I told myself those three nights in the cook wagon were just the price of security for my orphaned nephew and the guardianship we needed. Drake's commands left no space for refusal, his authority filling the cramped quarters until every breath I took was his to control.

Each dusk the lantern revealed the jagged scar above his collarbone as he took command of the space between the flour sacks, demanding the kind of yielding that made my fear of losing everything burn hotter with want. The rival's eyes on us at dawn only made the nights more dangerous, because the more I submitted to Drake the closer we came to losing the alliance that held our claim together.

The guardianship is not signed, and Drake is not finished.