Theron’s POV
Three days of watching Raven fall apart.
That's what Jonathan Lockwood's presence has done. Three days of gifts she won't touch, messages she won't read, threats that hang over the ranch like storm clouds refusing to break. And through it all, I watch the woman I love shrink into herself.
She's not eating. Barely sleeping. Jumps at every sound like she's waiting for the executioner's knock. The shadows under her eyes have deepened to bruises, and she's started wearing Weston's jacket again—wrapped in it constantly, drowning in fabric, hiding from something I can't name.
Something's wrong. More wrong than just her father.
I've noticed the signs. The loose clothes. The way her hand drifts to her stomach when she thinks no one's looking. The morning nausea she blames on stress. I'm not stupid. I can do math.
But every time I work up the courage to ask, something interrupts. And maybe part of me doesn't want confirmation. Doesn't want to know whose it might be.
Today, I'm done waiting for the right moment.
I find her on the porch, huddled in a rocking chair, staring at nothing. She looks fragile in a way that makes my chest ache. Like one wrong word might shatter her completely.
"Hey." I drop into the chair beside her. "You look like you're solving world peace in that head of yours."
She doesn't smile. Doesn't even look at me.
"He's not going to stop," she whispers. "He never stops. He'll keep pushing until he gets what he wants or destroys everything in his path."
"Then let him push." I reach over, take her cold hand in mine. "We're not going anywhere. West and I—we've got you, Raven. He can send all the fancy lawyers and threatening letters he wants. You're not leaving unless you want to."
"What if he follows through? The mortgage, the permits—"
"Then we'll figure it out. Together." I squeeze her fingers. "Besides, I've always wanted to try my hand at organized crime. Maybe I'll become a chicken smuggler. International poultry trafficking. Very lucrative."
The ghost of a smile flickers across her face. Small, but real. A victory.
"There she is." I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Whatever happens, you're not facing it alone. Okay?"
She opens her mouth to respond—
Gravel crunches in the driveway.
We both turn. The same black sedan from days before rolls up like a hearse, chrome glinting in the noon sun. Behind it, a second car—gray, nondescript, the kind lawyers drive.
Raven goes white. Her hand tightens on mine hard enough to hurt.
"Stay here," I tell her. "I mean it."
I'm off the porch before the cars stop moving, blood already running hot with protective fury. Weston emerges from the barn, reading the situation instantly, falling into step beside me.
Jonathan steps out first, then a man in a gray suit—lawyer written all over him. Fixer. The kind of man who makes problems disappear.
"Back so soon?" I call out, my voice dripping with false cheer. "Gotta say, Jonathan, if you love our little ranch this much, we could just sell you a postcard. Save you the gas money."
He doesn't dignify that with a response.
"I tried being patient," Jonathan announces, straightening his cuffs. "But patience has limits. Raven has twenty-four hours to pack her things. After that, I start making calls."
Weston's voice goes dangerously flat. "We've been through this."
"Have we? Because I don't think you understand the stakes." Jonathan's smile is all teeth. "Building permits. Bank mortgages. A certain county inspector who owes me favors. Everyone has pressure points."
I feel my brother coil beside me. A spring wound too tight, ready to snap.
"She said no." I step forward. "Multiple times. What's confusing about that?"
Jonathan's gaze slides to me. "Ah, the younger one. Tell me—are you sleeping with my daughter too, or just hoping to?"
The words are calculated. Designed to provoke.
Weston moves before I can stop him—a lunge toward Jonathan that's all instinct and rage. I catch him around the chest, hauling him back.
"West, don't. That's what he wants."
Jonathan doesn't flinch. "Temper. I can see why you couldn't keep a wife. Tell me, does Raven know how you failed—"
"STOP IT."
Raven's voice cuts through everything.
She's moved off the porch—against every instruction I gave her—and stands between us now. Between her father and us. Between the life she's running from and the one she's fighting for.
Her face is bone-white. Her hands tremble at her sides. But her voice doesn't waver.
"I'm not going back. Not now. Not ever." She's breathing too fast. Short, sharp gasps that worry me. "You can threaten whatever you want, but I'm done being your puppet."
"Raven, be reasonable—"
"I AM being reasonable. For the first time in my life." Her voice cracks. "I'm making my own choices. And I choose this. I choose them. I choose anything that isn't you."
Something's wrong.
I see it before anyone else does. The way her eyes lose focus. The way she sways almost imperceptibly. The color draining from her face like water from a cracked vessel.
"Raven—"
Her knees buckle.
I'm moving before I consciously decide to move. Sprinting the distance between us as her body crumples, arms outstretched, desperate to catch her before she hits the ground.
I'm not fast enough.
She goes down hard. One moment standing, defiant, fighting—the next folding like a puppet with cut strings. Her body hits the dirt with a sickening thud, sending up a small cloud of dust.
"RAVEN!"
Weston and I reach her at the same moment, our hands colliding over her unconscious form. He cradles her head in his lap while I check for breathing, for pulse, for any sign that she's okay.
Her skin is clammy. Cold despite the summer heat. Her pulse flutters weak and thready beneath my fingers like a bird trying to escape.
"Raven. Raven, can you hear me?" I tap her cheek gently. Nothing. Her eyelids don't even flutter. "Come on, sweetheart. Wake up. Please wake up."
"Call an ambulance." Weston's voice is cracked with fear. Raw in a way I've never heard from him. "NOW."
My hands shake so badly I can barely unlock my phone. The numbers blur. I dial wrong twice before getting through, rattling off the address in a voice that doesn't sound like mine.
Behind us, Jonathan stands frozen. His face is slack with shock—the first genuine emotion I've seen from him. The arrogant mask has crumbled, revealing something almost human underneath.
"What's wrong with her?" he demands. "What did you do to—"
"Get the hell out."
I don't recognize my own voice. Low. Lethal. Stripped of every joke I've ever hidden behind.
"If you're still on this property when I turn around, I swear to God I will end you."
I don't finish the threat. Don't need to.
Engines start. Tires crunch on gravel. The sedan retreats down the driveway.
I don't watch it go. Can't tear my eyes away from Raven.
She's so pale. So still. Her chest rises and falls in shallow breaths that don't look like enough, don't look like nearly enough.
"Come on." Weston's voice breaks on the words. He's brushing hair from her face with shaking hands, his usual stoicism completely shattered. "Come on, Raven. Stay with us."
My mind races through possibilities. Stress. Exhaustion. Dehydration. All the things I want it to be because the alternative—
The alternative means she's been carrying something impossible this whole time. Something that might be mine. Or might be his.
Please, I think, the word running on a loop in my skull. Please be okay.
Sirens wail in the distance, growing closer.
I hold her hand and pray to a God I'm not sure I believe in.
Please. Both of you. Please be okay.