Page 141 of Desert Rain
Mason stirred beside me, arm tightening around my waist. “What the?—”
I laughed, the sound cracking open something bright and ridiculous in my chest. “He came back.”
Mason sat up, hair wild, eyes still heavy with sleep and sex. A slow grin spread across his face when he saw the cat. “Told you Regan’s intel was good. Little asshole finally decided the desert wasn’t better than free tuna and a warm bed.”
I slipped out of bed, naked and unashamed, and opened the door. Bandit sauntered in like he owned the place, tail high, rubbing against my legs once before marching straight to the kitchen like he’d never been gone.
Mason came up behind me, arms sliding around my waist, chin resting on my shoulder. His hand splayed possessively over my lower belly, right where I could still feel the faint ache of how thoroughly he’d fucked me last night.
“Guess the grand gesture worked,” he murmured, kissing the side of my neck.
I leaned back into him, smiling as Bandit jumped onto the counter and yowled for food. “Guess it did.”
The loose ends had tied themselves up nicer than I expected. The Oakley family’s dumping operation had been exposed three days after Vegas—anonymous tip plus the serial-numbered vials I’d dropped and the club’s carefully placed evidence. Dr. Harlan had flipped under pressure and was now in federal custody singing like a canary. The dirty cops who’d been on the take were under investigation. Regan had officially announced her run for mayor and was already polling ahead. Tank and the club had come out of the mess stronger than ever.
And me?
I still had my job—real oversight, no more falsified reports. I had my cat back. I had a husband who looked at me like I was the only thing in the desert worth fighting for.
I turned in Mason’s arms, rose up on my toes, and kissed him slow and deep.
“I still don’t know your favorite color,” I whispered against his mouth.
He grinned, hands sliding down to cup my ass. “You will by the end of the day, wife. Right after I make you come on my cock again in the shower.”
I laughed, the sound bright and free and completely mine.
Bandit meowed again from the kitchen, impatient as ever.
Life was messy. It was dangerous. It was ours.
And I wouldn’t trade a single second of it.
CHAPTER 19
MASON
The feds had been sniffingaround for three straight weeks.
Every time a black SUV rolled up the driveway to the forty acres, my hand twitched toward the piece at the small of my back. Too many people had gone missing the same day the Oakley dumping ring got blown open—Dr. Harlan, two cartel runners, the suit Sienna watched get dropped in that dry wash. The suits in cheap ties kept circling my wife like she was the linchpin. They sat her down in a gray room twice, asked the same questions in different orders, tried to trip her up.
She never cracked.
Sienna held up like a goddamn rock—calm, professional, the same scientist voice she used on me when I was being an asshole. “I was collecting routine samples. I heard shots. I ran. That’s all I know.” Every single time. They finally backed off, but the look in their eyes said they knew they’d just dodged a bullet. The club had buried the bodies deep, scrubbed the scene, and planted enough misdirection to keep the heat off us. For now.
Still, I stayed on alert.
Her old apartment was a no-go. Cramped, middle of the city, impossible to guard without half the brothers sleeping on her couch. She flat-out refused to move into the clubhouse—“I’m notliving with a bunch of loud, horny bikers who leave their boots everywhere.” Couldn’t blame her. So I did what I do best.
I ordered a yurt from England.
Big, insulated, canvas-and-wood beauty that could handle the desert heat and the winter cold. When the box showed up, Regan was already snooping over my shoulder on the laptop like she had a sixth sense for anything that smelled like a project.
“Oh my God, Mason. A yurt? On your land? This is perfect.” She clapped her hands like a kid on Christmas. “You need a platform. You need a fire pit. You need string lights and a garden area so she can grow things. I know exactly what ladies like.”
Next thing I knew, Regan had a crew of prospects and half the old ladies out on my forty acres with power tools and fairy-tale vision. They built a solid raised platform, dug a stone fire pit, strung lights along the perimeter, and even planted a little native garden bed she swore Sienna would love.
I stood there with a beer in my hand, watching the circus. “Regan, is this my land or your new homestead project?”
