▍ AN ORIGINAL ╱ western romance
There's a kind of wild you can't outrun.
Lemon Odell knows this better than anyone-the kind that lives under your skin, that shapes the way you move, the way you fight, the way you break. Born into a bloodline stitch...
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He stepped out of the shadows like he'd been part of them all along.
Not sudden. Not loud. Just... there. Like the night itself had shaped a man and sent him walking straight toward me. One breath he wasn't there—and the next, he was. Still and solid and sharp around the edges, carved from something the rest of the world couldn't touch.
I didn't hear him coming. Didn't feel a branch snap or the hush of gravel under boots. But the moment he was in front of me, every part of me knew. My skin recognized the weight of him before my mind caught up. Like my bones remembered something they shouldn't.
His presence filled the space between us before I even realized there was space to begin with.
Dark hair, damp at the edges, curled where it brushed the collar of his jacket—like the night had touched him and decided not to let go. And his eyes... Lord, his eyes. Golden in a way that didn't make sense, not here, not under this tired sliver of moon. They didn't glow. They burned. Sharp and still and impossibly calm. Like flame catching dry kindling.
Something that had seen too much and forgot how to flinch.
He looked at me like he already knew who I was. Not the name, but the rest of it. The mess under my skin. The weight behind my ribs. Like he could see all the places I'd tried to seal shut and wasn't impressed by the effort.
I didn't move.
Couldn't.
It felt like the woods had gone quiet just to watch.
"I wasn't expecting to find someone out here," he said, and the sound of his voice curled low around the base of my spine. It wasn't loud. Wasn't soft either. Just sure. Like the kind of man who didn't waste breath on things he didn't mean.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came. Words felt foreign. My throat too tight, like my body hadn't decided whether to run or stay planted in the dirt. When I finally managed something, it came out quiet. Hollow. "Yeah... well. I wasn't expecting company."
He didn't laugh, not really. Just the smallest flicker at the corner of his mouth—like I'd said something half-worth noticing. The kind of reaction that didn't feed you, didn't ask for more, just marked you.
"That right?" he said, and this time his voice dropped deeper. "Funny how things line up."
The way he said it—low and steady like a current you didn't see coming until it had you by the ankles—made something in me flinch. Not from fear. But from recognition.
I blinked, but the haze stayed. He was too close and too quiet, and somehow that was worse than if he'd come out swinging. His presence wasn't loud, but it took up space. It filled it. Wrapped around me until the only thing I could hear was my own pulse in my ears.
He stepped closer, one boot scuffing soft against the pine needles. No threat in it. Just something deliberate. Measured.
Up close, he was all sharp lines and quiet shadows. That kind of handsome you don't admit out loud. Not to him. Not even to yourself. The way his jaw caught the moonlight, the way his gaze never left mine—there was something about him that made the whole forest feel smaller.
