearts (Ruby Ridge #1)

carter

. . .

“ G o pack up your little smut stash, princess,” I tell her, stepping around the couch as I scroll through the latest weather alert.

“Storm’s getting worse, and I’m not about to have you crying over bent book covers if we get tossed Wizard of Oz style into a field.”

She pauses by the window, tote bag slung over her shoulder, her mouth already twisting into that familiar, dramatic pout I find dangerously addictive.

“They’re not just books, Carter,” she clutches the tote to her chest. “They’re my emotional support men. Some of them have wings, some of them have trauma, and most of them have breeding kinks.”

I glance at her from over my phone, arching a brow. “Good to know that if we die tonight, your last thought will be about some fictional man rearranging a girl’s guts.”

She shrugs unapologetically, but her laugh cuts short when thunder booms across the sky, shaking the windows so hard the glass hums in its frame.

Her fingers twitch around the strap of her bag, her jaw tightening, and I watch the shift in her posture—the slow creep of tension crawling across her shoulders.

Another gust of wind slams against the house, and I catch the way she twists the little gold pendant around her neck, the movement small and fast like it’s the only thing keeping her distracted from her thoughts.

I check my phone again.

Flash flood warning. High winds. Shelter in place immediately.

Yeah. Not optional anymore.

Without a word, I step closer, catching her hand in mine, and wrap my fingers around hers as gently as I can, but not leaving room for argument.

“Come on, princess. Basement. Now.”

She hesitates, eyes wide, lips parting like she’s about to object, but I don’t let her speak. I tug her toward the stairs as the house groans again.

“If we get trapped down there, I’m using your doomsday snacks as currency,” she mutters, trying to mask the edge in her voice. “Just so you know, I will trade your granola bars for eyeliner and Wi-Fi.”

“You’re assuming anyone would want to be stuck in a bunker with you,” I tease. “Have you met you?”

She glares at me but follows anyway.

The basement door shuts behind us with a hollow thud, cutting off most of the outside noise, but the storm is still very much present. The lights above flicker in short bursts.

She surveys the room quickly—blankets, batteries, the old couch, crates of water, and nonperishables. Nothing new, but it’s safe. Or at least as close as we can get right now.

“Wow,” she says, voice tight. “This is your fantasy. You, me, and survival granola. ”

Her sarcasm is just a cover, and I can see the cracks forming as she paces toward the wall, her arms folding tight across her chest, fingers digging into her skin. She’s trying to stay upright, but she’s swaying on her heels, her breath quick and uneven.

“I ca—I can’t do this again,” she whispers. “It’s embarrassing falling apart in front of you. I hate this. I hate this.”

Before she can keep spiraling, I’m already moving. I scoop her into my lap without asking, sinking onto the couch and holding her close. Her body curls into mine like muscle memory, knees folded beside me, her arms wrap around my shoulders, holding onto me.

“You’re okay, baby,” I whisper, running my hand slowly up her back. “You’re not alone.”

“I feel like I’m dying,” she chokes out, “I feel these pins and needles deep in my skin, and I want to scream with my head betraying me.”

“You’re not dying,” I whisper, pulling her closer. “Breathe, baby, just breathe. Listen to my voice, focus on me.”

I feel the word leave my mouth again, but this time, I don’t take it back. Her breath catches, her fingers tighten around the fabric of my shirt, and I swear, I can feel the exact second something shifts between us.

“I swear to God, if you call me that again and don’t kiss me, I’m going to throw myself into the storm and let a tree take me out.”

I glance down at her, eyes locked with hers. Her cheeks are flushed, her pretty, plump lips parted, and her pupils dilated.

Suddenly, the storm isn’t the loudest thing in this room.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I rasp, barely able to control my voice. “I’m holding on by a thread right now. ”

She arches her brow. “Carter,” she breathes out, “stop holding back.”

I don’t know who moves first—maybe her, maybe me—but the second our mouths meet, there’s no going back.

The kiss is hot, desperate, her fingers slide into my hair, and my hands tighten around her waist. She moves against me, rolling her hips once, and I groan into her mouth because fuck, I’m this close to losing control.

Her tongue brushes mine, and I pull her harder against me, feeling her everywhere, needing more but knowing I shouldn’t.

Not here, not when she just stopped shaking.

When I finally tear my mouth away, I press my forehead to hers, trying to find a scrap of self-control somewhere under the wreckage she just left me in.

“Catalina, we can’t,” I whisper, holding her tight against my chest.

She groans and slams her head against my shoulder dramatically. “You are so fucking annoying.”

I grin, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Good.”